36
PARTISAN REVIEW
starving artist in love with Jean Harlow; sentenced to die in the elec–
tric chair for killing a bank guard - the gun went off accidentally as
the hero fainted-he is rescued by an art dealer named Kahnweiler,
played by Paul Muni . People complained that the movie they'd paid
for was not the one described on the phone. I was fired .
The time had come to begin my career as a professional artist .
I
chose four paintings that
I
could just about manage to carry-two
under each arm. Off
I
went to 57th Street, to try my luck with the
lesser-known galleries where
I
thought
I
might have more of a
chance.
I
drew a blank, a monotonous blank. "We don't need you,
we don't need you, we don't need you." Or the refrain was varied
with , "You're good, but we don't need you ."
I
decided to try an im–
portant gallery . Why not?
My appointment at the Charles Egan Gallery on East 57th
Street was for a bit after ten . No one was around until Mr. Egan ap–
peared with a drink in hand. He offered me one .
I
figured this was
the sort of thing Kahnweiler might have done. A good beginning
that got even better when he looked at my paintings and said, "Not
bad, not bad - as good as any of these guys." He waved a hand at the
paintings on the walls . A group show was on;
I
remember a de
Kooning and a Franz Kline among others. But that was as good as it
got, because he went on to say, "I'm not gonna take you on." When
I
asked why not since
I
was as good as "these guys," his reply was as
cheery as the sliver of ice shrinking to nothing in his drink. "Who
needs you when I've got
them?"
Again that wave at the walls .
I
said something about how
I
could use some encouragement,
that
I
wasn't a kid, that I'd been around "and just knowing my paint–
ings are here , in a gallery-all I'm asking is to be in a group show,"
but nothing doing. He wasn't taking on any artists that year.
"How about next year?"
"No. "
"Two years , three years - five years . I don't care how long it
takes , just so I know."
"Sorry."
"Well, that's just goddamn discouraging."
Poor Charles Egan. I must have exasperated him. Maybe he
was dying for another drink and just wanted me the hell out of there .
He looked like he hadn't slept much . He took a weary step back and
closed one eye , as if to measure me- to measure me for what? The
tomb of the unknown artist?
