JULES OLITSKI
37
"Don't bullshit me," he half grinned . You'll quit painting if I
don't show you? You won't quit. I can tell just looking at you ."
Sure, I thought, the son of a bitch is right. So what? fll keep
painting but that's only the half of it - where's the other half if no one
sees the work? The power of the art dealer was coming home to me;
it seemed awesome. I left feeling a bit more alone, more vulnerable
than I had just a dozen minutes earlier.
My future took a promising turn at the Tibor de Nagy Gallery
on West 57th Street. There I met John Bernard Myers. He was
working with Tibor at that time. He did something none of the
others had, and I remain grateful to him. Not that he was going to
let me be one of the artists in that gallery. Far from it; he said much
of the same fd been getting all along: you're good, but we can't take
on any more artists and so on . What he did do, while I was standing
there, was to get on the phone and call Elinor Poindexter: "There's a
young artist here. I think he's very good. As you know, Tibor isn't
taking on any new artists, and since you're planning to open your
own gallery, you must be looking for good new painters ." He made a
date for Mrs . Poindexter to visit my studio. He told me Mrs.
Poindexter had been the money behind the Egan Gallery but that
she'd become impatient with Egan's drinking habits .
It
turned out that she herself was no advertisement for the
Temperance League, which was fine by me. She was a handsome
woman with the look and feel of upper-class money in her back–
ground. We drank a hell of a lot while she looked at my work . She
seemed fluttery, nervous. After all, she didn't know me and the
neighborhood was scary. She looked and looked and finally said she
didn't understand any of my paintings.
"fm frightened . fm afraid to make a mistake . fll come back in
the summer and take another look. fll decide then."
Dismaying, but there was still hope. The summer was five or
six months away. I could do a lot of painting, terrific painting, be–
tween now and then. And who knows, she might turn out to be the
Bride of Kahnweiler.
I worked like a crazy man. I worked day and night, often days
and nights at a time-without sleep. Gallons of coffee kept me
awake; the paintings kept me fired up . Between bouts of work I fan–
cied my future with the Bride.
This time she would really see my work. Enraptured, she
would fall to her knees. Finally my art would be seen . I , too, would
