38
PARTISAN REVIEW
be seen. Bishop Berkeley had it right: "To be, is to be perceived"-or
something to that effect. I learned there was a Mr. Poindexter,
Elinor's husband. Maybe he would be, for me, a loving older
brother, or maybe a devoted uncle; I could see the two of us pur–
suing exotic creatures in Mongolia. One day, far in the future, the
Bride and me and Mr. Poindexter-we would journey to Snovsk
and find the house where I was born. All in all, a terrific six months
until one afternoon on a boiling summer day, Elinor Poindexter
returned. To be or not to be, indeed. I was not to be. She looked at
everything and this time she was certain. "Now I know it for sure,"
she said. "I won't risk showing you."
She tried to be kind . She wanted to help. Did I know anyone?
Who were the artists I hung out with? I told her I didn't know
anyone . Her face lit up. My not knowing anyone had to be the
reason my work didn't look quite right. Now she knew how to help
me. "You must go to the Cedar Bar! That's where they hang out–
Jackson, Bill , Franz, the boys. Go there as often as you can . Get to
know the boys . Become part of the scene. That's how it's done. And
your paintings will change."
I knew about the Cedar Street Bar. I had long ago decided not
to go there-for much the same reasons she was now urging me to.
As things turned out, about five or six years later, Ellie
Poindexter did become my dealer. I was with her gallery for seven
years. She became dear to me and always will be, but watching her
go down the steps that day and out the building, I cursed silently.
The letdown of that day stayed with me a long time . I pretty much
gave up. I left the flat only to go to the movies along Times Square .
In and out, one movie after another; three got me through the night.
I drank a lot of booze . I slept in my army overcoat, my legs and feet
inside the sleeves of my field jacket. I put newspaper inside my shoes
to cover the holes . A dismal enough state , capped as it was by the
Bride of Kahnweiler fiasco. There were times in that apartment
when I might have gone out the window if I hadn't lived on the sec–
ond floor.
One day a boyhood friend named Hal Dareff turned up . He
had an idea. Why not use the two years I had left on the G.1. Bill by
going to New York University. "Get a degree , become a college pro–
fessor." I could then reclaim my kid , maybe remarry and have more
kids , at the least I could live better. The idea that I could become a
