Read Online One Fearful Yellow Eye by John D. MacDonald - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John D. MacDonald
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Private Investigators, Detective and Mystery Stories, Political, Hard-Boiled, Florida, Fort Lauderdale (Fla.), McGee; Travis (Fictitious character)
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easels and on the walls, deep painting racks, scabs of paint on the floor, stacks of paintings leaning against the walls.
She came up and handed me my drink and stood beside me looking into the studio. "Please don't ask me to explain my work."
She had a rare talent for irritating me. So I said, "I doubt if you could, Mrs. Trumbill."
With a cold smile as she turned toward me, she said, "And what is that supposed to mean?"
Page 27
"Sorry, I don't think you know what you're doing."
"My dear man, abstract expressionism has been around so long that it..."
"That it gets imitated too much. You've got some color sense. You go too far in setting up weird composition. But that doesn't mean you are setting problems or trying to solve them. It's glib stuff, Heidi. It hasn't got any bones. It hasn't got any symbol values, any underlying feeling of weight or inevitability. It's just sort of shock-pretty, and you certainly get some satisfaction out of doing it, but just don't start taking it or yourself too seriously."
Fury drained the color out of her face. She went striding away, whirled so quickly she slopped some of her sherry onto the living-room rug. "Just who the hell are you? My work sells! I've been in damned good juried shows. I've had some fantastic reviews."
"I'm just a guy who buys a painting once in a while."
"Then what could you possibly know about it? You jackasses learn a couple of stock words and voila! you're a critic yet."
"There's nothing wrong with decoration, Heidi."
"You will call me Mrs. Trumbill if you don't mind."
"I mind, Heidi. Your stuff will melt right into the wall after a week. Nobody will see it. That's no disgrace. It's decorative, but it ain't art."
"Get out of here!"
"You can call me Trav, or Travis."
There was a piece of paper on a table beside a lamp. I saw a pencil on the coffee table. I took the blank paper over and put it beside the pencil. "Just make me a sketch of that lamp and the window beyond it, girl, and I'll go quietly."
"Oh, you mean draw you a cow that looks like a cow?" she said with a poisonous and knowing smile.
"Go ahead. Funny, but everybody I can think of right off the top of the head could sure God draw a fat realistic cow if they ever happened to want to. Hans Hoffman, Kline, Marca-Relli, Guston, Solomon, Rivers, Picasso, Kandinsky Motherwell, Pollock. And you know it, baby. If you can't stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen. You dabblers bug me. You want the applause without all the thousands of hours of labor learning how to draw, how to make brush strokes, learning all the thing's that give painting some bite and bones even when you don't use any part of it. Go ahead, draw the lamp. Quick sketch. Prove I'm a jackass."
She trotted over, flounced down, took the pencil and made some quick lines, then stuck her tongue tip out of the corner of her mouth and drew a more careful line, then she got up and threw the pencil at the paper. It went bouncing under a chair.
"Shit!" she said. "So I fake it. Everybody does. And I get away with it."
Page 28
"Suddenly I think I like you a little better, Mrs. Trumbill."
Her smile was wan and strained. "I'm underwhelmed, Mr. McGee. People don't talk to me like that often."
"Drenches out the glands, they say."
She studied me. "I suppose it's an approach, actually. You get nasty to a girl and it shocks her so she gets hung up. Nice try."
I gave her my most amiable grin. "Miss Pussycat, I have the feeling if some jolly experimental giant crammed us both buck naked into a one-man sleeping bag, we'd apologize to each other, get back to back, and try to get a little sleep."
"And that too is an absolutely transparent pass, damn you."
"Try me. You turn on my lights not at all, Miss Heidi."
"I damned well could if I should ever develop a taste for huge dull muscular men, but I'm afraid I put all that behind me when I reached sixteen. Can't we please finish whatever it is you came for and break this off?"
"Pleasure. We're
She came up and handed me my drink and stood beside me looking into the studio. "Please don't ask me to explain my work."
She had a rare talent for irritating me. So I said, "I doubt if you could, Mrs. Trumbill."
With a cold smile as she turned toward me, she said, "And what is that supposed to mean?"
Page 27
"Sorry, I don't think you know what you're doing."
"My dear man, abstract expressionism has been around so long that it..."
"That it gets imitated too much. You've got some color sense. You go too far in setting up weird composition. But that doesn't mean you are setting problems or trying to solve them. It's glib stuff, Heidi. It hasn't got any bones. It hasn't got any symbol values, any underlying feeling of weight or inevitability. It's just sort of shock-pretty, and you certainly get some satisfaction out of doing it, but just don't start taking it or yourself too seriously."
Fury drained the color out of her face. She went striding away, whirled so quickly she slopped some of her sherry onto the living-room rug. "Just who the hell are you? My work sells! I've been in damned good juried shows. I've had some fantastic reviews."
"I'm just a guy who buys a painting once in a while."
"Then what could you possibly know about it? You jackasses learn a couple of stock words and voila! you're a critic yet."
"There's nothing wrong with decoration, Heidi."
"You will call me Mrs. Trumbill if you don't mind."
"I mind, Heidi. Your stuff will melt right into the wall after a week. Nobody will see it. That's no disgrace. It's decorative, but it ain't art."
"Get out of here!"
"You can call me Trav, or Travis."
There was a piece of paper on a table beside a lamp. I saw a pencil on the coffee table. I took the blank paper over and put it beside the pencil. "Just make me a sketch of that lamp and the window beyond it, girl, and I'll go quietly."
"Oh, you mean draw you a cow that looks like a cow?" she said with a poisonous and knowing smile.
"Go ahead. Funny, but everybody I can think of right off the top of the head could sure God draw a fat realistic cow if they ever happened to want to. Hans Hoffman, Kline, Marca-Relli, Guston, Solomon, Rivers, Picasso, Kandinsky Motherwell, Pollock. And you know it, baby. If you can't stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen. You dabblers bug me. You want the applause without all the thousands of hours of labor learning how to draw, how to make brush strokes, learning all the thing's that give painting some bite and bones even when you don't use any part of it. Go ahead, draw the lamp. Quick sketch. Prove I'm a jackass."
She trotted over, flounced down, took the pencil and made some quick lines, then stuck her tongue tip out of the corner of her mouth and drew a more careful line, then she got up and threw the pencil at the paper. It went bouncing under a chair.
"Shit!" she said. "So I fake it. Everybody does. And I get away with it."
Page 28
"Suddenly I think I like you a little better, Mrs. Trumbill."
Her smile was wan and strained. "I'm underwhelmed, Mr. McGee. People don't talk to me like that often."
"Drenches out the glands, they say."
She studied me. "I suppose it's an approach, actually. You get nasty to a girl and it shocks her so she gets hung up. Nice try."
I gave her my most amiable grin. "Miss Pussycat, I have the feeling if some jolly experimental giant crammed us both buck naked into a one-man sleeping bag, we'd apologize to each other, get back to back, and try to get a little sleep."
"And that too is an absolutely transparent pass, damn you."
"Try me. You turn on my lights not at all, Miss Heidi."
"I damned well could if I should ever develop a taste for huge dull muscular men, but I'm afraid I put all that behind me when I reached sixteen. Can't we please finish whatever it is you came for and break this off?"
"Pleasure. We're
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