“Well…we might open the smaller one. Let you see what Gigi looks like, if you don’t remember. She’s worth looking at.”
“We’ll open both of them.”
“Scrub first?”
“I suppose we should.”
“Well…let’s give it a lick and promise, not turn it into a social event.”
Joan Eunice insisted on opening ‘Bilitis Sings’ first.
“Well, Jake?”
He gave a respectful wolf whistle. “The boy’s a genius.”
“Yes. I hadn’t suspected. But you already knew it.”
“Well, yes. His decision to use strong sunlight on your two contrasting skin colors was inspired.”
“Especially as he had no sunlight—just smog-filtered north light, soft as old linen. Those highlights come from photographing us under floods the night before. Then he painted from us the next day. Changed the pose, though—and I don’t know how he corrected the highlights. But I’m no genius.”
“What’s in the big package?”
“Open it.”
It was ‘The Three Graces’—and all three were Joan Eunice. “Joe calls this a ‘cheat pic,’ Jake—he photographed me three times—erase and correct—more nearly thirty-three times, against a neutral background, then combined three photos for his cartoon. Had Gigi pose with me each time to get arms-around-waist and so forth, then she would slither out like a snake without disturbing my pose. If be hadn’t used ‘cheat’ the painting would have taken far longer. Aren’t those dimples in my behind cute?”
“Woman, you are conceited enough.”
“I’m not conceited, Jake; I wasn’t handsome even when I was young. I know whose beautiful bottom that is. Well dear? I had intended ‘Bilitis’ for me and the ‘Graces’ for you—but you can have your choice.”
“What a choice to have to make!”
“The one you let me keep will be no farther away than down the hall. If you had married me when you so obviously should have, you lecherous old rapist, you wouldn’t have to make a choice; both would be yours. Jake, what does it cost to buy a job lot of art critics?”
“Well, the present crop ought not to fetch more than ten cents a dozen but everything is higher these days. I take it you have Joe Branca in mind?”
“Of course. He’s selling his paintings at ridiculously low prices and paying an outrageous commission—and sells so few that the kids hardly get enough to eat. While freaks and frauds and sign painters are all the rage. I thought—”
“You can stop thinking; I see the swindle. We’ll get him a good agent, we’ll buy up what he has on the market, using dummies—and keep them ourselves; they’re a surefire investment. . . and we’ll buy art critics here, then elsewhere as he becomes better known. The question is: How much of a success must he be? Do 1 have to get him into the Metropolitan?”
“Jake, I don’t think Joe wants to be famous. And 1 don’t want it to be so conspicuous that he might smell a rat. Or that Gigi might; she’s a little more sophisticated. Not very, that is. I just want his pictures to sell regularly enough that Gigi can buy groceries without worrying and can have enough disposable sheets that she can change them every day if it suits her. The kid is trying to keep house on scraped icebox and boiled dishrag soup. I tried that in the Depression and it’s not funny—and I see no reason why Gigi should have to do it when she’s married to an honest-to-God artist who can paint—and works at it. One who doesn’t spend his time sopping up sauce or blowing weed, and talking about the painting he’s going to do. Joe paints. He’s a craftsman as well as an artist. Well, maybe I don’t know what an artist is but I know what a craftsman is and I respect craftsmen. Too few of them in this decadent world.”
“No argument. We’ll do it. Even if we have to go as high as fifteen cents a dozen.”
“Even two-bits. Let’s finish getting paint off—I must send down for olive oil—and you could be a darling and get Winnie to fetch me a heavy robe or get it yourself, pretty please, if she isn’t home—no, I can get back to my room in my street cape, no problem, and—”