Perhaps these things happen to me because I am a painter, because I notice it when
people don’t consider these ugly and unpleasant family characteristics important. I ought
to add that something similar happens to me when other painters try to imitate the grand
masters like, for example, those unfortunates who try to paint like Picasso.
Next, there is the matter of jargon, another one of the things I can’t stand. It is enough
to examine any one of the examples: psychoanalysis, communism, fascism, journalism. I
don’t have any preferences; all of them seem repugnant to me. Doctor Prato has a lot of
talent and I considered him a good friend, until the time when I was very disappointed
when everyone started to criticize me and he joined that rabble; but let’s forget about that.
One day when I had just arrived at the office, Prato said he had to leave, and he invited
me to come with him:
“Where are you going?” I asked him.
“To a cocktail party at the Society.”
“What kind of Society?” I asked with hidden irony, since it irritates me when someone
uses the definite article that they all have: the Society for the Psychoanalytic Society, the
Party for the Communist Party, the Seventh for Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony.
Prato looked at me with surprise, but I withstood his look with apparent innocence.
“The Psychoanalytic Society, man,” he answered me with those penetrating eyes that
Freudians think are obligatory in their profession, as though they are asking themselves,
“what other craziness is this guy going to demonstrate?”
I remember reading something about an assembly, or a congress, presided over by a
doctor Bernard, or Bertrand. With the certainty that it couldn’t be that, I asked him if it
was. He looked at me with contemptuous smile.
“They are only a bunch of charlatans,” He responded. “The only nationally recognized
psychoanalytic society is ours.”
He went to his desk and opened a drawer; then after looking through it for some time,
he finally showed me a letter in English. I looked at it out of politeness.
“I don’t know English,” I said.
“It’s a letter from Chicago. It accredits us as being the only Psychoanalytic Society in
Argentina.”
I feigned an expression of admiration, and profound respect.
Then we left and went by car to the location. There were lots of people. I knew some
people, like doctor Goldenberg who had recently become well-known; as a result of
trying to cure a woman they were both sent to a psychiatric hospital. He had just been
released. I looked at him attentively, but he didn’t seem any worse than the others, in fact
he seemed calmer, perhaps, as a result of his confinement. He praised my paintings in a
way that made me understand that he despised them.
Everything was so elegant that I felt ashamed of my old suit, and my baggy pants.
However, the grotesque feeling I had wasn’t actually because of that, but because of
something else I can’t define. It culminated when a stylish servant offered me some
sandwiches, while speaking with a man about some problem of anal masochism. It is
probably the striking difference between the very clean, functional, modern furniture, and
well-clad men and women talking about genitourinary problems.
I tried to look for refuge in some corner, but that was impossible. The place was full of
the same type of people who were constantly saying the same type of things. I finally left
there and went out in the street. And when I found myself out there with ordinary people,
(a newspaper
salesman, a child, a chauffeur), it seemed unconceivable that I had just been
in a room with such a disgusting group of individuals.
Nevertheless, of all the different groups of people, the one I detest the most is the one
of painters. In part of course, it is because it’s the one I know best, and it’s obvious that
it is easier to detest something one is more familiar with. But I also have another reason:
the art critics. It is a scourge I could never understand. If I was a great surgeon and a
man who had never used a scalpel, who was not a doctor, nor had ever put a cat’s foot in
a splint, came and tried to explain the mistakes in my operation, what would one think?
It’s the same with a painting. The strange thing is that people don’t realize that, and
although they would laugh at that critic of the surgeon, they would listen with great
respect to the opinion of those charlatans. One could listen with some respect to the
opinions of a critic who had painted, even if they were mediocre paintings. But even in
that case it would still be absurd, because how could a mediocre painter be qualified to
judge the work of a great painter.
V
But I have gotten off track. It’s because of my accursed habit of wanting to justify all
of my actions. Why should I try to explain why I never go to art galleries? It seems to
me that everyone has the right to go, or not go, without having to give a long reason of
justification. What good is it to have of a mania like that? But although I have already
done it, I still could have a great deal to say about expositions, the gossip of colleagues,
the blindness of the public, the stupidity of those who set up the gallery and display the
paintings. Fortunately (or unfortunately) that no longer interests me; otherwise, I might
write a long essay titled, Concerning the way a painter must defend himself against the
friends of painting.
Therefore will have to ignore the possibility of finding her in an art gallery.
However, it could be that she might have a friend, who was also a friend of mine. In
that case, a simple introduction would be enough. Influenced by the cruel effect of my
timidity, I threw myself into the arms of that possibility. A simple introduction! How
easy, and how nice, that would be. My enthusiasm kept me from realizing right away
how absurd that idea was. It never occurred to me at the time that finding a friend of hers
would be just as difficult and finding her, because it’s obvious that it would be impossible
to find her friend without knowing who she was. But if I knew who she was, why look
for someone else? It’s true that there was still the advantage of an introduction which I
did not dismiss. But, obviously, the main problem was finding her and then looking for a
mutual friend to introduce us. There was also the opposite path: to see if one of my
friends might be a friend of hers. And that could definitely be done without finding her,
since all I would have to do is ask each of my friends about a woman of her size, with the
color of her hair, and so forth. However, all that would be the kind of frivolousness that I
despised. It made me feel ashamed just to think about asking that type of question to
someone like Mapelli, or Lartigue.
I think I ought to make it clear I didn’t discard that idea because it was preposterous; I
only did it for the reasons I have just explained. Some might believe, in fact, that it is
preposterous to imagine the remote possibility that one of my friends could be a friend of