Free An Emergence of Green by Katherine V Forrest Page B

cubistic art in her books and suddenly understood why the concept had been so daring and exciting—that it had led the entire revolution into modern art because artists for the first time had looked at an object as it would appear from different angles, in different places, at different times. She said, “I’m only glad I don’t have your sneering ignorance.”
    He contemplated her.
    She had always disliked this aspect of him, this feeling of being under the microscope of his gaze in cold, evaluating analysis, as if he had laid his emotions aside like a scientist. “I’ve never closed my mind to anything,” he finally said, his voice uninflected. “Did you invite her for the Fourth?”
    She had decided that she would wait, and if he did not mention it again…“I’ll ask her tomorrow.”
    She lay on her raft next to Val in peaceful, quiet companionship. She had applied suntan lotion so that she could remain in the sun longer.
    “I’ve been reading about different forms of art,” she said. “I know expressionist art comes out of emotion and it’s individual and personal art—but from what I’ve seen, your work isn’t abstract. Yet you say it’s expressionist.”
    “I love artists like Rothko who work with pure color and elemental shapes. And sometimes I use distortion to show greater intensity of feeling. But often my work is figurative, even representational, like the desert scenes you saw the other day. But it still comes out of my emotion…For example, I might choose to paint the bark of a tree red.”
    “Why?” As Val chuckled she said, “I’m sorry to be so dumb.”
    “You’re not being dumb. It’s a good question, the kind Neal asks. Makes me check my premises. I remember reading somewhere that the only ones who can really force us to reevaluate our lives and perceptions are children and artists. Carrie, let’s say the tree I’m painting is dying against a sunset sky. It’s sunset for the old tree too, the end for it, just like the end of a day for us, with a glorious red that actually means death.”
    “I see,” Carolyn murmured, thinking that she truly did see.
    Val chuckled again. “If you ever wanted to see people skewered for dumb questions you should have been in my art class in New York. You could ask Kolvinsky anything, but if he thought your question was stupid he just wouldn’t answer.”
    Carolyn laughed. “Did he ever refuse to answer you?”
    “Frequently, the old bastard.” She laughed along with Carolyn. “Kolvinsky taught me, though. Opened my eyes like never before to color and light. I see the unique colors of the California landscape thanks to him…She trailed off. “Died three years ago. I’ll never forget him.” In soft reminiscence she continued, “Tiny man, spiky gray hair like nails in his head. Always wore a clean white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, plaid ties with stains—God knows what they were. Terrible old baggy pants, looked like he’d stolen them from a bum. Always wore the same brown shoes, paint stains all over the toes. Always at me to sleep with him, never gave up. I guess he was fascinated with the idea of bedding a woman a foot taller than he was. The old bastard,” she repeated, chuckling in affectionate memory. “The only thing he was really wrong about was where you could work. He insisted a painter had to be in New York or Paris.”
    “Did your parents send you to art school?” She realized she knew virtually nothing about Val’s background.
    “Just the year in New York. Otherwise I’ve pretty much scratched for myself. Dad was a wildcatter—about as perilous as professional gambling. It was feast or famine in my family. Mostly feast when I was growing up and mostly feast for my brother Charlie—he’s six years older and has a degree, a mining engineer. Takes after Dad, been all over the world, in Brazil since April. Anyway, when I was old enough it was famine time again. Dad did manage to pay for the year in New