RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,022
(broken notebook days and nights)
'Why of course come on in, I'd
never throw you out.' At some
point I was sure they were going
to be my opening words. To some
book I'd be writing. Asleep on the
Studio School Library floor, way
back when (now it's all fancy and
named after some tennis star who
gave a lot of money). I never
got the connection and I forget
the name. I think it's that loud
guy who always argued calls.
But how could a person think
about that while sleeping on
the floor of an art school library.
These were critical, and art history,
books, studies of the great painters,
trends and motivations. Nothing
really to do with creative writing
at all. Hans Hoffmann was no fun.
The New York school of artists
were drunks. You really had to dig
hard to find sense and pay-dirt;
that much was clear.
-
For myself, my allegiances were
for dirt and pavement. I was trying
to get away from any of that 'truth
and beauty' stuff that Art used to be
peddled with. It was all a sham, and
I liked ugly much better. It was a
question of timing; lucky for me I
crested in at about the same time
as did 'Ugly' as a classification
for colloquial art. Dead goats and
tires around their necks. Wrecked
cars and interior vignettes. Crushed
autos as sculptural art. In the manner
of Chaim Soutine, one could take
a sketchbook or an easel and paints
and walk over to the meat-packing
district and draw beef carcasses all
day. It was done. I saw it. I used to
think, 'Man, if anything is a still-life,
isn't that for sure.'
-
There was always a bar nearby, there.
And those bar guys had no inkling
of what in the world was going on
when they'd see an easel and a paintbox
in front of some dead, scabbed up cow.
Have you ever noticed how a dead cow,
hanging for butchering, is always
legless? I guess they become, the
legs, dogfood or something. No one
ever eats them, unlike chicken legs,
which are prized and every chicken
should have ten of. Anyhow, these
bar guys were always wisecracking,
when they were ogling whichever
lassie was there, drawing. Guys
are animals too, generally; but I
never saw any hanging from hooks.
-
I once learned how to use a glass-cutter.
It's a simple implement, used to be
available in any hardware store, and
for like 79 cents too; made of metal,
the old ones, with a tiny little rolling
blade on one end and a few notches
at the other. There was a knack to it,
but once you got that knack it was
easy. It mostly depended on the
'pressure' you gave it. It all had to
be just right - too much, and the
glass would break; too little, and
nothing went on. Plus, it was all
counter-intuitive, in that you never
'felt' you should be doing it - it
was glass, after all, and the natural
inclination was to NOT to be doing
this. Cutting sheet-glass was even
more weird, because, using the
notched end, you were supposed
to then 'snap' along the perforation
line you'd just cut with the wheel.
I knew guys who claimed a perfect
expertise with this; said they could
get into anywhere, avoiding the
foil alarm tape on many windows,
cutting out areas or even circles just
where they needed, to get their hands
in, turn a knob, whatever. In essence,
they were crooks and had found
ways using glass, to break into
apartments. I guess. I never really
delved yet it was very odd to me,
but I found, in NYC, there was
pretty much an 'operation' underway
for most any angle you could think
of. It was no different that any
legit aspect of free enterprise and
the American way. And it went.
-
These kinds of things always
surprised me, and this was, when
you think about it, really back
in primitive days, by contrast to
now. No computers, no electronics,
no drones, video, or online stuff.
I think of any of that now and
wonder what it would all have
been like if any or all of that
existed. The kinds of problems
a computer gives - keyboards
and formatting and storage and
all that - would have been enough
then to have destroyed me. I just
know it. Now I merely get frustrated
until a solution is found. But back
then I was always impatient. that's
a big difference. Everything then
was real and tangible; cutting glass,
breaking and entering through roofs
and stairways and fire escapes. Now,
people just tap into accounts, steal
IDs, numbers and accounts. No one
needs a glass cutter, for sure. If they
still sell such things they're probably
12.95 and made out of plastic. Even
bombs. Remember those atom bombs
that ended the war with Japan? They
were probably of steel casings and
weighed 1600 pounds each. If they
did them today they'd probably
be plastic-cased, suitcase-sized,
and weigh 49 ounces.
-
You can't write stories about this
stuff any more. the language has
become too precise, the dreams
are all dead, the references are too
squeamish, the sex scenes mandatory,
the internal monologues are necessary
to advance the wiggly plot, the
characters are oblique, the sequence
of events is all bent and tawdry, the
things people say are weak and wan,
blurted out niceties, often with a
movie-audience in mind; some big,
fat, flatulent flop of one, the kind
someone like Elizabeth Gilbert
writes for, all day-lilies and
carnations.
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