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Unwritten profile
“Son, this isn’t art.”
Daisy Alioto on the profile she never wrote.
In order to meet the artist, I must travel one hour uptown on the train. I select a book for the ride, Foucault's Pendulum, thinking it will impress the artist, whose work relies so much on repetitive geometries. However, I abandon my coat, purse and book in the chaos of his front hall and we do not talk about books or reading.
The artist tells me I have a beautiful knee.
“Did you know you can’t touch a woman’s knee anymore?” the artist asks.
I laugh awkwardly.
“You can’t talk to a woman about anything,” the artist continues.
“We can talk about art,” I say. The artist doesn’t seem to hear.
“On the news they are saying Picasso was a pig. Of course he was a pig! He was a Spaniard!” the artist exclaims.
I look up at him. “But you’re not, right?” I ask.
The artist is 94 years old. He wears leather loafers without socks and a shirt unbuttoned to reveal the tattoo on his chest. Before I arrive, he pulls up an Andalusian mosaic on his computer which he says is the alpha and omega of all of his artwork. When he accidentally exits the browser window, I walk over to help him. He wraps his arms around my thighs. I feel no fear—only forbearance. He lets go. (In addition to repetitive geometries, the artist’s work relies on the female form and the abstract rendering of waistlines, nipples and breasts.)
The mosaic is back. He uses the wooden handle of a paintbrush to point out its infinite tessellations. I see the influence in his work. I widen my eyes. I nod. The artist’s African grey parrot bites the edge of his cage. His two Bengal cats make a brief appearance.
The first time the artist saw a Rothko painting a man in a suit came up to him and said “Son, this is not art.” The artist asked, “Who are you?” The man said, “I’m Mark Rothko.” The artist explains that Rothko thought what he was doing was something beyond art. But, he tells me, there is nothing beyond art.
There are many things to look at in the artist’s apartment. He has children that take care of him, so it doesn’t bother me to see that there are things piled in layers all around. Cookies and crackers in little bags. There is a painting of a constellation, and next to it a constellation map torn out from a magazine with a magnifying glass stuck to it. The artist says he’s misplaced a small Greek statue behind the computer and when I come over to look for it the artist grabs me around the thighs again, as I suspected he would. I do not find the statue.
The artist explains that Rothko thought what he was doing was something beyond art. But, he tells me, there is nothing beyond art.
The artist is still producing work. Lately, inspired by Jan Davidsz. de Heem. It is very good in my opinion. I hope someone shows it next to de Heem. What was it like to liberate France?
The artist believes that Caravaggio ruined painting. Fortunately, the Flemish painters got it back. Not Vermeer though—in the artist’s opinion, he was a one-trick pony. The artist says that Elias Goldberg is the best American painter living or dead. (Elias Goldberg is dead.)
The artist had two public murals in the city. One is covered by a building and the other one is now an underwear ad. He’s designed a new mural, but the funding fell through. Some of the people who saw the design for the new mural compared it to Guernica. I like the mural. I’m sad nobody will ever see it. I’m annoyed that my clothes smell like parrot and I am covered in white dust and I want a shower.
The artist hands me a paper CD sleeve to write my email address and phone number on. Sometimes he writes these notes on the wall. Someone, I assume the artist, has sketched a picture of his cats directly onto the side of his refrigerator. Someone has written the phrase “erect glaze” with the artist’s word magnets.
I have enough material now to write a profile of the artist’s love for the female form. But it’s not clear what he thinks of the female mind. Anyway, I won’t go back now.