An Artful Corpse Read online

  Arlo opened his carrying case and removed a venerable instrument—his father’s Gibson, famously festooned with the motto “This Machine Kills Fascists.” He mounted the platform, stepped to the mike, raised Woody’s guitar, and began to sing “So Long, It’s Been Good to Know Yuh.”

  The entire audience, many of them in tears, joined him in a reprise of the chorus.

  “What’s that? Do I hear somebody bawlin’? Better cut it out,” Arlo scolded, “Woody don’t like that. No siree, we’re gonna make some joyful noise tonight! I see Mary Travers over there—come on up here, Mary. How about you, Bobby?” He turned to the musicians’ table and beckoned Dylan to join them, which he did. So did Brand and Bikel.

  “Wait for me, Arlo,” came a voice from the door, and Pete Seeger entered the club, brandishing the vintage banjo he played as a member of The Almanac Singers back in the 1940s, when Guthrie was the group’s guitarist and chief songwriter.

  “Let’s give ’em a rousing version of ‘Ain’ta Gonna Grieve’, in the key of C,” he called out as he hopped on stage, already playing the opening notes. Arlo quickly picked up the tune, and he and Seeger sang the first verse.

  “Everybody on the chorus,” shouted Seeger, and the room erupted in song.

  That was just the opener. As word of Guthrie’s death and the memorial hoot spread through the Village, more and more musicians stopped by to pay their respects. Ellen and Michele sat enthralled as some of the biggest stars in the folk world took the stage, and TJ was unexpectedly moved by the outpouring of admiration, affection, and respect for the man and his music, which he had to admit wasn’t the cornball stuff he thought of as folk songs.

  As performers came and went, those who had known Guthrie personally told anecdotes, some poignant, some hilarious. Everyone had his or her favorite Woody song, whether familiar, like “Pastures of Plenty,” “This Train Is Bound for Glory,” and “The Sinking of the Reuben James,” or obscure. He had written hundreds of them, so there was no shortage of material.

  When each musician came forward, Arlo whispered a brief comment, and at evening’s end, it was apparent why. He wanted to save one particular number for the finale. As one a.m. approached, he stepped to the mike and thanked everyone for the great send-off.

  “Woody’s upstairs enjoyin’ the concert, but it’s past his bedtime, so I think we’d better wrap things up.” He played the last eight notes of Guthrie’s most famous song as, despite hands already sore from clapping, thunderous applause filled the room.

  “Everybody, now,” he prompted, and the crowd joined him: “This land is your land…”

  * * *

  Walking home through Washington Square Park, still bustling with activity on a mild autumn night, TJ, Ellen, and Michele reflected on the remarkable experience they’d just shared.

  “I have a confession to make,” said TJ somewhat sheepishly, “I don’t really dig folk music, at least I didn’t before tonight. I didn’t realize that it’s not just old-timey ballads and sea shanties. Guys like Guthrie were writing about what they were going through, and a lot of it was pretty rough. He wasn’t afraid to speak out about war, poverty, injustice, racial prejudice, the kind of social and political problems we still have today. I can see why young guys like Dylan look up to him.”

  “You should read his autobiography, Bound for Glory,” suggested Michele. “Dylan calls it his Bible. I’ll lend you my copy if you like. Some of it’s a little, well, embellished, but he’s a great storyteller and he did lead a really colorful life.”

  “Thanks,” he said, “I can get it the next time I visit the Up ’n’ Down.” It was pretty obvious that he was angling for an invitation.

  “How about Thursday night after life class, on your way home?” said Ellen.

  “You bet,” he replied, encouraged.

  Eight

  Thursday, October 5

  Not long after the second break, Laning entered the studio with his guest, a short, stocky man in his seventies, dressed in a checkered flannel shirt and jeans that sagged under a sizeable paunch. His deeply creased face, like that of a weather-beaten farmer, scowled out from under a head of thick grizzled hair. His matching moustache pursed as he looked around the room, his intense gaze taking in the entire class in one long unblinking sweep.

  “So this is your latest crop of geniuses,” he said, addressing the students rather than their teacher, his voice sharp with sarcasm.

  “That must be Benton,” whispered Ellen to TJ. “Mr. Laning warned us he’d be intimidating, and he wasn’t kidding.”

  “Gosh, he looks familiar,” replied TJ under his breath. “Wasn’t he at The Bitter End on Tuesday night?”

  “Yeah, I think you’re right. Didn’t he come in right after Pete Seeger? He was wearing a lumber jacket, red and black check. I remember because it wasn’t cold enough for such a heavy coat, so he looked out of place. I don’t think he stayed long.”

  Laning spoke, his warm tenor lightening the mood cast by Benton’s gruff baritone.

  “This ornery fellow is Thomas Hart Benton, who has very graciously agreed to give you the benefit of his criticism. As I told you last week, Mr. Benton is in town for a major exhibition of his work at the Whitney, and I just learned that he’s also being honored by the American Academy of Arts and Letters, which has elected him to membership.”

  “Reelected, you mean,” Benton corrected him. “I quit that musty mausoleum a couple years ago when I got into a little spat with the management. Now they want me back. Can’t think why.” He grinned and winked at Laning, who good-naturedly took the bait.

  “Why, Tom, you old rascal, of course they want you back. You’re one of the country’s top painters. The way I heard it, it was just a difference of opinion.”

  “Damn right it was. The goddamn president was supposed to be welcoming us to the spring meeting, but instead, he started mouthing off against the war, trashing the government, calling our policy immoral. I wasn’t going to sit there and listen to that shit. I told him he had to take it back, or I’d quit. He didn’t, and I did.”

  The Academy’s president, Lewis Mumford, was a leading public intellectual, a humanistic philosopher, prolific author, and critic of modern technology whose ideas about the artist’s role in society coincided with Benton’s. In fact, the two men had long been friends, but Mumford’s outspoken opposition to America’s involvement in Vietnam—including a strongly worded open letter to President Johnson condemning the bombing of North Vietnam in 1965—caused the rift that prompted Benton’s resignation.

  Benton snorted a laugh. “Now I’m in and he’s out—had to resign when they reinstated me over his objections. Serves the bastard right for foisting his bleeding-heart politics on us. Those commies in Indochina deserve everything we can throw at ’em.”

  Ellen leaned over to TJ. “Not shy about letting us know where he stands, is he?”

  “Or what he thinks of people who disagree with him,” he answered. “Can’t wait to hear what he has to say about my drawing.”

  “Anyway,” said Benton, striding toward the center of the room, his heavy boots resounding on the bare wood floor, “I’m not here to talk politics, don’t want to get riled up. Truth is, I’m feeling nostalgic. Ain’t been back to this drafty ol’ barn in decades. It’s over thirty years since I packed up and put New York behind me with no regrets. But me and the boys, we had some great times here. Yes sir, great times, in and out of class.” His gaze softened for a moment as he reflected.

  The bluster returned quickly. “Speaking of class, let’s see if Ed here has managed to knock any of his wisdom into you.” He approached one of the painters, a man in his late twenties, whose canvas was well advanced.

  “Too flat,” he barked. Gesturing at Wally, he continued, “That fellow is made of three-dimensional flesh and blood, solid muscle and bone. You’ve turned him into a paper cutout.”

&
nbsp; The painter, who was no novice, defended his approach. “I wasn’t aiming for a literal depiction, Mr. Benton. I’m interested in the relational planes, the intersecting forms, the—”

  “Bullshit,” roared Benton. “You sound like a fucking Cubist. I got that nonsense out of my system before you were sucking your mother’s tit. Warmed-over Parisian modernism is a dead end, totally irrelevant. It’s empty, it has no meaning or purpose beyond aesthetics. American art should deal with reality—real life, real people—and appeal to ordinary folks, not to dipshit collectors and the nancyboys who run the museums. Climb down from your ivory tower and come back to earth, sonny.”

  Grabbing the startled painter by the arm, Benton pulled him toward the model stand and mounted the platform, dragging the man along with him.

  “Feel this thigh,” Benton demanded, pushing the student’s hand onto Wally’s leg. “Unlike your pathetic painting it’s real, it has a pulse, it has strength.” Wally winced, and the muscles in his jaw visibly tightened, but he remained still as Benton ran the student’s fingers up and down his leg. “See what I mean? Feel the bump here, and the hollow there. Go back and paint that.”

  Now the whole class was startled. Laning often pointed out anatomical details on his models, but he never actually touched them, whereas Benton thought nothing of manhandling them. Laning was reminded of a quip from his student days: Benton’s models better not be ticklish.

  As soon as Benton relaxed his grip, the luckless painter retrieved his hand and retreated behind his easel, his dignity in shreds. Benton then turned his attention to the rest of the class, who were clearly dreading his critique. Laning decided to follow in his wake and do damage control if necessary.

  Fortunately, Benton seemed to have vented all his spleen on his first victim. With the rest he was largely dismissive, grunting a few generalizations at the men’s efforts and pointedly ignoring the women’s. TJ got a whiff of bourbon fumes as Benton muttered something about lack of rhythm, then moved on past Ellen without a word.

  His rounds completed, Benton swaggered toward the door, surveyed the room again, and shook his head. “Well, Ed, you’ve got your work cut out for you. I don’t see a winner in the bunch.”

  Ever the diplomat, Laning replied, “It’s early days for most of them, Tom. You wouldn’t want to discourage them just yet, would you?”

  “Why not? They’re either inept or caught up in airy-fairy theories, like your pseudocubist over there.” He flipped his hand dismissively toward the object of his disdain. “Most of ’em wouldn’t know a Cézanne from a Chardin, and the ones that do could never hope to paint like Chardin. The best they could manage would be clumsy Cézanne imitations, and he was a goddamn clumsy painter himself.”

  This antimodernist heresy was met with silence from the class. Even Laning was momentarily at a loss for words, then he rallied.

  “I’m not ready to give up on them just yet, Tom. And I hope you don’t mind my disagreeing with you about their potential.” That got another scowl and snort from Benton, but Laning continued. “I seem to remember that you had a few unpromising students who went on to make names for themselves in the art world. I can think of one on particular.” He grinned widely, and instead of taking umbrage Benton let out a guffaw.

  “Hah, you got me there, Ed! Yeah, I have to admit Jack Pollock didn’t have much goin’ for him in the beginning. Couldn’t draw worth shit, but by God he worked at it. Never missed a life class, studied the old masters, even made clay models like I did, to get a feel for the volumes and masses. He had such a desperate need to learn that I was sympathetic, and I flatter myself that I gave him the confidence to stick with it.”

  “No doubt about that,” Laning agreed. “He told me himself that he’d have been lost without you.”

  “He was lost,” said Benton, “a lost soul. He only found himself in his painting, and when he stopped painting it was the end of him.” He shook his head and made for the exit.

  “Well, Tom, I’m sure the class is grateful for your guidance,” said Laning, rather lamely, as he opened the door for Benton, who left without another word.

  “Go ahead and take your break, Wally. I’ll be back in a moment,” he told the class as he followed his guest into the hall. “I’m just going to get Mr. Benton a taxi.”

  Benton had slumped down on one of the wooden benches that lined the hallway. One hand held the large bandanna he used as a handkerchief. The other held a hip flask. Alternately wiping his eyes with the bandanna and swigging from the flask, he grumbled, “Goddammit, Ed, I wish you hadn’t mentioned Jack Pollock. Course you were right, he was the silk purse I made out of a sow’s ear. We never lost touch, you know, even after he got famous. He’s been dead for more than ten years, but I still miss the son of a bitch.”

  He blew his nose loudly and took another hit from the flask. “C’mon, let’s go tie one on, get a real drink.” Laning reminded him that the class was in session until ten.

  “Fuck ’em,” Benton croaked. “They don’t need you to tell ’em how useless they are.”

  “You’re right,” said Laning. “You took care of that for me.”

  Nine

  “Jesus, what a performance!” Bill was shaking his head in disbelief. “Swearing like a sailor, putting everybody down, embarrassing Mr. Laning. I wonder if he was just as offensive years ago when Pollock was in his class.”

  “He was tight, you know,” said TJ. “I smelled liquor on his breath when he leaned over my drawing and gave me a two-word critique. ‘No rhythm,’ he said, that’s all. Not much help.”

  “That’s two words more than he gave me, or any of the other girls,” Ellen pointed out. “It seems he’s not interested in women.” She realized that her statement had a double meaning. “Oh, I wasn’t implying that he’s gay. Mr. Laning said he’s married.”

  Bill chuckled. “That doesn’t mean anything. Lots of gay men have wives and children. Not that I’m saying Benton is one, but he does play the macho role way too strong, strutting around like he’s trying to convince everyone, including himself, what a he-man he is.”

  Knowing that Bill was gay made TJ more receptive to his implication. He’d probably be able to recognize the closeted homosexual beneath the manly bluff and bluster.

  “Look how he was groping Wally, forcing poor Al Schwartz to feel him up,” Bill continued. “That’s not normal. Bet he doesn’t do that to female models.”

  Before they could speculate further, the studio door opened and Laning returned. He had managed to pour Benton into a cab and direct the driver to take him to the Hotel St. Regis, where the Whitney was putting him up. He doubted that the artist would head straight to his room, since the hotel’s King Cole Bar, renowned for its Bloody Marys and its whimsical Maxfield Parrish mural, was open until one a.m.

  Laning hastened to apologize on Benton’s behalf. “I hope you’ll pardon our distinguished guest,” he began, “he wasn’t himself tonight. I think he’s having trouble adjusting to New York again after so many years away.”

  “As Benton would say, bullshit,” whispered TJ to Ellen. “Didn’t he mention that he comes to the Academy meetings, or did until he left in a snit? I bet he’s been back to New York any number of times since he quit the League.”

  Ellen was more generous. “I’m sure Mr. Laning is just trying to make excuses for Mr. Benton’s rudeness,” she whispered back. “He couldn’t have been expecting it, and he tried his best to get him to tone it down. He certainly wouldn’t have invited him if he thought he’d behave like that.”

  Laning continued his conciliations. “I have to hand it to Tom. He’s got that Midwest hayseed character down pat, but it’s just an act to get a rise out of you. He loves to come on strong about how American he is, but he’s a lot more cosmopolitan than he lets on. He was in Paris before the First World War and did some pretty radical abstract paintings. They’ll probably have a few in
the Whitney show, and you’ll see how he carried over those principles into his figurative imagery.”

  “Here comes Wally,” he said as the model removed his robe and mounted the platform. “Let’s get back to business. As I’m sure you know, I don’t believe you’re all hopeless, far from it. And I don’t think Tom Benton believes it, either. He was just being provocative, testing your resolve. Remember what he said about Pollock. Such an unpromising beginner, but look where his hard work and determination took him.”

  He paused. “If only Jackson could have controlled his drinking, he’d still be alive and painting masterpieces. Speaking of which,” he added, lightening the mood, “let’s see what my ‘latest crop of geniuses’ has come up with so far.” He pointedly singled out the so-called pseudocubist whom Benton had humiliated.

  “You’ve been here for a couple of years, Mr. Schwartz, so I know you’ve mastered figure study well enough to paint representationally if you want to. The real question is, are you satisfied with the way this figure is going?” The painter expressed some reservations.

  “The planar quality is actually very good,” Laning observed, “but I do see a problem with the proportions. It’s really a matter of compositional balance, rather than any lack of naturalism. The integrity of the picture itself is the most important thing, regardless of the style.” He gave Schwartz a reassuring smile, which was returned with gratitude.

  * * *

  On the subway ride home, Ellen and TJ couldn’t help wondering about Benton’s motivation. “Do you think it was just the liquor talking, or is he always so aggressive?” she asked.

  “He’d certainly had a few,” he replied, “but I’m betting he’s just as belligerent when he’s sober. Maybe fewer curse words, but just as confrontational. He strikes me as the kind who burns his bridges, then accuses the folks on the other side of setting the fire.”