July 18, 1991
Thursday afternoonNow that I've talked to you and read your letter this should be perfect. It's always best to be prepared.
You can't possible know the extent of "Irishness" if you don't have a name like Murphy. I have to be careful about voicing my opinion about the "witchdoctor" (as Nabokov calls it) art. Rosa Esman's husband is a shrink. I did make a vow to myself not to get involved with anyone who is seeing a shrink either personally or professionally. Personally that's not a problem because I don't seem to be able to get involved with anyone but as for professionally ... modernism and Freud are interchangable and postmodernism is Lacan. You can run but you can't hide. Now, about that incident with your mother when you were being toilet trained (can you imagine any Irish family even acknowledging taking a shit?).
Paul's shrink has turned out to be an OK guy. He's the head of psychiatry at Beth Israel and stops in every day to check up on him. It was Paul's mother who insisted and pays for a shrink. Now that the whole family (minus Dad) are here everything falls into place. They are in an extreme state of denial and, as far as I've seen, don't even want to touch Paul. They stand in the corner talking about him as if he wasn't there (or more to the point, was an alien being). His siter Wendy is OK and his brother Eric, who is flying in from Tokyo, is very nice but the mother...and his other brother...ARGH!
His mother fell down yesterday and skinned her hand. All conversation had to revolve around whether we thought she would survive the scrape. If Paul could talk I'm sure he'd finally tell her off. I pray that he'll come to one more time and do it.
Poor Mark. He doesn't need these people around. They didn't care before (or didn't know how to care). But maybe I'm being too hard on them. I'm getting use to it, this is their first time. For us Paul died two weeks ago when he slid into demential so we've had a slow grieving period that also included Paul (or what was left of him). Now it's just waiting and I realize that the prime spectacle in life that we all are interested in is watching someone die (executions, car crashes) because we know it's not us. (See earlier text by Poe).
Families! My mother is cold but she's caring and since she's just a farmer's daughter she has a better understanding of death than most (something about Demeter, I think) and I think some of that has rubbed off on me. Things die then you carry on and live, then at some point it's your turn. It doesn't do any good to complain that something has been taken from you. That comes too close to talking about God.
Ah, well. I visited Paul at noon and promised to go back at six. Last night we all went out to dinner at a place called "A Friend of the Farmer" in Grammercy Park and the family talked about everything in the world but Paul. Mark thanked me for coming along and I told him I thought his team needed a few more players.
Mark wants to stick an ice pick in Bill's (the older brother) brain and I'm finding it difficult to restrain him. Paul wanted to use a secondary trust fund to pay funeral costs but that trust is to be divided among his siblings at his death and Bill wants to use his primary trust (meaning he doesn't want to pay for the funeral). But I think I told you all this on the phone and it's really none of my business but I get drawn into it by Mark.
Had a meeting at Rosa Esman (Rosa's still in Paris) and finalized the show and everything looks good. Now if we can just get the work sold (and paid for). We really need to do something extra curricular like a dinner or something but Rosa doesn't like to do those things (neither do I for that matter). But collectors like it and let's face it, it's a buyers market out there.
Called Meyers/Bloom because the check said I was paid for the wrong painting but it turned out that it was the right painting but the wrong number. Ruth promised another check next week for the other painting. When she looked through the files she commented on how much of my work they'd sold. Gee, Ruth, does that mean I'm a real artist now?
It's 99 outside and I want to stay inside and work but I promised to go back to the hospital and sit around and stare at Paul with the others. I pray that every breath will be his las and it will be all over for everybody but he keeps on puffing. The nurse said to be careful what you say because even though he looks knocked out he can hear and understand, he just can't respond.
Ran into Jerry Saltz (art writer) on my way to Tony's show at Andrea Rosen. Told him I was having a show in September and he seemed genuinely surprised. It's finally dawned on me after several similar occasions that everyone assumed I was Simon's boyfriend and that's why he showed me and I'm of no interest outside of that. They totally ignore Meyers/Bloom or that people don't buy work just because you're Simon's boyfriend. So this show should be interesting.
As for Tony's work I'd tell you all about it but I don't know which was his and Andrea scooted out of the room when I cam in. Lots of little junky things scattered around of hung on the wall and I have a feeling the scarves with the white fake flowers woven in are Tony's but I'm not sure.
Work in the gallery down the hall consisted of pages from a looseleaf notebook with letters written on them concerning how awful the recipient was for not paying what they owed the artist more promptly. Now there is not just art about art but art about being an artist. I rather liked it.
Robert Motherwell died yesterday. He was from Aberdeen, Washington and married at one time to Helen Frankenthaler who has a print show at Rosa's after me and is one of her best friends and a complete no-talent who has got where she is by the Nark Nerkely method. I've decided that Nerkely is best handled face to face, perferably with my fist in his puss. Maybe I'll just trip Frankenthaler instead.
LATER>br> Paul's brother Eric made it in, a little worse for wear after two days air travel but still the cutest member of the clan. He seemed to break the coldness by actually talking to Paul (though he didn't touch him while I was there, either). I excused myself and stood out in the hall, soon followed by Brian, Phil and Larry (other friends) and left the family alone. Mark says they all had a good cry so maybe they just don't want to show emotion in front of strangers. I can understand that.
We looked like a greek chorus (not enough chairs in the room).