would guess. But not alone women - this symbol is sexless. It means every man and every woman who ever lived who sweated out life in uncomplaining fortitude, whose courage wasn't even noticed until they crumpled under their loads. It's courage, Ben, and victory.'
''Victory?''
'Victory in defeat, there is none higher. She didn't give up, Ben; she's still trying to lift that stone after it has crushed her. She's a father going down to a dull office job while cancer is painfully eating away his insides, so as to bring home one more pay check for the kids. She's a twelve-year old girl trying to mother her baby brothers and sisters because Mama had to go to Heaven. She's a switchboard operator sticking to her job while smoke is choking her and the fire is cutting off her escape. She's all the unsung heroes who couldn't quite cut it but never quit. Come. Just salute as you pass her and come see my Little Mermaid.'
Ben took him precisely at his word; if Jubal was surprised, he made no comment. 'Now this one,' he said, 'is the only one Mike didn't give to me. But there is no need to tell Mike why I got it? aside from the self-evident fact that it's one of the most delightful compositions ever conceived and proudly executed by the eye and hand of man.'
'She's that, all right. This one I don't have to have explained - it's just plain pretty!'
'Yes. And that is excuse in itself, just as with kittens and butterflies. But there is more to it than that? and she reminded me of Mike. She's not quite a mermaid - see? - and she's not quite human. She sits on land, where she has chosen to stay? and she stares eternally out to sea, homesick and forever lonely for what she left behind. You know the story?'
'Hans Christian Andersen.'
'Yes. She sits by the harbor of Kbenhavn-Copenhagen was his home town - and she's everybody who ever made a difficult choice. She doesn't regret her choice, but she must pay for it; every choice must be paid for. The cost to her is not only endless homesickness. She can never be quite human; when she uses her dearly bought feet, every step is on sharp knives. Ben, I think that Mike must always walk on knives - but there is no need to tell him I said so. I don't think he knows this story or, at least, I don't think he knows that I connect him with it.'
'I won't tell him.' Ben looked at the replica. 'I'd rather just look at her and not think about the knives.'
'She's a little darling, isn't she? How would you like to coax her into bed? She would probably be lively, like a seal, and about as slippery.'
'Cripes! You're an evil old man, Jubal.'
'And getting eviler and eviler by the year. Uh? we won't look at any others; three pieces of sculpture in an hour is more than enough - usually I don't let myself look at more than one in a day.'
'Suits. I feel as if I had had three quick drinks on an empty stomach. Jubal, why isn't there stuff like this around where a person can see it?'
'Because the world has gone nutty and contemporary art always paints the spirit of its times. Rodin did his major work in the tail end of the nineteenth century and Hans Christian Andersen antedated him by only a few years. Rodin died early in the twentieth century, about the time the world started flipping its lid? and art along with it.
'Rodin's successors noted the amazing things he had done with light and shadow and mass and composition - whether you see it or not - and they copied that much. Oh, how they copied it! And extended it. What they failed to see was that every major work of the master told a story and laid bare the human heart. Instead, they got involved with 'design' and became contemptuous of any painting or sculpture that told a story - sneering, they dubbed such work 'literary' - a dirty word. They went all out for abstractions, not deigning to paint or carve anything that resembled the human world.'
Jubal shrugged. 'Abstract design is all right - for wall paper or linoleum. But art is the process of evoking pity and terror, which is not abstract at all but very human. What the self-styled modern artists are doing is a sort of unemotional pseudo-intellectual masturbation? whereas creative art is more like intercourse, in which the artist must seduce - render emotional - his audience, each time. These laddies who won't deign to do that - and perhaps can't - of course lost the public. If they hadn't lobbied for endless subsidies, they would have starved or been forced to go to work long ago. Because the ordinary bloke will not voluntarily pay for 'art' that leaves him unmoved - if he does pay for it, the money has to be conned out of him, by taxes or such.'
'You know, Jubal, I've always wondered why I didn't give a hoot for paintings or statues - but I thought it was something missing in me, like color blindness.'
'Mmm, one does have to learn to look at art, just as you must know French to read a story printed in French. But in general it's up to the artist to use language that can be understood, not hide it in some private code like Pepys and his diary. Most of these jokers don't even want to use language you and I know or can learn? they would rather sneer at us and be smug, because we 'fail' to see what they are driving at. If indeed they are driving at anything - obscurity is usually the refuge of incompetence. Ben, would you call me an artist?'
'Huh? Well, I've never thought about it. You write a pretty good stick.'
'Thank you. 'Artist' is a word I avoid for the same reasons I hate to be called 'Doctor.' But I am an artist, albeit a minor one. Admittedly most of my stuff is fit to read only once? and not even once for a busy person who already knows the little I have to say. But I am an honest artist, because what I write is consciously intended to reach the customer - reach him and affect him, if possible with pity and terror? or, if not, at least to divert the tedium of his hours with a chuckle or an odd idea. But I am never trying to hide it from him in a private language, nor am I seeking the praise of other writers for 'technique' or other balderdash. I want the praise of the cash customer, given in cash because I've reached him - or I don't want anything. Support for the arts - merde! A government-supported artist is an incompetent whore! Damn it, you punched one of my buttons. Let me fill your glass, and you tell me what is on your mind.'
'Uh, Jubal, I'm unhappy.'
'This is news?'
'No. But I've got a fresh set of troubles.' Ben frowned. 'I shouldn't have come here, I guess. No need to burden you with them. I'm not even sure I want to talk about them.'
'Okay. But as long as you're here, you can listen to my troubles.'
'You have troubles? Jubal, I've always thought of you as the one man who had managed to beat the game, six ways from zero.'
'Hmm, sometime I must tell you about my married life. But - yes, I've got troubles now. Some of them are evident. Duke has left me, you know - or did you?'
'Yeah. I knew.'
'Larry is a good gardener - but half the gadgets that keep this log cabin running are failing to pieces. I don't know how I can replace Duke. Good all-around mechanics are scarce? and ones that will fit into this household, be a member of the family in all ways, are almost non-existent. I'm limping along on repairmen called in from town - every visit a disturbance, all of them with larceny in their hearts, and most of them incompetent to use a screw driver without cutting themselves. Which I am incapable of doing, too, so I have to hire help. Or move back into town, God forbid.'
'My heart aches for you, Jubal.'
'Never mind the sarcasm, that's just the start. Mechanics and gardeners are convenient, but for me secretaries are essential. Two of mine are pregnant, one is getting married.'
Caxton looked utterly astounded. Jubal growled, 'Oh, I'm not telling tales out of school; they're smug as can be - nothing secret about any of it. They're undoubtedly sore at me right now because I took you up here without giving them time to boast. So be a gent and be surprised when they tell you.'
'Uh, which one is getting married?'
'Isn't that obvious? The happy man is that smooth-talking refugee from a sand storm, our esteemed water brother Stinky Mahmoud. I've told him flatly that they have to live here whenever they're in this country. Dastard just laughed and said how else? - pointed out that I had invited him to live here, permanently, long ago.' Jubal sniffed. 'Wouldn't be so bad if he would just do it. I might even get some work out of her. Maybe.'
'You probably would. She likes to work. And the other two are pregnant?'
'Higher 'n a kite. I'm refreshing myself in O.B. because they both say they're going to have 'em at home. And what a crimp that's going to put into my working habits! Worse than kittens. But why do you assume that neither of the two turgescent tummies belongs to the bride?'
'Oh- Why, I suppose I assumed that Stinky was more conventional than that? or maybe more cautious.'
