Exiles in America(7)

rily for myself now, for my mental health.” Which was what he always said; it

was sometimes true.

Abbas wasn’t listening but peering sideways into the rack, frowning verti-

cally.

Daniel went over and pulled out a small landscape. One of his river paint-

ings: precise patches and beads of bright color on a long rectangle of canvas,

a view of flat, curving water flanked by marsh grass—like Corot in quotes,

Corot in the age of Kodachrome. He couldn’t say that aloud, however. He had

to let the pictures speak for themselves.

Abbas sniffed, as if smelling the image. “You are photographic?”

“I work from photos, yes.”

“You are a photo-realist?”

“Which is so seventies, I know,” said Daniel with a guilty laugh. “What

can I say, honey? I’m a child of the seventies.” He tried to protect himself with

a touch of camp.

Abbas didn’t even smile. He waved his open fingers at the canvas as if to

say, “Next.”

Zack stood to one side, looking worried. He claimed not to understand

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C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m

how painters could examine each other’s work and say so little. Or hear so

much in each other’s silences. But then words were Zack’s medium.

Daniel brought out another landscape, this one larger, a wide stretch of the

Chickahominy River near Ross’s house, the water as smooth as glass, the eye

nearly level with the watery mirror.

“My river!” Ross said proudly. “The view from my dock. I love this one.”

He’d seen all these paintings before; Daniel had done them over the past two

summers. “Look at the way the river opens and closes,” he enthused. “In

chambers, like a cow’s stomach. A green stomach full of blue sky.”

“Very green,” said Elena uncertainly. “Very—luscious?”

It was always the non-painters who did the talking, as if silent images made

them uncomfortable.

Daniel carefully turned the canvas against the wall. He hauled out another:

a view of woods. The ferny floor was roofed by oak trees, a green twilight

caged with tree trunks.

“This is my favorite,” said Ross, bending forward, supporting himself with

his hands on his knees. “I could fall into it. It has an unearthly hush, like

‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.’ Only it’s summer, not winter.”

Ross loved Daniel’s work, but Ross didn’t count. He and Zack were ama-

teurs; they saw the pictures only from the outside. Daniel saw them from the

inside and recognized everything that was wrong with them. He wondered

what Abbas saw.

Abbas said nothing. He pursed his lips and lifted his chin; he seemed to

look down his nose at the painting. Or maybe his glasses were bifocals and he

was looking through the reading lenses.

“There is much control,” he declared. “Much craft.”

And no imagination? Is that what he meant?

He turned to Daniel. “These are exercises for your students?” he asked.

“To show them how to paint?”

“No. They’re for me. To show me how to paint.”

“And now you know.” Abbas smiled—a mild twitch of mouth. “Still. They

are nice. For what they are.”

Fuck you, thought Daniel. But he was right. The pictures were nothing but

E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a

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exercises, busywork, anxious displays of craft. Daniel was furious with him-

self for showing them to the younger painter.

“But they’re beautiful,” said Zack. “They’re not just exercises.”

“I love them,” said Ross. “I love the landscape around here anyway. But

these paintings have a real peace. A real serenity.”

They could see that Daniel was upset, but their sympathy did not make

him feel better.

“And so on and so forth,” he declared, waving at the other frames in the

rack. “More exercises in peace and serenity. All very good for my mental

health.”

“And you always work in photo-realism?” Abbas was looking back at the

storage rack. He did not hear Daniel’s bitterness, did not seem to know he

had offended him.

“Oh no. I do other things. Some abstraction. Photo collage. I keep coming

back to landscape, however.” He surveyed the rack until he spotted an edge of

orange-pink canvas. “But sometimes I feel transgressive. Here’s a different kind

of landscape.” He angrily tugged at the heavy five-foot-by-six-foot frame.

Zack recognized the first inches of flesh color. “Daniel? You sure you want

to show that? Before they know us better?”

“Hey, we’re all grown-ups.” Daniel hauled the frame out and turned it