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composition and determine the form and rhythm for many, many subsequent splatters and maybe even a
few contact brush strokes and impulsive smearings.
As the rhythm of Simon Grue s bouncy footsteps quickened, Norman Saylor glanced up, though not
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apprehensively. True, Simon had been known to splatter his friends as well as his canvases, but hi
anticipation of this Norman was wearing a faded shut, old sneakers and the frayed tweed suit he d
sported as assistant instructor, while his fishing hat was within easy reach. He and his armchair were
crowded close to a wall, as were the other four intellectuals. This canvas was an especially large one,
even for Simon.
As for Simon, pacing back and forth atop his scaffold, he was experiencing the glorious intoxication and
expansion of vision known only to an accidental painter in the great tradition of Wassily Kandin-sky,
Robert Motherwell and Jackson Pollock, when he is springfly based a good twenty feet above a spotless,
perfectly prepared canvas. At moments like this Simon was especially grateful for these weekly
gatherings. Having his five especial friends on hand helped create the right intellectual milieu. He
listened happily to the hollow rhythmic thrum of Tally s drumming, the multisyllabic rippling of
Lester s and Lafcadio s conversation, the gurgle of Gorius whisky bottle, and happily watched the
mystic curls of Norman s pipe smoke. His entire being, emotions as well as mind, was a blank tablet,
ready for the kiss of the universe.
Meanwhile the instant was coming closer and closer when all the molecules hi the world and in the
collective unconscious mind would get very slippery.
Tally B. Washington, beating on his African log, had a feeling of oppression and anticipation, almost
(but not quite) a feeling of apprehension. One of Tally s ancestors, seven generations back, had been a
Dahomey witch doctor, which is the African equivalent of an intellectual with artistic and psychiatric
leanings. According to a very private family tradition, half joking, half serious, this five-greats-
grandfather of Tally had discovered a Jumbo Magic which could  lay holt of the whole world and bring
it under its spell, but he had perished before he could try the magic or transmit it to his sons. Tally
himself was altogether skeptical about the Jumbo Magic, but he couldn t help wondering about it
wistfully from time to time, especially when he was beating on his African log and hunting for a new
rhythm. The wistful feeling came to him right now, building on the feeling of oppression and
anticipation, and his mind became a tablet blank as Simon s.
The slippery instant arrived.
Simon seized a brush and plunged it deep in the pot of black paint. Usually he used black for a final
splatter if he used it at all, but this time he had the impulse to reverse himself.
Of a sudden Tally s wrists lifted high, hands dangling loosely, almost like a marionette s. There was a
dramatic pause. Then his hands came down and beat out a phrase on the log, loudly and with great
authority.
Rump-titty-titty-tum-T Mi-tee!
Simon s wrist snapped and the middle air was full of free-falling paint which hit the canvas in a fast
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series of splaaAAT s which was an exact copy of Tally s phrase.
Rump-titty-titty-tum-TAa-tee!
Intrigued by the identity of the two sounds, and with then- back hairs lifting a little for the same reason,
the five intellectuals around the wall rose and stared, while Simon looked down from his scaffold like
God after the first stroke of creation.
The big black splatter on the bone-white ground was itself an exact copy of Tally s phrase, sound made
sight, music transposed into visual pattern. First there was a big roundish blot that was the rump. Then
two rather delicate, many-tongued splatters those were the titties. Next a small rump, which was the
turn. Following that a big blot like a bent spearhead, not so big as the rump but even more emphatic [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]