igarette burned my fingers； and even then I remember looking at it stupidly for a second or so before dropping it to the floor。
Debierue's aseptically forlorn studio is as clear in my mind now as if I were still sitting on that hard metal stool。
I had expected something； but not Nothing。
I had expected almost anything； but not Nothing。
Prepared for attendance and appreciation； my mind could not undo its readiness for perception and accept the unfulfilled preparation for painting it encountered。
Here was a qualified Nothing； a Nothing of such deep despair； I could not be absolved of my aesthetic responsibility…a nonhope Nothing； a non…Nothing…and yet； also before my eyes was the evidence of a dedication to artistic expression so unyieldingly vast in its implications that my mind…at least at first…bluntly refused to accept the evidence。
I had to work it out。
The synecdochic relationship between the place and the person was undeniable。 An artist has a studio： Debierue had a studio： Debierue was an artist。
Here； in deadly readiness； Debierue sat daily in fruitless preparation for a painting that he would never paint； waiting for pictorial adventures that would never happen。 Waiting； the incredibly patient waiting for an idea to materialize； for a single idea that could be transferred onto the ready canvas…but no ideas ever came to him。 Never。
Debierue worked four hours a day； he claimed； which meant sitting on this stool staring at an empty canvas from eight until noon； every day； seven days a week； waiting for an idea to e…every single day！ At that precise moment I knew； despite all of the published documentary evidence to the contrary that he was not merely suffering a so…called dry period； a temporary inability to paint since moving to Florida。 Without any other evidence （my own eyes were witness enough； together with my practiced critical intuition）； I knew that Jacques Debierue had never had a plastic idea； nor had he painted a picture of any kind in his entire lifetime！
Debierue was a slave to hope。 He had never accepted the fact that he couldn't paint a picture。 But each day he faced the slavery of the attempt to paint； and the subsequent daily failure。 After each day of failure he was destroyed； only to be reborn on the next day…each new day bringing with it a new chance； a new opportunity。 How could he be so strong willed to face this daily death； this vain slavery to hope？ He had dedicated his life to Nothing。
The most primitive nescience in man cannot remain pletely negative…or so I had always believed。 Forms and the spectrum range of colors； the sounds a man makes with his mouth； the thousands of daily perceptions of sights and sound； invade our senses from moment to moment； consciously and subconsciously。 And all of these sights and sounds…and touch； too； of course…demand an artistic interpretation。 Knowing this basic natural truth； I knew that Debierue； an intelligent； sentient human being； must have had hundreds； no； literally thousands of ideas for paintings during the innumerable years he sat before an empty canvas。 But these ideas were unexpressed； locked inside his head； withheld from graphic presentation because of his fear of releasing them。 He was afraid to take a chance； he was unable to risk the possibility…a distinct possibility…of failure。 His dread of failure was not a concern with what others might think of his work。 It was a fear of what he； Debierue； the Artist； might think of his acplished work。 The moment an artist expresses himself and fails； or mits himself to an act of self…expression by action； and realizes that he did not； that he cannot； succeed； and that he will never be able to capture on canvas that which he sees so vividly in his mind's eye； he wifi know irrevocably that he is a failure as an artist。
So why should he paint？ In fact； how can he paint？
How many times had Debierue leaned forward； reaching out timidly toward the shining canvas before him with a crumbling piece of charcoal in his trembling fingers？ How many times？…and with the finished； varnished； luminous masterpiece glowing upon the museum wall of his febrile mind？…only to stay his hand at the last possible moment； the tip of the black charcoal a fraction of an inch away from the virgin canvas？
〃Nonono！ Not yet！〃
The fear…crazed neural message would race down the full length of the motor neuron in his extended arm （vaulting synapse junctions）； and in time； always in the nick of time； the quavery hand would be jerked back。 The virgin canvas； safe for another day； would once again remain unviolated。
Another day； another morning of unmitted； untested acplishment had been hurdled； but what difference did it make？ What did anything matter； at high noon； so long as he had delayed； put off until tomorrow； postponed the execution of the feeble idea he had today when there would be a much better idea tomorrow？ If he did not prove to himself today that he could paint the image in his mind； or that he could not paint it； a tendril of fort remained。 And hope。
Faith in his untried skills provided a continuum。
Why not？ Wasn't he trying？ Yes。 Was he not a dedicated artist？ Yes。 Did he ever fail to put in his scheduled work period every day？ No。 Was he not faithful to the sustained effort？…the devoted； painful； mental concentration？…the agony of creation？ Yes； yes； and yes again。
And who knew？ Who knows？ The day might arrive soon； perhaps tomorrow！ that bright day when an idea for a painting would e to him that was so powerful； so tremendous in scope and conception； that his paint…loaded brush could no longer be withheld from the canvas！ He would strike at last； and a pictorial masterpiece would be born； delivered； created； a painting that would live forever in the hearts of men！
All through life we protect ourselves from countless hurtful truths by being a little blind here…by ignoring the something trying to flag our attention on the outer edges of our peripheral vision； by being a little shortsighted there…by being a trifle too quick to accept the easiest answer； and by squinting our eyes against the bright； ining light all of the time。 Emerson wrote once that even a corpse is beautiful if you shine enough light on it。
But that is horseshit。
Too much light means unbearable truth； and too much truthful light sears a man's eyes into an unraging blindness。 The blind man can only smell the crap of his life； and the sounds in his ears are cacophonous corruptions。 Without vision； the terrible beauty of life is irrevocably gone。 Gone！
And as I thought of all Debierue's lost visions； never to appear on canvas for the exhilaration of my eyes； scalding tears ran down my cheeks。
PART THREE
IF ANYTHING WAS PREHENSIBLE；
IT WOULD BE INMUNICABLE
1
I took my time。
What I had to do had to be done right or not at all。 Once I mitted； although my concern for Berenice （frightened and waiting for me in the tall grass by the highway） did not diminish； it would have been foolhardy to rush。 I might have overlooked something important。
I looked in the kitchen for string and wrapping paper； but there was neither。 There was newspaper； but it would have been awkward to wrap a canvas in newspaper when there was no string to tie the bundle。 There were several large brown paper grocery sacks under the sink； and I took one of these back to the studio to hold the art materials I would need。 I took a clean sheet from the hall linen closet and wrapped one of the new canvases from the plastic rack in it。 I then filled the brown sack with several camel's…hair brushes； a can of turpentine； one of linseed oil； and a halfdozen tubes of oil paint。 With cadmium red； chrome yellow； Prussian blue； and zinc white I can mix almost any shade or tint of color I desire （this much I had learned in my first oil painting course because the tyrannical teacher had made us learn how to mix primary colors if he taught us nothing else）。 I added tubes of burnt sienna and lampblack to the others because they were useful for skin tones （there were no positional ideas in mind at the time； just nebulous multicolored swirls floating loosely about in my head） if some figures became involved in the position。 The palette knife was also useful and I dropped it into the sack； but I didn't take the expensive palette。 It was too expensive and could be traced； and I wouldn't want to be caught with it in my possession。
These art materials could be purchased anywhere； of course； as could the prepared 30〃 x 24〃 canvas； but I needed Debierue's materials in the event the authenticity of the painting was ever questioned。 Mr。 Cassidy； who had purchased everything for Debierue； would have a bill from the art store listing these materials； their brands； and so would Rex Art。 My mind was racing； but I was clearheaded enough to realize how close a scrutiny the painting would receive when and if it were ever painted and exhibited。
I put the wrapped canvas； the sackful of supplies； and the hammer and tire iron into the trunk of the car； and returned to the studio。
I ran into trouble with the fire。 Turpentine is flammable； highly flamma