Vedder, curious as to whether Figente had acquired anything new from rival dealers, continued his examination of the long rack. "He got most of these when they were still cheap, but he won't let me sell them for him even though they would bring a fortune now. He has a drawerful of drawings and prints, Degas, Daumier, Guys, Delacroix, Forain, Gavami, to say nothing of the moderns. He has old ones too, but he paid plenty for Watteau, Fragonard, and Poussin."
"He's a Francophile, like everyone in New York," Clem said glumly.
"He's got an eye and knows a good thing when he sees it—and is able to pay for it," said Vedder.
"This is rather nice," Semy said cautiously, not wanting to get caught again.
"It's Simone Calvette, the singer—Paul Vermillion did it," Vida said.
Semy raised his eyebrows. "I don't believe I know his work."
Clem laughed. "Yes, you do, that's all of it. He was in Paris when I was. The belief at the D6me was that he only said he was a painter."
"That doesn't sound like Vermillion to me," Vida protested. "Anyhow, don't you agree it's a fine drawing?"
"Sure, but one drawing in years doesn't make you an artist to consider." Clem felt better, thinking of Vermillion's meager output, and, looking again at the Picassos, discovered a clue for his next exhibition. Picasso was right about one thing, one had to change one's style from time to time to attract attention. City streets or industrial architecture could be done in flat bright colors, off perspective. One could be modern and American. Sort of a collage effect, but with paint. Easy too. Or, one could transfer a good sharp factory photograph to a canvas and paint it in flat primary and secondary colors. No modeling. One could do an exhibition a year.
Vedder was examining a square canvas back and front for a signature. "Do you know whose this is?" he asked Vida.
"No, I haven't seen it before. But isn't it beautiful and alive!"
Two pale gold-freckled pears lay, swollen pink cheeks touching, upon their emerald cast shadow. Disarmingly simple in design the few calligraphic strokes were as words in praise of their satiny texture and fullness. There was, too, a classic elegance rarely seen in contemporary painting, though the artist evidently was of the present day.
