want to ask Mr. Vermillion is if an artist shouldn't create her own symbols of universal emotions? Isn't that what modern art really is? Shouldn't we modern artists get back to the primitive, like Klee and Kandinsky, but in terms of the abstract of course?"
Vermillion took his hand from Lucy's belly and held it up to stop Ilona. Like a traffic cop, Lucy thought.
"Artists don't create symbols—they recognize them and then give them personal form. Otherwise the symbol would have meaning only to the artist who contrived it."
He drank the last of the Calvados.
The group semicircled the couch which was its diameter, livening only a corner of the large studio being cleared by silent waiters of evidences of a party. The group had listened as if to a monologue, each seeking out words personal to himself or herself. It was as if Vermillion was talking to himself, and to Vida the timbre and rhythm of his low even voice intoned a love poem to be heard without interruption from beginning to end. Only, she thought, it never came to an end, he went on replenishing himself, and herself, a divining-plumb bob dropping true to her innermost heart.
"Good God, what a bore! He wrecked Figente's party too," Tessie moaned to Biggens' man Klug.
"I guess Clem asked him because he knew him in Paris," Semy disclaimed responsibility, though he admired the painter's easy flow of ideas and wondered how he could find out what books they were in. It was wonderful how easy it had proved to work a switch not to have to go back to Congress. Butter people up and you could slide anywhere you wanted to go—even into Tessie Soler's bed. Here he was on his way to the top, giving a party with guests who were friends of that snotty Figente.
Clem was enjoying his party too except for the way Lucy and Vermillion acted. Even though the guests had come for Lucy maybe it was the beginning of having a nice group of friends that were hers too, and she would come often. That Vermillion though—sure was a ladies' man. Look at Vida drinking in everything he says. It was not too easy to follow Vermillion's meaning—he even stumped Semy with his gift of gab. Sometimes he seemed to be for you, sometimes against. Anyway it was good that he lit into the composer of that phony music. Accepting stuff like that was like the awe everyone had for Picasso, Matisse and company.
"Seems to me you think you're the only one who knows what art is," Vent muttered belligerently.
