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    Alexander’s Last Painting
    Alexander’s Last Painting
    Alexander’s Last Painting
    Ebook130 pages1 hour

    Alexander’s Last Painting

    By J. Hayes Hurley

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    About this ebook

    A successful abstract painter now living in an artists’ colony in upstate New York sits down with a short-story writer over a period of three days to discuss his life’s work. During the talks, there emerges a joyful, jazzlike riff recalling the painter’s fifty-year friendship with another abstract artist. The New York City art scene is featured along with tales of heartache and triumph.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLulu Publishing Services
    Release dateFeb 28, 2017
    ISBN9781483465876
    Alexander’s Last Painting
    Author

    J. Hayes Hurley

    J. Hayes Hurley is the author of 69 novels, including Those Brownsville Blues, Dawkins and Daughter, and The Turtle Bay Novels. As well, he holds a Ph.D. in philosophy from Yale University.

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      Book preview

      Alexander’s Last Painting - J. Hayes Hurley

      HURLEY

      Copyright © 2017 J. Hayes Hurley.

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

      This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

      ISBN: 978-1-4834-6588-3 (sc)

      ISBN: 978-1-4834-6587-6 (e)

      Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

      Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

      Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

      Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 02/21/2017

      CONTENTS

      Alexander’s Last Painting

      Part 1

      Part 2

      Part 3

      ALEXANDER’S LAST PAINTING

      A novel by

      J. Hayes Hurley

      1

      Funny how we met.

      Funny.

      You told me your name was Alexander.

      And you told me your name was Paris.

      We both laughed knowing that Alexander, or Paris, the brother of Hector, had to judge who was the most beautiful goddess, Athena, Hera, or Aphrodite.

      Ranking them according to how he valued their bribes. Much like what goes on in world of high art.

      And like most men, he let himself be led by his dick. And that started a war.

      So it did. But speaking of three goddesses, it sounds a lot like the history of my love life.

      I am sure you had your share both quantitatively and qualitatively.

      I will not deny it. Though in any case, beauty applies only to goddesses, Paris. It has no relation to art.

      Most people think it does.

      They are wrong. Beauty is an idea cherished only by philosophers and Philistines; those people who wouldn’t know good paintings if they fell off the wall and onto their heads.

      If I have come here to your studio insisting that there was such a relationship, and knowing all the counter-arguments as well, have I exposed myself as being philosophical Philistine?

      You are not stupid, Paris. Just ... ignorant.

      I’ll take that as a compliment. And from now on I will speak of good art instead of beautiful art.

      That works.

      ‘Entailing that some of your paintings work, and so are good; some of your paintings do not work, and so are ... flawed.

      That is what painters say to me. They come, the look, they judge. They keep it short.

      I never keep anything short, Alexander. I am a writer.

      But a short story writer.

      That has never stopped me. In any case, beauty is a vision emanating from the good, is it not?

      If you say so. For I have no idea what you are saying.

      I do say so.

      You use abstract words that fly right out of my studio and then off into the beyond. While my paintings, called abstract by those in the commercial art world, are concrete ... they stay put in space and time. So this word ‘abstract’ is being applied only as a homonym.

      You are showing off, Alexander.

      I exude confidence.

      I deal in irony.

      Paris? Let us agree, at least on the polite surface, that this is not going to be a contest to see which of us is the smartest, or the most erudite, or the most accomplished. Though I would take my chances in a duel with you.

      And I with you. The problem with that is we would choose different weapons and turn our contest into a farce.

      I would be stabbing you with a wet paintbrush and you would be drowning me in words.

      So let us choose not to take up weapons.

      Let us tread carefully ... but only upon this oh-so-real earth.

      I will walk on eggshells while on this earth so long as you keep the Scotch flowing without my asking.

      No problem there. I do not like to be rushed.

      I will not rush you.

      I do not like to answer prepared questionnaires.

      I will not even take notes.

      I even hate the idea of being interviewed. We are and have been until now distant friends. We are getting to know one another better here in my studio. Can we keep on that congenial level for now?

      We can. We will take our time. We will take our time and ... eventually ... we will get to what matters.

      What matters?

      Three things. You, your studio, and your paintings.

      Like with goddesses; you deal in trilogies.

      I do. Once more, and in truth I am not ready for your paintings as yet. That is why I place them last. I may never be ready for your paintings. Moreover, I do not know where to cast my eyes in your studio. And as for you ... I will take my clues from you as to how we get to know one another better and grow our friendship.

      First thing then, Paris. I will do most of the talking.

      Well ... that may be true at the beginning ... but I warn you.

      You mean because you are a storyteller.

      Yes. I tell stories impulsively.

      I paint. You write. Got it.

      So we have no choice but to proceed by indirection.

      This, too, sounds too calculated.

      Do not be fooled: I value imagination over fact.

      And I value art over imagination.

      And I come bearing one dictum. I must get it out up front.

      Do.

      The painter paints, the critic evaluates the painting according to his adopted theory of aesthetics, and the philosophical Philistine supplies the theory of aesthetics to the critic. Thus I need to thrust a theory of aesthetics upon you, Alexander, while allowing you to collapse the roles of painter and critic of your own paintings into one.

      I ruled out beauty ... you come back with aesthetics.

      Touché. Yet I insist. I do not know how to paint. I am not a critic of paintings. I must cling to theory first.

      If a theory of art, or beauty, or aesthetics, was like a coat, would it fit upon the shoulders of every painter?

      That is something I want to test.

      Then go ahead and give it a try. But tell me this: when you get through with this theory of art will you then insist upon introducing a theory about my studio? Will you insist upon introducing a theory about me following that?

      I do not have to take the hand of a philosopher to comment on your studio or to deepen my friendship with you. I have a poetic nature as well.

      What is your first impression of my studio?

      I am struck by its size and by its neatness.

      I consider myself organized, not neat. As for size ... let me suggest that, when we get around to it, you ought distinguish between the space wherein my paintings hang and the space within my paintings?

      I know a good deal about space, Alexander. Have no worries there.

      And me?

      Theory first, my friend.

      But how will this theory, whatever it is and however it fits my paintings, or not, have anything to do with me as a man? My art and my life are so very different.

      Ah, they all say that. Wasn’t it Robert Frost said ... trust my work and not me?

      He put it well. Trust me at work in my studio, not outside it.

      Come, come, my friend. You are well loved outside of this studio. Don’t make a fetish out of your sins by hiding your virtues. And by analogy ... just as some of your paintings are called good and some are called flawed, so sometimes you are a loving father and sometimes you are a sinner.

      Yet I insist: my art is continuous, while my life has been interrupted.

      I can assign metaphors there. We can talk about two lines of you ... one unbroken and one broken.

      I suppose is true that I am loved and was a good father. Yet I have opened gaps in my journey through life.

      Thus the broken line.

      So there are two Alexanders?

      There may be a third.

      A third line of me making its way between my broken line and my unbroken line? How is that?

      A line that is never broken and yet has broken.

      That is paradoxical.

      That is the best part of it. This third line, like language that is not in the world and not in our minds, or like numbers, that are not in this world and not in the line ... may be your deepest symbol of hope. But we will take that up ahead. For now, and starting with the unbroken line of your painting, you told me long ago that you have been painting every day for sixty years.

      Longer than that if you include my very early childhood.

      Congratulations. Your story just got longer.

      You are the one who deals in stories, Paris. But I will be sure to disappoint you there. My life is a story without a plot.

      "The sum total of your acts in your one life will stand in for your plot.

      Only if you consider my quiet blunders to be picaresque episodes in some unlikely adventure tale.

      Are they?

      Sorry to disappoint you. I am no Don Quixote.

      Nor are you Helen Keller. And what a story her life made! So, leave worries about the story of your life to me.

      I will so long as I can insert a caveat here.

      Feel free.

      "Like a cat, I cannot be herded ... not even in theory. So I will listen

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