My Name Is Asher Lev (24 page)

I spent late Thursday afternoon in the library, looking at a color reproduction of Michelangelo’s
David.
The next Sunday afternoon, I came out of my school and walked to the subway and journeyed again to Jacob Kahn.

    A week after Passover, my father cabled us from Vienna. He was well; a letter would follow.

The letter came a few days later. It was written in Yiddish. He hoped we were well and had had a good Pesach. He had had an unusual and very satisfying Pesach. He missed us and looked forward to being with us and with the Rebbe after the summer. Did my mother think she might possibly be able to come to Vienna for July and August?

Early in June, Jacob Kahn flew to London and was away for five days. He and the artist whose retrospective he had gone to see had been close friends for five decades. He told me when he returned that the artist had barely managed to escape from Prague in the late thirties after discovering that his name was on a Gestapo list for arrest and execution without trial. His art was considered degenerate.

“Art is a danger to some people,” he said. “Picasso used to say art is subversive.”

Did he enjoy the retrospective? I asked.

“I did not go to enjoy it. His art is not enjoyable. He is not Matisse. But he is a great artist and the retrospective did him full justice.”

Had the artist been happy? I asked.

No, the artist had not been happy. He had been tormented over what to do next. What kind of silly question had I asked? Had I ever known of a great artist who was happy?

“Rubens,” I said.

He stared gloomily out the tall windows of the studio. Perhaps, he said. Anything was possible with the Baroque.

In the last week of June, my mother left by ship for Le Havre and I moved into my Uncle Yitzchok’s house.

Jacob Kahn told me he often spent his summers in Province-town. But he had sculptures to complete. So he would be in New York all that summer. I spent the month of July traveling back and forth by subway between my Uncle Yitzchok’s house and Jacob Kahn’s studio. I traveled there two or three times a week. I had my mother’s permission to go to Jacob Kahn as often as he would want to see me; I needed only to tell my uncle or aunt that I was going and when I expected to be back.

It was a stifling month, oppressive with humid heat that remained through the nights. The asphalt of the streets softened in the heat. Subway ceiling fans blew the heat through the trains. I walked the streets drenched in sweat; I rode the subway drenched in sweat; I drew and painted drenched in sweat. I watched Jacob Kahn work stripped to the waist on a block of marble. I began painting stripped to the waist. My Uncle Yitzchok walked into my room one evening and found me painting stripped to the waist and let me know he thought it indecent to be dressed like that. He had a responsibility to my parents; I was to cover my body and wear my ritual fringes. I painted and drew in the house wearing an undershirt and my ritual fringes. In Jacob Kahn’s studio, I painted stripped to the waist.

He said to me one day in the second week of July, “Asher Lev, there are two ways of painting the world. In the whole history of art, there are only these two ways. One is the way of Greece and Africa, which sees the world as a geometric design. The other is the way of Persia and India and China, which sees the world as a flower. Ingres, Cézanne, Picasso paint the world as geometry. Van Gogh, Renoir, Kandinsky, Chagall paint the world as a flower. I am a geometrician. I sculpt cylinders,
cubes, triangles, and cones. The world is structure, and structure to me is geometry. I sculpt geometry. I see the world as hard-edged, filled with lines and angles. And I see it as wild and raging and hideous, and only occasionally beautiful. The world fills me with disgust more often than it fills me with joy. Are you listening to me, Asher Lev? The world is a terrible place. I do not sculpt and paint to make the world sacred. I sculpt and paint to give permanence to my feelings about how terrible this world truly is. Nothing is real to me except my own feelings; nothing is true except my own feelings as I see them all around me in my sculptures and paintings. I know these feelings are true, because if they were not true they would make art that is as terrible as the world. You do not understand me yet, Asher Lev. My little Hasid. My sanctifier of the world. My half-naked painter with dangling payos and a paint-smeared skullcap. One day you will understand about the truth of feelings.”

He said to me two days later, “What are you painting?”

I said, “A classmate.”

“Do you hate him?”

I was quiet.

“You hate him and are afraid to paint your hatred. Yes?”

I did not say anything.

“It is a false painting. It reeks of cowardice and indecision. In art, cowardice and indecision can be seen in every stroke of a brush. If you hate him, paint your hatred or do not paint him at all. One must not paint everything one feels. But once you decide to paint something, you must paint the truth or you will paint green rot. This boy in your class—he mistreats you?”

I nodded.

“He is mean to you? He laughs at you?”

I nodded.

“These marks on his face—they are pimples?”

I nodded.

“And you hate him?”

I nodded.

“Then paint him the way you feel about him. Use your lines and colors and shapes to make your statement simply and clearly. Do you understand?”

He came over to me later and peered at the canvas. He nodded slowly. “It is an excellent painting.” He looked at me soberly. “I would not like to be hated by you, Asher Lev.”

He said to me the next day, “Have you heard from your parents?”

I told him that I had received a letter that morning from my mother. They were well. My father was very busy. My mother was able to help him from time to time in his work. They missed me and sent me their love.

“What work does your mother help your father with?”

“Work.”

“What work?”

“It has to do with Russian Jews,” I said.

He regarded me out of suddenly narrowed eyes.

“My father has connections with Jews in Russia. My mother is getting her doctorate in Russian affairs. She helps him in some way. I don’t know how.”

He was quiet. His tall powerful half-naked body seemed strangely rigid. Then he said very softly, “Your parents are good people. Your father is a brave man. Finish your work, Asher Lev. It is almost time for you to go home.”

The following week, the third week of July, we went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We walked through centuries of Byzantine and Western crucifixions. He showed me the development of structure and form and expression, and the handling of pictorial space. I saw crucifixions all the way home and dreamed of crucifixions all through the night.

I told him the next day that I did not think I wanted to see any more crucifixions. He became angry.

“Asher Lev, you want to go off into a corner somewhere and
paint little rabbis in long beards? Then go away and do not waste my time. Go paint your little rabbis. No one will pay attention to you. I am not telling you to paint crucifixions. I am telling you that you must understand what a crucifixion is in art if you want to be a great artist. The crucifixion must be available to you as a form. Do you understand? No, I see you do not understand. In any case, we will see more crucifixions and more resurrections and more nativities and more Greek and Roman gods and more scenes of war and love—because that is the world of art, Asher Lev. And we will see more naked women, and you will learn the reason for the differences between the naked women of Titian and those of Rubens. This is the world you want to make sacred. You had better learn it well first before you begin.”

We went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art every day that week. People stared at us as we walked through the vast galleries—a tall white-haired mustached man explaining crucifixions and nudes to a short white-faced red-haired boy with dangling earlocks and a skullcap.

He insisted that I come to him early Sunday morning in the fourth week of July. I came out of my Uncle Yitzchok’s house a few minutes after eight o’clock. The air was warm and humid. A hazy sun shone through the trees. The city seemed deserted. I waited a long time for a subway. I got to Jacob Kahn’s studio a little before ten o’clock. He opened the door, and I saw a girl standing in the sunlight that came through the wall of windows. She looked to be in her early twenties, had short raven hair and dark eyes, and was beautiful in a dark and somber way. She wore a brightly colored summer dress and she regarded me curiously as I came into the studio.

Jacob Kahn led me to a far corner.

“I have asked the girl to pose for you today,” he said.

I looked at him.

“She is an excellent model and you will draw her in the nude.”

I felt myself beginning to sweat heavily and did not know what to say.

“I want you to see the contours and the rhythms with your own eyes. It is not enough to copy Titian and Ingres and Renoir.”

I did not say anything. I was trembling inside. I felt a choking heaviness in my throat and chest.

“Asher Lev, listen to me.” He was talking gently but with tense insistence. “The human body is a glory of structure and form. When an artist draws or paints or sculpts it, he is a battleground between intelligence and emotion, between his rational side and his sensual side. You do understand that. Yes. I see you do. The manner in which certain artists have resolved that battle has created some of the greatest masterpieces of art. You must learn to understand this battle.”

I looked over at the girl. She was gazing out the tall windows at the rooftops and the wide line of river beyond.

“Asher Lev, the Rebbe told me never to permit you to draw this way. I have chosen to disregard the Rebbe. The nude is a form of art I want you to master. To attempt to achieve greatness in art without mastering this art form is like attempting to be a great Hasidic teacher without knowledge of the Kabbalah.”

I did not say anything. The girl’s face was luminous in the sunlight. I thought of Vermeer. There was a long heavy silence.

“I will send her away,” Jacob Kahn said finally.

“I’ll try,” I said.

He gazed at me intently. “I do not want to hurt you, Asher Lev.”

“I’ll try,” I said again, feeling the choking tightness in my throat.

“Very well,” he said. “Come with me.”

I followed him through the studio to the wall of windows. I had a sudden powerful numbing vision of my mythic ancestor. I thought of the Rebbe. I thought of the mashpia. I found myself in front of the windows near the girl, listening to Jacob Kahn.

“You will begin with simple line drawings in charcoal. I want only the flow of the line. I want no chiaroscuro.”

He spoke briefly to the girl. She went behind a screen. I set my pad on an easel. She came out from behind the screen and sat on a chair. Sunlight fell across her face and shoulders and breasts and thighs. She sat with one leg crossed over the other, her head slightly back. I saw the sunlight on her skin. She was very beautiful. I did not even know her name. I saw the flowing curve of the breasts. I saw the line of shoulders and hip and thigh and leg. I drew her carefully. My arm felt nerveless, drained of its strength. I felt sweat in my armpits and along my back. My face dripped sweat. Jacob Kahn stood behind me, watching. I finished the drawing. It was very bad. I felt ashamed. I took a deep breath and moved to a clean sheet of paper and began again. The girl sat very still, bathed in sunlight. I looked at her and worked carefully, translating her body into lines, making choices, each curve, each subtle change in the flow of her flesh, necessitating an interpreting choice of line. I started a third drawing. Jacob Kahn signaled to her. She changed her pose, sitting forward on the chair, her face in her hands, her breasts suddenly pendulous. I drew her that way twice. She changed her pose again, sitting with one leg up on the chair, clasping the leg to herself with her arms, her chin resting on her knee, her thighs open. I drew her that way and then drew her again in two more poses before it was time for lunch. I ate the sandwich my aunt had packed for me. Jacob Kahn and the girl went out for lunch and returned in less than half an hour. I spent all the rest of that day drawing the girl. She left shortly before five o’clock.

Jacob Kahn piled my drawings one on top of the other on a table. He held up the first drawing. Then he held up the last drawing.

“You see?” he said quietly.

I saw.

“And it is only in one day. A great eye learns to see quickly. We will do this again next Sunday. Yes?”

I nodded.

“Do not look so sad, Asher Lev. You are not defiled. You have only made some pictures of a beautiful girl. Beautiful pictures of a beautiful girl. Is that cause for defilement?”

I did not respond.

He looked at me and shook his head. “Perhaps yeshiva boys in payos should not be artists. Go home and take a shower and go to sleep, Asher Lev. You have had a long day.”

I went home in a daze. I ate supper in a daze. I felt drained, suspended; I felt hot and irritated and unclean. I could not sleep. I saw the girl. I saw her body and the flow of her lines. I drew her in the darkness of the room. I drew her with my eyes, letting my eyes move slowly across her. I drew her slowly until there was again the sudden light and I was able to sleep.