The Necessity of Poetry
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JOE BRAINARD


I'm sure it occurs to none of the passengers who are jostling around him that a famous artist is in their midst. Joe Brainard might pass for a good-natured professor out of his element. At first the conversation appears stilted - you catch a twinkle of fun behind his glasses, yet his tone seems to permit no contradiction. As he pays his check, a wad of French money protrudes from his wallet. He pulls out a hundred-franc note and holds it up. 'That's the demoded art of twenty years ago; today it could only be appropriate as a filling for sardine tins.' He then pulls out another, this one from Guadeloupe, and hands it around for our inspection (it depicts female nudes under palm trees, very gay and stylized). 'That's a work of art,' he says.

I pursue my point that the esthetic approach in America seems to result largely in the production of postcards. Joe rejoins that the artist who has it in his soul to make postcards will always make postcards. There's a silence, as I feel we've run that one into the ground, and Joe is soon asleep again.

His eyes don't count for much (owing to the thickness of his glasses). His features suggest intense vitality; even when he is dozing, the taut muscles give a look as if he were about to speak, the right hand as if it were about to move. Joe says the trouble with American artists is that as soon as they achieve recognition and make some money, they cut down on their working hours. I assert that I know many painters (which I don't) and that they are all very hard workers. He asks how many hours they work per day. For a quick answer I say 12 hours per day. Joe makes a gesture of disgust - 'That's ridiculous, no one can paint for 12 hours a day.'

We pull into the station with great suddenness and the baggage pandemonium surges quickly around us. After I leave the car and step onto the platform with my suitcase Joe is giving cordial nods of farewell and suggests I call him in the morning (after 1 p.m.). At the same moment he is negotiating with the porter. In my final glance I notice again the look of the good-natured professor.