"Jack Dann - Art Appreciation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dann Jack)

away with anything in front of me,тАЭ he pointed out quietly, meanwhile trying to
maintain a reserve, a glacial calm. He knew he was safe if he stayed more than six
feet away. тАЬThis is my Blue Period,тАЭ Evans confided in a whisper. To a theoretical
stranger he would appear perfectly insane, he knew, but there were no strangers in
the gallery itself, just Evans and the painting. Oh, how they squealed and kicked in
their dismay. It was a grim thing to see. тАЬI didnтАЩt intend it to be this way,тАЭ Evans
went on, talking to the painting as if it were an actual, a reasonable woman rather than
an assassin. тАЬI had plans, you know, but the economy got tight and now I have to fill
up the days any way I can. YouтАЩre not going to get away with this though, lady.
WeтАЩre going to take measures.тАЭ
In truth, Evans knew this was pure bluff. He had no plans whatsoever.
Shortly, the absence of the eaten would be noted and bureaucracy in its fumbling
way would try to deal with the situation, but there was no way that this could fall
within its lexicon. Detectives might get to the Guggenheim, but how could they
possibly implicate a painting, even one which was priceless? She wore an expression
of utter innocence and had a terrific provenance. Her scheme was not only diabolic,
it appeared foolproof. But, futile as it might be, Evans at least was on the case.
тАЬYouтАЩre going to be stopped,тАЭ he said harshly. тАЬWeтАЩre going to bring this to a
conclusion.тАЭ One of the guards outside moved to the doorway, put a hand on the
sill, leaned, peered in, an uncomfortable moment of glances brushing. Evans
shrugged, shook his head, then stood. There was no point in appearing crazy,
although this museum like millennial New York itself was filled with mumblers. He
would fit right in. Everything fit right in, one way or the other.
It was time to go out on Fifth Avenue and ponder his next moves, anyway.
CouldnтАЩt stay hammered in with La Giaconda all day, not without attracting undue
attention. There was more space out there; he would work something out. Trust not
in Evans to abandon the situation, he thought hopefully. He would do something to
avenge those innocent lives, protect others. Just as soon as he could figure out some
means of approach.
The Yellow Period (he had not called it that then, had merely thought of it as
his life itself) had apparently ended; Evans was vaulted into a new and difficult
circumstance. Once, not so long ago either, Evans thought he had the whole project
worked out, a series of activities (lack of activity, perhaps), which was a process of
real accommodation. You couldnтАЩt be a remittance man all your life, not if you
wanted to lead an active, useful existence in millennial times. You had to get out there
to the mainstream, compete in some way. Furthermore, he had always been
interested in painting, not creation exactly but certainly art appreciation, had felt that
someday he would really pursue it. Take in all the museums, the better galleries,
follow the more important exhibitions; and then when his head was filled with all of
the finest in art, he would register at the School for Visual Arts and try some work of
his own.
Well, why not? Look at what had happened to Pollock, Kandinsky, Van
Gogh, Roualt. Bums all of them, Picasso too and that mystic Chagall, foundered
lives, preposterous choices which to everyoneтАЩs surprise had worked out. Picasso
had derived his first major success by painting whores from his favorite cathouse in
the shape of squares. There were thirty-year-old punks around who had been
striping up subway cars not so long ago, now picking up big money from the
downtown crowd. Evans had at least as much to offer as they did; he knew he had
the talent. It was just a matter of bringing it out.
So the renovated Guggenheim with its imported La Giaconda seemed a good