The Personal History, Adventures, Experiences & Observations of Peter Leroy

THUS I BECAME a sketch doctor. . . .

     He began pulling sketches from the pile and laying them out for me to examine. These were sketches of one of the girls; to be honest, I wasn’t sure which. If they had been the work of a single artist, they would have chronicled a worsening obsession with elephantiasis. . . .

     “At the next class I put Margot on the stand, seated on a low stool. I aimed a light at her right knee and told them to draw it. From the work in front of you, you can see how things have progressed. There are now classes four nights a week, and a waiting list. [. . .]”

“I ENJOY MY WORK as I never did before,” said Andy. “I don’t mean the painting, though I still do it—it’s a living. And I don’t mean the teaching—that’s just a means to an end. I mean my study of the archetypal images that control our view of the world. . . .

     “Now answer this if you can: What shape is a watermelon?” Almost without thinking, I moved my hands into position to hold a nonexistent watermelon. “Well—” I said. “I mean exactly what shape is a watermelon?” said Andy. . . .

     The top sheet was blank. I turned it aside. I began flipping through the others. On the sheets were figure studies in pencil and charcoal. The drawings seemed to be the work of several hands, but only two models seemed to be represented: Margot and Martha. I saw them there, even though they were distorted in a fascinating variety of ways. 

“I WANT TO TALK TO YOU, PETER,” said Andy, one morning, about a month later. “Come into the studio.” “Okay,” I said, failing to apply any of the practical lessons of literature. I followed him into the studio. He shut the door behind me. He locked it. I began to sweat.     

AN ASIDE, just a short one, on the subject of the practical value of literature. I think that I supposed I had discovered one of the functions of literature: to show us how to behave under unusual circumstances. Since I was still at an age when most circumstances seemed unusual to me, I was grateful for all the help I could get, . . .

     What I recalled seeing was the painting that Andy had been working on for the last month or so, but the view I had gotten was much different from any I’d had before. . . .

“I’M HUNGRY,” said Martha one night. She sat up in bed suddenly, interrupting what I was doing to her. Margot also sat up suddenly, interrupting what I was doing to her, and said, “Me, too.”