not saying my perception is superior—but that that psychoanalyst had no understanding of man as an artist because he attempted to explain with a scientific formula the creative process. It never seemed to occur to him that perhaps Leonardo could not be explained except by Leonardo in his work. That is to say, you might know all the facts about Leonardo and yet, adding this up, get nothing, as this psychoanalyst did."
"You mean you don't accept psychoanalysis! Oh, but it explains human behavior—corrects its aberrations, divagations—its healing—"
"Certainly I accept it—it's like asking whether I accept the rain—but I don't accept it as a know-all touchstone, and especially as a guide in painting. I believe I can learn more about human behavior from any creative artist than from the good doctors, that's all. And I don't want my aberrations, divagations, corrected—without them I am not myself as a painter. The human being doesn't exist who can't think up some alibi for his behavior—but if you're not a complete imbecile you know what you are doing. I simply do not believe that the human personality can be split up into a honeycomb of pigeonholes. In fact, how do I know whether what the Viennese doctors tell me isn't one long alibi for themselves? Another thing—they're so lacking in humor."
"But—"
"No—don't tell me—I know the explanation for humor—spare me! I like this green world. I know an apple can become rotten, but in the meantime I like apples that are bursting with the juice of life and I'm not going to stop eating apples because I know they can become rotten. Nor am I going to spend my life painting rotten apples. I won't accept dark findings as answers to light."
"Your approach to psychoanalysis is hopelessly unscientific—nevertheless, it's all of a piece, your, shall we say, youthful contrariness—reversing the trend. You are going West, young man, when everyone else is going to Paris. Did you bring back any canvases?"
"Sure. For sentimental reasons, and to remind me of my mistakes."
"I'd like to see them."
"Maybe sometime. By the way, I brought you this."
A rustle of paper.
"It is good," Figente admired. "How is she?"
"I don't know."
My goodness, Lucy thought, Figente has forgotten all about me
