“I suppose he's making lots of money.”
“I suppose so.” That was a subject Lanny did not discuss, so the conversation' lagged.
But then Lanny recalled the Salon des Indèpendants, and said he had been there. “Are they spoofing, or aren't they?” he asked.
“No doubt many of them are,” said Uncle Jesse. “Poor devils, they have to get something to eat, and what do critics or buyers know about original work?”
Lanny had picked up ideas concerning the graphic arts, as well as all the others. Many painters lived along the Céte d'Azur and reproduced its charms; a few were famous, and now and then someone would persuade Beauty that it was a cultural action to invite one to a tea party, or perhaps be taken to his studio to inspect his work. Now and then she would “fall for” something that was especially praised, and these hung as showpieces in the home. The most regarded was a blazing sunrise painted by a certain van Gogh, who had lived at Aries, which you passed when you motored to Paris; in fact he had gone crazy there and had cut off one of his ears. Also there was a pond covered with shining water lilies by Monet. These canvases were becoming so valuable that Beauty was talking about having them insured, but it cost so much that she kept putting it off.
VII
There was, of course, a limit to the amount of time that a specialist in the art of painting cared to devote to exchanging ideas with a youngster; so presently the conversation lagged again. Uncle Jesse watched the bees and the hummingbirds in the flowers, and then his eyes happened to fall upon Lanny's book, which had been laid back up on the grass. “What are you reading?” he inquired.
Lanny handed him the volume, and he smiled one of those twisted smiles. “It was a best-seller many years ago.”
“Have you read it?” inquired the boy.
“It's tripe,” replied Uncle Jesse.