Part 12 (1/2)

The following spring, Harold Rosenberg recommended Elaine de Kooning for a short course on painting at the museum. ”The E. de Kooning idea sounds fine and I will put it to the board,” Don wrote back. ”I'd like, though, to have an alternative, a man, to propose-somebody who's both a good painter and a good teacher. So, who?” Don's preference for a man indicates his att.i.tude, common in the art world at the time, that women weren't to be taken seriously as painters.

In any case, Elaine de Kooning arrived in June for a two-week course. ”Congenial and a good teacher, she became friends with Don and with the artists active in musuem affairs,” Helen wrote-a notable understatement, given others' accounts of Elaine's energy and personality. ”Elaine was vivacious: she loved a party and craved attention,” say Willem de Kooning's biographers. She was in ”perpetual motion.”

By 1962, Elaine was a serious alcoholic, desperate for money. At the Cedar Tavern in Manhattan, where the Abstract Expressionists boozed away their nights, she had experienced firsthand the art world's indifference to female painters, and she had learned that the only way to overcome it was to act as manly as the men. She could outdrink and outtalk most of the guys, and she took as many lovers as they did, among them Harold Rosenberg and-less casually-Thomas Hess.

Though she and Willem never divorced, she had separated from him in the 1940s. In the late fifties, she began to travel the country as an itinerant teacher, doing stints at Pratt Inst.i.tute and Parsons School of Design, and at universities in New Mexico and California. Everywhere she went, she ”partied hard with...students and faculty,” according to Stevens and Swan. Though she ”sometimes looked like a boorish drunk who spilled drinks and scattered cigarette ashes...she usually had a marvelous sparkle around her. She seemed to enlarge life.” She was also an excellent mentor, and she knew her Kierkegaard (she used to read him aloud to Willem as he painted). She and Don hit it off right away. To promote her course, Don created a broadside, ”Elaine de Kooning Paints a Picture,” with a photo of Elaine at work.

”I love Texans,” Elaine said later. ”They just do everything in a natural and big way. An easy way. They drink big and drive fast in big cars. I think it has to do with all of that s.p.a.ce, and all of that frontier energy that's still there. In Texas, everything is possible. And Texans are open to new ideas and to art. New things just make sense to Texans.”

When The New Yorker The New Yorker published such trite generalizations, Don couldn't abide them. Coming from Elaine's mouth, they were charming. published such trite generalizations, Don couldn't abide them. Coming from Elaine's mouth, they were charming.

In 1961, Jorge Luis Borges shared the International Publishers Prize with Samuel Beckett, Joseph h.e.l.ler's Catch-22 Catch-22 was published, and Stanley Kramer released was published, and Stanley Kramer released Judgment at Nuremberg Judgment at Nuremberg. Early in 1962, Nabokov's Pale Fire Pale Fire emerged, Albee's emerged, Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? was produced on Broadway, and Andy Warhol did the first of his Marilyn Monroe portraits. The world seemed edgy and at risk-the Berlin Wall had just gone up, and Cuba was a tinderbox-but the arts were dizzy with energy ( was produced on Broadway, and Andy Warhol did the first of his Marilyn Monroe portraits. The world seemed edgy and at risk-the Berlin Wall had just gone up, and Cuba was a tinderbox-but the arts were dizzy with energy (fueled, perhaps, by planetary anxieties). In the ”wild wastes” of Houston, far from the creative pivot of New York, Don felt he was missing out.

On his visit to Houston, Harold Rosenberg had mentioned that he and Thomas Hess were thinking of starting a literary/arts journal in New York, with funding from the Longview Foundation, a philanthropic organization based in New Orleans. Rosenberg and Hess served on Longview's board. In her memoir, Helen said that it was not until the summer and fall of 1962 that Rosenberg began to court Don to be the journal's managing editor, but a letter from Don, dated March 28, 1962, indicates that the discussion was well advanced before Helen knew about it. He told Rosenberg, ”In regard to working on the Longview magazine, there ain't anything I'd rather do. It would take I think around $9000 for us to live in N. Y.-which may be more than the foundation would want to pay. Let me know what you think. We can be packed in about 30 minutes.”

Despite its debts, Helen's ad agency had expanded. Her sister Odell Pauline Moore came aboard to handle the books, leaving Helen more time to write copy and attend to the creative side of the business. Helen leased s.p.a.ce in a building Pat Goeters owned near the Museum of Fine Arts. Don's brother Pete joined the firm as a writer. Pete had married a woman he'd known since elementary school, and her father's medical offices were across the street from Helen's company. Daily, Don was reminded how rooted he was among family, friends, and Houston's upper-middle-cla.s.s community.

Helen worked hard to establish herself; Don had earned a position that provided him plenty of aesthetic challenges. It was an awkward time to suggest a risky change.

Sister Mary Antoinette, the president of Dominican College, liked Helen, and she had noticed Don's success at the Contemporary Arts Museum. She asked Helen if Don would consider becoming the college's development director. Helen pa.s.sed along the idea. The job didn't interest him, but an offer from the college would give him a bargaining chip with the Contemporary Arts a.s.sociation. He stipulated a hefty salary, with mornings free to write. To his surprise, Sister Antoinette agreed to his terms. Still waiting to hear from Rosenberg, Don told the college he couldn't make a decision until the fall.

In the meantime, Sister Antoinette urged Don and Helen to attend a meeting of the American College Public Relations a.s.sociation at the Greenbrier Resort in West Virginia. This would give them a chance to talk to development personnel from other schools around the country. Don could imagine nothing duller, but Helen was eager to go, and if Dominican College paid for part of the trip, it would be possible to take a train to New York without too much additional expense.

In late July, Don and Helen flew to White Sulphur Springs. The resort was expansive and spectacular, overlooking the Allegheny Mountains. The baroque interiors were dark and warm. Croquet lawns, golf courses, trout streams, and spas ringed the buildings. One wing of the resort was closed for remodeling; unbeknownst to the guests, the U.S. government was preparing it to be a secret bunker for Congress in the event of nuclear war.

Don rented a typewriter and spent his mornings working on ”Florence Green Is 81” (he mentions the resort in the story). Each day, Helen attended sessions on university development. Don skipped them. She ”found his absence disquieting.” People kept asking her where her husband was. She didn't know what to tell them.

The tension between Don and Helen mounted, a week later, when they went to Manhattan. Helen didn't like New York any better now than she had the first time. Rosenberg had invited them to his flat in a brownstone on East Tenth Street. It was his office and a temporary residence whenever he came into the city (he and his wife, May, shared a house on Long Island). On the appointed afternoon, Don and Helen arrived early and waited on the steps. Soon, Rosenberg came limping up the walk. ”How good you look against a New York background,” he said as he greeted Helen.

The apartment ”was not inviting; it was dark, almost oppressive,” Helen recalled. She tried to ”imagine living there” but couldn't. Artwork cluttered the rooms. Paintings were ”stacked on the table, in chairs, and leaning against the walls.” Hastily, Rosenberg straightened the covers on his Murphy bed, then mixed them all drinks. He mentioned the magazine. ”He wanted my a.s.surance that moving to New York was what I wanted to do...and then he added that as soon as plans were more concrete he would contact Don,” Helen said. ”Although he was restrained in showing how he felt, Don was elated.”

That evening, Elaine de Kooning invited the couple to visit her loft on Broadway, near Union Square. It was up a long flight of stairs. Her painting studio occupied the front of the loft; at the other end, she'd arranged a kitchen, a bed, and a serving bar. Magazine clippings plastered the walls. Elaine loved to tell the story of how, walking home late one night, she had been attacked by a mugger outside her door. When he pulled a knife, she invited him upstairs for coffee. After that, they became fast friends.

”Elaine was cheerful and generous, but I found her a little intense,” Helen admitted later. Elaine asked a number of acquaintances to drop by and meet Helen and Don, ”including several younger artists who seemed to be around most of the time.” Elaine showed off her latest paintings, large portraits of people without faces. ”I found [them] strange,” Helen wrote. ”They were not abstract; details of the figures were realistic so that the blank faces made them resemble unfinished paintings.”

At this point, Helen could feel Don pulling away from her, excited by the promise of New York, a place that seemed to her dirty, odd-anything but inviting. She feared losing her own ident.i.ty. In her memoir, she said: Uncertain of our future, we returned to Houston. During the weeks of August and early September, Don discussed both the CAA and Dominican College with his parents, and they both urged him to accept the position with the college...he did not discuss New York as a real option. He did not mention it to Pat Goeters or anyone else at the museum. Don faced difficult choices; he was happy at the museum, and I did not believe that he could be satisfied in college development. There was no doubt that he was considering the appointment only because it put him in a negotiating position with the CAA.

Don kept secret his longing for New York because it meant leaving his family, leaving his friends, and committing to a literary life, when all he had to show were four stories in obscure journals-stories, he felt sure, his comrades would not appreciate.

It's possible that he recontacted Spencer Bayles-the psychiatrist he'd once seen-to hash out his feelings. At some point, Bayles told him ”it was time to get out of town.”

Don did did tell Pat Goeters about the Dominican College offer. Goeters was chair of the CAA board, and he discussed the situation with the other members. Funding was tight, and the board was reluctant to match the college's offer, but Goeters fought hard for his old friend. The board conceded to a pay hike and agreed to let Don keep his mornings free for writing. tell Pat Goeters about the Dominican College offer. Goeters was chair of the CAA board, and he discussed the situation with the other members. Funding was tight, and the board was reluctant to match the college's offer, but Goeters fought hard for his old friend. The board conceded to a pay hike and agreed to let Don keep his mornings free for writing.

Right away, Rosenberg called. He offered Don the position of managing editors.h.i.+p of Location Location magazine. ”I'll need you in New York by the first of October,” he said. ”Don accepted with almost no hesitation,” Helen recalled. ”This meant that we had a very short time in which to radically alter our lives.” magazine. ”I'll need you in New York by the first of October,” he said. ”Don accepted with almost no hesitation,” Helen recalled. ”This meant that we had a very short time in which to radically alter our lives.”

Goeters was furious. He thought Don had played him for a fool, threatening to jump to the Dominicans, when all along he meant to go to New York. Ironically, Goeters's wife, Georgia, had recently organized a panel discussion at the museum ”with about seven prominent creative types-painter, musician, playwright, etc.-t.i.tled 'Why Creative People Leave Houston.' ” One by one, as individual board members learned of Don's decision, they boiled.

Don's family accepted the news warily-except for Don's dad, who didn't accept it at all. He said that Don was making a major blunder in not taking the college job, and he lectured his son on financial responsibility. Helen didn't lecture, but she realized with horror that they couldn't afford to move. ”I don't believe [Don] ever understood the seriousness of our financial plight,” she said later. Whenever she voiced her fears, he brushed them off. ”We'll take care of it,” he'd say.

She saw no way to ”take care of it.” Further, she was ”uneasy about walking away from [her] responsibilities...at the advertising agency,” especially now that she'd involved her sister in the business. ”I would be walking away from a company that was in debt almost exclusively from my excessive withdrawals,” she wrote in her memoir.

Finally, she suggested to Don that he go on to New York. She'd stay in Houston for a few months to try to stabilize the agency. Don didn't like the plan, but he was persuaded of its wisdom.

One Sunday, toward the end of September, he and Helen drove to Galveston to say good-bye to Don's grandmother, Mamie. They took her to lunch at John's Seafood Restaurant, at the edge of the causeway to the mainland. Don was uncomfortable and ate little. Mamie told the couple they were making a mistake. It was a terrible idea to live apart, even for a short while, she said. She had never been separated from her husband, Bart, except for the week he'd gone to Mexico to look for Don and Pat Goeters.

George Christian was the only person in town who expressed honest sympathy for Don. He still worked as an amus.e.m.e.nts editor at the Post; Post; he knew that, culturally, Houston couldn't hold a candle to New York, and he understood how much Don needed to write. he knew that, culturally, Houston couldn't hold a candle to New York, and he understood how much Don needed to write.

One day, Helen drove Don to Cypress, a community northwest of Houston, so he could say good-bye to her sister Margo Vandruff and Margo's husband. Margo and Roy lived in a modernist home designed by Pat Goeters. On the grounds outside the house, Don turned to Helen and asked her if she wanted to ”stay [in Houston] and build a home like this.” Helen would have liked nothing better, but she knew how devastated Don would be if she told him the truth. She said she was sure about leaving.

Helen made plans to live with her mother until she could join Don in Manhattan. The couple stored most of their possessions in the attic of the Harold Street house, then sublet the place to Don's brother Pete and his wife, Lillian.

In his last few days at the museum, Don arranged a new show, ”Ways and Means,” featuring recent work by John Chamberlain, James Weeks, and Frank Stella. He prepared the museum's annual report. He stuck to his schedule and didn't allow the board's anger to deter him from wrapping up his business.

Despite his note to Herman Gollob, in which he disparaged his duties, Helen has expressed the belief that the museum was a ”rich” experience for Don. ”When he recalled his work [there] a few years later, it was with a touching sense of loss,” she wrote in her memoir. ”He called it 'the best job' he had ever had.” Marion Barthelme agrees. ”I know Don thought that working as the CAM director was one of the happiest periods of his life,” she says. Helen has gone so far as to say, ”I don't think he felt as good about himself and his work again until he returned to the University of Houston to teach in the 1980s.”

A few days before Don left Houston, Pat and Bill Colville, CAA board members, gave him a going-away party. His friends were civil, congratulatory, full of good wishes. Still, the occasion was stiff. Don had always ”compartmentalize[d] the people he knew,” Helen wrote. ”I don't think it occurred to him to include George and Mary [Christian] or other...newspaper friends in the social life of the art community.”

He was scheduled to fly out of Houston's Munic.i.p.al Airport on a Sunday afternoon. Beforehand, he and Helen lunched with his parents. His mother spoke enthusiastically about Don's opportunities in New York and the exciting things he would see. Even his father seemed sanguine. He wished Don well. But then, as the meal came to an end, he turned to his son and said, ”Be prepared for failure.”

The remark stunned Helen. Don, she recalled, ”did not appear to be disheartened...nothing could dampen [his] high spirits.” He was leaving a real, provincial museum for what Andre Malraux had called the ”imaginary museum” of the age-painting, music, literature, and the arts.

Donald Barthelme, the writer, was about to emerge. Armed, Helen recalled, with an ”extraordinary ability to challenge another person, to oppose someone else's will with his own”-strengths he had acquired from his father-he was on his way to becoming the nation's finest prose stylist, and in the process he would change the shape of the American short story.

PART THREE.

HERE IN THE VILLAGE.

23.

LOCATION.