A Christmas Wedding by Andrew M. Greeley

Author:Andrew M. Greeley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2000-07-27T16:00:00+00:00

NEW YORK CRITIC CALLS

ARTIST’S NUDE WIFE “COARSE”

The show of Chicago nude photographer Charles O’Malley is so bad, according to a prominent New York critic, that it doesn’t even deserve to be called obscene. Calling O’Malley’s wife “commonplace” and “coarse,” the art critic of the New York Herald Tribune said the show was not worth the cost of a ride on a Chicago streetcar—twelve cents.

Years later at a civic dinner I encountered the man who was the editor of the Hearst rag at that time. He was a cordial, charming little Irishman about my height.

“Glad to meet you, Charlie.” He grinned happily. “I’ve always enjoyed your work. You’re a great credit to our city.”

“Oh?”

“Something wrong?” He frowned.

“What kind of a memory do you have, sir?”

“Pretty good, I think. Why?”

“Not as good as mine. I remember when you sent my wife to bed sobbing.”

“Your wife?” He seemed genuinely surprised and dismayed.

I quoted the story almost verbatim.

“Geez, I don’t remember that. I’ve seen the book. Everyone has. Great book.”

“You don’t remember what you did to us in January of 1953, just before Eisenhower was inaugurated?”

“That was a long time ago, Charlie.”

“If I edited a paper in which I said in screaming headlines that your naked wife was commonplace and coarse, would you remember?”

“It was a Hearst paper, you gotta remember, Charlie. We had our own formula that sold papers. Nothing personal.”

“Oh, yes, there is.”

I turned on my heel and with as much dignity as a five-foot-seven-and-three-quarters-inch man in black tie can muster stalked away from him.

You will note that he did not offer to apologize.

I exaggerated a little: Rosemarie did not break down because of the headline in The American. Peg did. Mom did. Jane did. Rosemarie smiled gamely. “It’ll fill the gallery all day tomorrow.”

“You’re not coarse.”

“‘Course I’m not coarse.” She jabbed at my ribs. “And it’s a commonplace that I’m not commonplace.”

She had stayed in the background earlier in the exhibit because she said that the model ought not to interfere with the artist’s work. The day after the headline, however, dressed in an electrifying white knit dress with red-and-green trim, she was at the door defiantly welcoming both the serious patrons and the morbidly curious.

Virtually all the members of both groups liked the pictures. Scores of men and women told her that she was lovely, a truism that caused her to blush and smile happily.

Until her father, loaded to the gills as we Irish say, stalked in, an outraged little bull charging into a china shop with snow clinging to his black coat (with felt lapels) like oversized flakes of dandruff.

“You worthless little slut.” He hopped up and down in front of her. “I’ll never be able to show my face in a decent home in Chicago ever again. I’ll be laughed off the Board of Trade. You’ve ruined my life.”

He smelled like a cheap tavern on West Madison Street.

“Please, Daddy, don’t—”

He slugged her in the chest and sent her reeling against the wall.

“Cunt!” he shouted, and whirled around to leave.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.