The Way of the Dog by Sam Savage

Author:Sam Savage
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-56689-318-3
Publisher: Coffee House Press
Published: 2012-09-19T04:00:00+00:00

I ask her what I am supposed to do with this, and she shrugs.

The period when I went regularly to cafés and parties, especially gallery parties, when I was an inveterate socializer and art hound, I think of as the Meininger period, even though he was not here for the larger part of it. He was here, physically in this house, for just over three years, and the period endured eleven, perhaps twelve years, so he actually was here for only a fraction of it.

I was leading a thoroughly aimless life before he came. I was constantly on the go. The hysterical energy I brought to socializing, combined with my nearly pathological infatuation with all things artistic, made me a minor art-movement figure, I thought, when in fact I was a pathological attention seeker, I see now.

The Meininger period, strictly considered, lasted thirty-eight months, but its effect on my life extended forward and backward from that time. As long as he was in this house, whether physically dwelling here for thirty-eight months or being spiritually present for years afterward by virtue of his relentless psychological grip, I was able to look back on the chaos of my previous life, on the active flailing about that was the chief feature of that life, and see it as waiting for Meininger. As if all my life I had been searching for the Meininger period.

Almost my entire collection dates from that period. In the process of collecting the paintings I gradually came to think of myself as having instinctive good judgment in matters of art. Instead of hesitating and fumbling about as I had been accustomed to doing, I placed my art bets with the arrogance of infallibility, though the truth of the matter is I was buying whatever Meininger happened to favor, from artists who were part of his entourage.

She rings a bell when it is time to eat. The same bell my mother would use to summon the cook from the kitchen.

Meininger was my friend; for a time he was my best friend. He was not, when it came to investments in art objects, my adviser. He would scrupulously refrain from saying things like, Nivenson (he would always call me Nivenson), I suggest you buy X or Y. Still, I took my cues from him. I would search his conversation, his facial expressions, even his body language (how close did he stand to the painting? was he tense or relaxed? what was behind that smile?). An offhand remark about a canvas, a nod of approval to the painter, and ten minutes later would find me slapping down thousands of dollars. In time, after spending a lot of money in this way, I confidently dispensed with his tutelage, purchasing paintings he had never seen. As if I could see with his eyes.

He worked by contagion. I walked like Meininger (a swaying, ever-so-casual amble), I dressed like Meininger (white trousers, open-collared pastel shirts, floppy wide-brimmed hat in summer). I picked up as many

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