abruptly.
“Oh, yes, my portrait. It’s for Julius, for his birthday, to add to his collection, you know. It’s going to be a surprise.”
Dickory pictured the art collector’s surprise at receiving a Garson painting. Horror was a better word. But Garson reacted as though his paintings did, indeed, belong among the greats. “A splendid idea, Cookie; and you will be a splendid subject. I don’t have any portraits to show you, you understand—they are all in their happy owners’ hands—but I can show you slides to give you an idea of pose and dress. My assistant, Ms. Dock, will. . . .”
“Dock? I thought she said ‘Dick.’ ”
There was no way out of it. “Dickory Dock,” said Dickory Dock.
“Dickory Dock? How cheerful,” Mrs. Panzpresser exclaimed. “Let’s see, now, how does that go?
“Hickory Dickory Dock,
The mouse ran up the clock,
The clock struck one,
And down he come. . . .
“One—come; that doesn’t rhyme, does it?”
Garson quickly drew the blinds and raised the screen. Dickory turned on the slide projector and read from a list of sitters’ names with each corresponding click. Cookie Panzpresser oohed and aahed and burbled about how much younger and handsomer her friends looked in their portraits.
“Mrs. Juanita Chiquita Dobson,” Dickory read.
“Next!” Garson shouted, and she clicked to the next slide before Cookie had a chance to study the banana heiress’ portrait.
“That was one of my first attempts and not up to my standards,” Garson explained. “Now, here is my most recent painting; I think you are acquainted with my lawyer.”
“That’s too good for the old slob,” Mrs. Julius B. Panzpresser remarked, but when the next slide flashed she cheered. “That’s what I want my picture to look like. That’s just how Julius would like me to look, like a lady pouring tea.”
Cookie wanted Garson to begin her portrait right away, but she had to juggle club dates and charity functions to find time for the preliminary sitting. “Ta-ta, everybody,” she sang, bouncing down the stairs. “I’ve got to run and get my hair done for tonight’s benefit.”
“One minute, Cookie,” Garson called after her. “Your hairdresser’s name isn’t Francis, is it?”
“No, Antoine. Why?”
“Nothing. Have a nice evening.”
2
Dickory left with a shopping bag full of half-used tubes of oil paint left over from the lawyer’s portrait, four slightly frayed brushes, and the large, stretched canvas with the small black dot. “Get rid of them for me,” Garson had said.
Arms loaded with bounty, Dickory could barely maneuver through the front door, especially with Shrimps Marinara trying to enter at the same time.
“Out of my way, punk,” he growled when the canvas brushed against his drooping overcoat.
Shrimps did not like to be touched.
No matter, neither did the Piero della Francesca angel.
“What a stink,” her brother complained. He was stretched out on the living room sofa (Dickory’s bed) , watching television. “Somebody open a window.”
Dickory swished her paintbrush in the offensive turpentine, opened a window, and returned to her painting.
“Somebody close the window, quick,” shouted her sister-in-law Blanche, bent over the ironing board. “The dirt’s flying all over my clean uniform.”
“Back and forth, back and forth,” Dickory muttered in imitation of her brother as she closed the window. Once again she picked up her brush and contemplated the canvas propped against the wall. Her composition consisted of a single object balanced against a mass. If done right, the eye will always come to rest on the isolated object, Professor D’Arches had explained. She was working on the mass, covering the entire bottom third of the canvas with blocks of overlapping color, thinking out each brushstroke carefully so that no one color would pop out more than the others. Now she knew why Garson wanted a quiet assistant; even painting a mass of colors
“Oh, yes, my portrait. It’s for Julius, for his birthday, to add to his collection, you know. It’s going to be a surprise.”
Dickory pictured the art collector’s surprise at receiving a Garson painting. Horror was a better word. But Garson reacted as though his paintings did, indeed, belong among the greats. “A splendid idea, Cookie; and you will be a splendid subject. I don’t have any portraits to show you, you understand—they are all in their happy owners’ hands—but I can show you slides to give you an idea of pose and dress. My assistant, Ms. Dock, will. . . .”
“Dock? I thought she said ‘Dick.’ ”
There was no way out of it. “Dickory Dock,” said Dickory Dock.
“Dickory Dock? How cheerful,” Mrs. Panzpresser exclaimed. “Let’s see, now, how does that go?
“Hickory Dickory Dock,
The mouse ran up the clock,
The clock struck one,
And down he come. . . .
“One—come; that doesn’t rhyme, does it?”
Garson quickly drew the blinds and raised the screen. Dickory turned on the slide projector and read from a list of sitters’ names with each corresponding click. Cookie Panzpresser oohed and aahed and burbled about how much younger and handsomer her friends looked in their portraits.
“Mrs. Juanita Chiquita Dobson,” Dickory read.
“Next!” Garson shouted, and she clicked to the next slide before Cookie had a chance to study the banana heiress’ portrait.
“That was one of my first attempts and not up to my standards,” Garson explained. “Now, here is my most recent painting; I think you are acquainted with my lawyer.”
“That’s too good for the old slob,” Mrs. Julius B. Panzpresser remarked, but when the next slide flashed she cheered. “That’s what I want my picture to look like. That’s just how Julius would like me to look, like a lady pouring tea.”
Cookie wanted Garson to begin her portrait right away, but she had to juggle club dates and charity functions to find time for the preliminary sitting. “Ta-ta, everybody,” she sang, bouncing down the stairs. “I’ve got to run and get my hair done for tonight’s benefit.”
“One minute, Cookie,” Garson called after her. “Your hairdresser’s name isn’t Francis, is it?”
“No, Antoine. Why?”
“Nothing. Have a nice evening.”
2
Dickory left with a shopping bag full of half-used tubes of oil paint left over from the lawyer’s portrait, four slightly frayed brushes, and the large, stretched canvas with the small black dot. “Get rid of them for me,” Garson had said.
Arms loaded with bounty, Dickory could barely maneuver through the front door, especially with Shrimps Marinara trying to enter at the same time.
“Out of my way, punk,” he growled when the canvas brushed against his drooping overcoat.
Shrimps did not like to be touched.
No matter, neither did the Piero della Francesca angel.
“What a stink,” her brother complained. He was stretched out on the living room sofa (Dickory’s bed) , watching television. “Somebody open a window.”
Dickory swished her paintbrush in the offensive turpentine, opened a window, and returned to her painting.
“Somebody close the window, quick,” shouted her sister-in-law Blanche, bent over the ironing board. “The dirt’s flying all over my clean uniform.”
“Back and forth, back and forth,” Dickory muttered in imitation of her brother as she closed the window. Once again she picked up her brush and contemplated the canvas propped against the wall. Her composition consisted of a single object balanced against a mass. If done right, the eye will always come to rest on the isolated object, Professor D’Arches had explained. She was working on the mass, covering the entire bottom third of the canvas with blocks of overlapping color, thinking out each brushstroke carefully so that no one color would pop out more than the others. Now she knew why Garson wanted a quiet assistant; even painting a mass of colors
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