Art on Fire (22 page)

Dialo says of
Lisa Gone
, “It is a challenging work to interpret. The title tells a story beyond that depicted by the artist. What we see before us—a girl, a place setting for one, a dismal expression, and a desolate backdrop—indicates isolation. A large, existential isolation.
Lisa Gone
from life? From society? From herself? Perhaps the artist is trying to bring her to safety, or less altruistically, to keep Lisa for herself.”
⁵¹

The second installment in the
Trilogy, Genius
, jumps light years ahead of
Lisa Gone
in execution, both conceptually and technically. A nightmarish portrait, it is said by many to have unmasked deSilva's own genius. It depicts a tiny Lisa squatting on a huge chessboard. The chessboard is paved, the tar uneven
and pockmarked by swells, resembling in texture a poorly maintained parking lot.
⁵²

“This work is terrifying,” writes Michael Wright. “The child is confined to one small square; she squats and contracts her prepubescent body. She struggles to remain unnoticed, innocent, small enough to contain all that she struggles to protect. Her life has been sacrificed to the fulfillment of her parents' narcissism. Thus the chessboard, once a haven, becomes an asphalt jungle where the young Lisa is stalked, where she crouches in fear from the invasive father.”
⁵³

And finally,
Virgin
, the third installment, inspired the controversy and opposition that would dog deSilva's career for the eight years following her opening exhibit (and would no doubt have persisted had the artist survived). Only days before deSilva's first show was to open at the Wallace Gallery in Provincetown, a group of “local” protesters from CAWD (Christ in All We Do) publicly, vehemently objected to
Virgin
on the grounds that it juxtaposed two discordant themes: incest and the Bible. The “grassroots”
⁵⁴
organization called the painting, in which a mandorla
⁵⁵
hovers over the head of a girl about to be sexually abused, pornographic. CAWD, supported by two conservative Republicans campaigning for reelection, publicly accused deSilva of being anti-Christian and, as such, a threat to the sanctity of the family.
⁵⁶

Thankfully scholars and critics interpreted the painting differently, emphasizing its haunting colors, the darkness of the figure, and the images of anguish and fear. The painting captures a young girl cupping her naked breasts in her hands while a stalking figure,
portrayed only as a trousered leg thick as a redwood tree, lurks behind her. A halo hovers inches above the subject's head. She glares at the viewer (or the artist) as though we (or the artist) are, at least in part, to blame for what is happening. Writes Charlotte Wallace (deSilva's manager and owner of the Wallace Gallery) in an editorial to the
New York Times
, “Rather than calling a depiction of the impending molestation of a teenage girl ‘pornographic,' CAWD ought to consult God about why, for heaven's sake, they experience this image in such a way.”
⁵⁷
And Paul DeVaine asserts that deSilva's invocation of the mandorla, rather than being an antireligious or intentionally controversial gesture, was, conversely, “hopeful and sentimental, a naive attempt to elevate the subject from her wretched life.”
⁵⁸

Of course, it would be disingenuous to pretend that there is ambiguity as to the identity of
Virgin's
subject.
⁵⁹
The title of the Trilogy, combined with what we know of deSilva's obsession with her young love, makes such speculation spurious. Nearly as fascinating as the paintings themselves is the artist's mature grasp—at the tender age of 18—on the specific nature of her subject's suffering. Lisa's cynical countenance indicates a preparedness, even an acceptance of her fate. And because the perpetrator is approaching from behind, we know this particular incidence of molestation has not yet occurred. Thus, deSilva tells us, if we cared enough, we could stop it.

“But we never lose sight,” writes Lucinda Dialo in
Caleidoscope
, “and this is the genius of the work, that this is just a painting. One cannot stop the horror
from happening in a painting. deSilva puts it in front of us, but we cannot prevent that which the painting warns us about, the crime that has surely happened by now. She relieves us of the burden of intervention, massages our collective conscience, and this abdication of responsibility permits us to consider whether, given the opportunity, we would intervene. And deSilva believes, as Lisa knows, that we would not.”
⁶⁰

Francesca peeled the magnet from the refrigerator door and watched the list it held in place float and drift underneath the appliance and out of sight. She held her four canvases, two under each arm, and headed out into the bright day. The air seemed impossibly clean. No dust, no turpentine. The descent onto Commercial Street deposited her in the east end. From there, it was easy to find the gallery; its chimney spat smoke into the cold air. The other buildings were inert, hibernating through the long season.

Mrs. Wallace was seated in an office at the back of the room, talking on the telephone. Francesca put her paintings carefully on the damp ground, pulled open the heavy door, her pulse quickening, and, grabbing her canvases, stepped inside. Her sneakers hiccuped against the polished wood floor.

A series of uniform paintings hung on the white walls of the spacious room. A large card posted at the beginning boasted “Jack Wagner, longtime Truro resident” in careful calligraphy. The first canvas, centered on its own wall, was titled
Triple Sail on a Foggy Day
. Francesca stared at the gruesome expressions on three fishermen—wet hair stuck to their gray skin, rain needling their faces as they struggled to gain control of the bloated sail. She continued through the room, skimming the twenty canvases. They were all concerned with the sea: men, boats, various afflictions of natural violence. They reminded Francesca of the covers of saltwater taffy boxes sold in souvenir shops along Route 6.

She walked slowly toward the office, clutching her paintings, trying to silence her rubber soles against the polished floor. This had been a bad idea, she decided, the result of too much loneliness, a swollen head, too many toxic chemicals, too much fantasy. Just as she put her paintings down outside the office, hard little wheels backed up over the warped, wooden floor. Mrs. Wallace hung up the phone and turned to her. “Are those original paintings?” she asked.

Francesca turned. “Yes,” she said.

“I'm Charlotte Wallace. Curator. And you are?”

“Hi, Mrs. Wallace. Remember me?” Francesca put the paintings down in case Charlotte wanted to shake.

“I'm sorry—” Charlotte stared at Francesca, but there was no connection to be made between the girl who had shoveled her walk and the one standing before her.

“I'm Francesca DeSilva. I shovel your path.” Francesca gestured, pretending to have-at a stubborn pile of snow.

“Oh my goodness! I didn't recognize you without all your gear!” She glanced out the window, expecting snow.

Francesca gestured. “I brought my paintings. But then I realized I'd made a mistake.”

“Oh.” Charlotte looked disappointed. “You mean because of Jack?” She nodded at the walls. “Don't pay him any attention. He's my ex-husband's lover and, as part of my divorce agreement, I have to give Jack his own little show every year. Frankly, it's becoming a nuisance. It gives people the wrong impression. That's why I stick him in December, when no one is likely to come around.” She glanced at the canvases. “As long as you're here, give us a look.”

Francesca followed Charlotte through the gallery and into the office. Charlotte clicked on a gooseneck lamp and lifted
Woman Reclining on a Blue Couch
onto an easel. She rubbed her hands together. “Hmm . . .” She narrowed her eyes. “Now who is this? This person looks familiar.”

Francesca shrugged.

“Did you use a model?” asked Charlotte.

“Nope.”

“A photograph?”

Francesca pointed to her head.

“I see,” Charlotte said, impressed but not convinced. “Okay, what's next?” She laid
Woman Reclining on a Blue Couch
carefully upon her desk, lifting Virgin into its place. She took a step back and watched the new painting for several moments, as if it might run away. “And what do you call this happy picture?”

“Virgin.”

“She's very thin.”

“She is very thin,” Francesca agreed.

“And that's a halo?”

“A mandorla,” said Francesca. “It's religious imagery from—”

“Yes, I know what it is,” Charlotte interrupted. “Is this person from your imagination as well?”

“From memory.”

Charlotte nodded, grateful for information that seemed authentic. She looked into Francesca's hopeful brown eyes. She folded her arms across her chest and peered over the top of her silver bifocals. “Where have you studied?”

“Studied?” Francesca laughed. “Nowhere. I've been painting in a basement.”

“DeSilva,” Charlotte said, thoughtfully. “Is that Spanish or Italian?”

“Italian.”

“De Silva or Da Silva?”

“De.”

“Big D or little D?”

Francesca had to think for a moment; the questions were coming so fast. “Um . . . little D,” she lied.

“De Silva. Italian with a little D,” Charlotte smiled, as if this had been the correct answer. “Very nice. Very painterly.” She turned back to the painting. “I'll tell you right now. You need to paint somewhere with light.”

“I like painting in the dark. All of these,” she indicated
The Lisa Trilogy
, “were painted by candlelight.”

“During the blackout,” said Charlotte. She turned to regard them once again. “That's what it is. That's the sadness.”

“No,” corrected Francesca. She pointed to her head. “The sadness is in here.”

The opening was scheduled for September 17, 1983. Weeks of controversy preceded the event. Somehow the preparations had been infiltrated (Charlotte suspected the UPS man). A letter appeared in the
Cape Cod Times
signed by several leaders of an influential right-wing
organization who deemed the paintings “obscene and pornographic.” The letter accused “this deSilva person” of deliberately comingling patently incompatible themes—namely religion and sex. Ironically, all this hullabaloo proved pornographic itself: By 8:50 p.m. the gallery was thronged with people. Journalists, art enthusiasts, and dealers from as far away as New York, most of whom would have otherwise known and cared nothing about the exhibit, butted shoulders to gaze at the rough-hewn pictures.

A large banner was posted across the front of the gallery:
Suburbia Dissected—New Work by Francesca deSilva
. The whitewashed brick walls were polished, and an antique Ben Franklin stove burned aromatic piñon wood, shipped from Arizona for the occasion. The door was left open, inviting the clinging mosquitoes of the season and the cool fall to mingle with the perfumed guests and the piquant scent of fire.

Francesca sat in her cabin on the bottom bunk, staring at herself in the cracked mirror on the wall. She felt nothing like a woman and not nearly so much like a man as she'd hoped to in her rented tuxedo. Instead, she seemed to be lingering in between, and this depressed her. And the idea that she would feel depressed on the most important night of her life depressed her further. Of course this would not work. She would be humiliated. People would scoff at her paintings. She'd receive horrible reviews. She never should have left New Haven. Should have gone to work for Alfonse or, instead of making art herself—how presumptuous!—secured a job in an art supplies shop. Something in keeping with her limitations.

She entered the crowd at 9:30, seeing only the blurred periphery of her paintings on the white walls and Charlotte in front of her.

“Finally!” Charlotte grabbed her arm. “You can't be late for your own opening!” She straightened Francesca's bowtie. “Forget it. It doesn't matter. Here you are and you look darling. And you are going to be extremely famous.”

Each painting was allotted several yards of wall space. This was Charlotte's two-fold strategy: it invited slow, thoughtful consideration
of each painting, creating a purposeful, serious atmosphere; at the same time, it helped the nine canvases appear to fill the room. Francesca's bio was posted at the start of the exhibit, carefully worded by Charlotte to indicate rebellion and reticence, rather than inexperience and a paucity of training.