eyes on his trembling legs. “Yes, she agrees. “Your legs do look disjointed. But I’m proud of you anyway, Lorenzo, my graffiti artist.” Sheepishly, secretly, Lorenzo admires the painting, admires the disjointed legs of the travel agent on the blue canvas. He decides never to tell Heather that he hadn’t painted the red graffito she so admires. Lorenzo Rests On His Laurels Lorenzo is relieved that Mr. Quackenbush has missed the news report in the Seattle Times about Lorenzo's arrest and the graffito incident. It is not until a week passes and a letter to the editor appears in the Post Intelligencer applauding Lorenzo’s sentiments that Lorenzo begins to fear for his job. The letter is signed by members of PAND, the Performing Artists for Nuclear Disarmament. They are planning to re-enact the incident before a live audience at the next peace rally in Gasworks Park. In another letter to the editor, a group of Teachers for Military De-escalation writes: “How can Lorenzo Valencia be labeled a criminal for exercising his right to free speech when the man who is using our tax money of paper folding. The art of business the science of business the business of business. The art of science. The art (science) of building bombs, avoiding war taxes, filling out income tax forms. Filling out forms period. Filing forms, forming files, painting graffiti. People should not confuse the two. Art is none of these activities; nor is science. The Fred Meyer sign on 85th Street is not art. The P-l globe is. That is because art imitates nature, and the earth is the largest representation of nature. Anything larger (e.g., the Milky Way, the universe) becomes a subset of the larger class known as outer space, which is not nature. The Fred Meyer sign on 85th Street does not imitate nature. Rather, it imitates the Fred Meyer sign on the 400 block of Broadway. Art does not have to be good, but it must have a moral purpose. Pollyanna, for instance, is good, but Holden Caulfield is art. Art is not subjective, but it is whatever I say it is. If I tell you your left thumbnail is art, then so it is, unless I am only kidding. Lorenzo admires Heather’s confidence. He is uncertain how an artist such as De Kooning projects morality in his art, but somehow he trusts Heather, believes EAT UNDERGROUND SEATTLE’S OLDEST RESTAURANT LUNCH •DINNER •COCKTAILS •ENTERTAINMENT 109 Yesler Way, Pioneer Square 624-1515 He doesn't want to lead a group of political artists. He doesn't want to bealeader. Hehopesheneverhas to defineart. He wants to be left alone. to build nuclear warheads instead of schools and roads is labeled a President?” Lorenzo finally receives a letter from the Physicians for Social Responsibility—a reply to a letter he had written them weeks before, asking them if there is a cure to Black Box Syndrome. But rather than answering his letter responsibly, surreptitiously, through the mail, they send it through the air waves; his letter and its reply are read on local radio stations. Lorenzo, who knows opening someone else’s mail is a felony, wonders if he can sue. The graffito attributed to Lorenzo becomes a chant at local peace rallies: IF WE ARE SO RIGHT, THEN WHY ARE WE SO DEFENSIVE? STOP THE BOMBS NOW! It has no ring to it, , Lorenzo thinks, but somehow a local band, Quell Lotion and the Crab Lice, makes it into a punk rock song. Lorenzo receives letters and phone calls, at home and at work, from men and women who want him to run for Congress. “The phone calls must stop,” Mr. Quackenbush warns Lorenzo. They're interfering with business. If you want to run for Congress, fine, but do it on your own in her boldness. He remembers feeling such confidence when he was still in school, painting and drawing. He too knew then when his work was art and when it was merely good. That was back in the days when he would have failed a Holocaust awareness test. Now when he tries to draw, his lines are timid and defensive. After Heather has left for her meeting, armed with her essay, Lorenzo places a foot stool in front of his open closet so he can reach his old drawings, which are piled on top of one another on the top shelf. Some are drawings of buildings at the university he attended. Others are of models. Many are of Heather, who is noticeably thinner and more muscular in his renditions than she is now. He realizes, for the first time, that he and Heather have aged together, just a little. Lorenzo stacks the drawings, one by one, on the kitchen table, over another stack of letterhead for Camels and Castles. After he has fallen asleep at theWtchen table, one side of his face resting against Heather’s chalk torso, Heather calls him from the salon. She asks him to come to HowcanLorenzo Valenciabelabeledacriminal for exercisinghis right to free speech when the man who is using our tax money to buildnuclear warheadsinsteadofschoolsandroadsislabeled President? time and don’t expect my vote.” Then he adds, quietly, “People who write graffiti on public property should be jailed, not made into heroes.” No one but Lorenzo knows the real story—that he had gone to the wall to repent, in his own way, to make up for a small lie he had told Mr. Boyd about the South American screamer. But Lorenzo shares the knowledge that he was not really the painter of the graffito; he shares that knowledge with the real criminal, the real hero. Lorenzo expects that one day the real graffiti artist will come out of the closet and Lorenzo can retire a fool; for now, he rests on another person’s laurels. Lorenzo makes dinner as Heather asks him questions from a Holocaust awareness test in one of her magazines. Lorenzo is not pleased to know he has passed with flying colors. After dinner, Heather cannot stay for coffee and Cointreau because she’s off to a meeting of a political artists’ group, the same group she met at the Trident rally. Lorenzo wonders if their relationship is going to end soon; he fears she won’t be with him when the bomb finally hits. Before she leaves, she shows him an essay she has begun. Everyone in the group has been assigned to write a definition of art for tonight’s meeting. “I couldn’t finish it,” Heather explains. “I find it easier to say what art isn’t than what it is.” People use the words “art” and “science” loosely, interchangeably, and, often, incorrectly. The art, the science, w Clinton St. Quarterly Sweet Dreams Futon. Six-inch thick Japanese beds, all cotton or with two- inch foam cores. Send $2 for our catalogue of sweet dreams at sweet prices. Or come visit! 400 SW 2nd, Portland 97204 516 15th Ave. East, Seattle 98112 Hours: Mon-Fri 11-6/Thurs 11-7/Sat 11-5 M () n T H W E 5 7 FUTON CO M PA\Ny their next meeting, join them in their efforts, become their leader. Lorenzo wants only to go back to sleep, or for Heather to come over and go to sleep with him. He wants his job the next morning, and the planes to quit flying so close above him in the middle of the night. He wants the man with the black box to stay close to the President’s side. He doesn’t want to lead a group of political artists. He doesn’t want to be a leader. He hopes he never has to define art. He wants to be left alone. “I hope you’ll think about it, Lorenzo,” Heather says. “How does this sound— Lorenzo Valencia’s Salon Politique?” “Half Italian, half French, Lorenzo answers half-heartedly. How does it sound to you?” “Seriously, Lorenzo, with your permission, we’d like to name ourselves after you.” Although Lorenzo is no longer an artist and has never been a politician, a group of political artists wants to name itself after him. Lorenzo is too exhausted to feel flattered and too confused to realize the irony. While Heather tells him the date and time of the next Salon, Lorenzo glances dully at the calendar. He remembers just then that his birthday is just a week away. Then he will be 31. He feels relieved that he’s made it another year. Catherine Lord is a writer living in Seattle. This is her first CSQ story. Liza von Rosenstiel shows her art in Seattle at Davidson Gallery.
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