The Second Half of the Double Feature, page 26
By Haines Colwell
Art Editor
It was my pleasure the other evening to preview and enjoy the paintings of an exciting new primitive impressionist, Mr. Rex Slinkard, of Miami Beach.
Mr. Slinkard's one-man show, entitled “Heathscapes," is now open to the public for two weeks at Hugo Frühling’s Downtown Gallery. All twenty of Mr. Slinkard’s Heathscapes have been quickly sold to distinguished collectors, which is something of a record for a first one-man show.
There is an esoteric quality of timelessness to Mr. Slinkard’s landscapes (which he so aptly calls heathscapes), and in his palette, the artist prefers dusk to sunrise. Burnt sienna, yellow ocher, ivory black, and alizarin crimson are the predominating colors utilized by the artist, and I felt that his restrained handling of gelid grisaille tones, particularly in the treatment of his austere trees, was quite bold.
As I traversed the gallery, examining each heathscape, the stark, simple interpretation of these simple scenes—trees, sky, clouds, meadow—I was reminded of understated poetry. Rex Slinkard is by no means a sophisticated, eclectic intellectual; he has tempered his forbidding vision of the world with shimmering, exotic variants.
Each heathscape—disturbing as it is with diaphanous shadings—is happily relieved by the inspired predetermination of pigment straight from the tube. But there are no accidents of color. The simple, familiar objects which provide titles for each heathscape show the simplicity of the self-taught optical thinker.
It would be presumptuous to single out any particular heathscape as representative of the artist at his best, but I did admire Heathscape With Black Tree (which was purchased, incidentally, by one of Miami’s well-known industrialists). With the free-flowing ease of a master calligrapher, the artist has etched a delicate vision of filigreed tree limbs against his usual somber background.
I was also impressed profoundly by the Neo-Plastic imagery of Heathscape With Yellow Flower. The tenuous shape of the depersonalized yellow blossom revealed that the artist has a warm hand when he wants to show it.
I predict that the majority of the viewers will enjoy Mr. Slinkard’s paintings for the beauty of their simplicity, rather than the distressing portent of their ideas. The Frühling Gallery deserves our gratitude for treating us to the first show of an artist who scorns semantics; the work of a draughtsman of skill, of hope, and—call me a sentimentalist if you like—of love.
-30-
After typing the review I checked off the paragraphs with a soft No. 1 pencil, and put the copy in my out-basket. Still clutching the pencil, I scribbled a note to Bill Mueller, the Managing Editor, on an inter office memo.
Bill, I think five years of art criticism is enough. I want a transfer, preferably to Sports, when the next opening is available. Let's talk about this.
Hank
One more comment, a short one, and then I’ve got to get the hell out to the ballpark before the game starts.
Ray Auslander never wrote a review of Slinkard’s show in the Sunset, nor did he mention the artist’s name in his regular Sunday art column. I ran into Auslander about three or four weeks after the preview and asked him why he didn’t review it. He denied, flatly and categorically, being present at the preview; and he said this with such sincerity I almost believed him. Almost—the lying, heartless sonofabitch.
The Ordainment of Brother Springer: A Play
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Abbot John Dover
Brother Springer
SCENE
All of the action takes place in the one-room office “cell,” belonging to Abbot Dover, at Church of God’s Flock Monastery, Orangeville, Florida.
TIME
Six A.M. A working day.
Abbot Dover’s cell, The Church of God’s Flock monastery, Orangeville, Florida. The “cell” is sparsely furnished with a card table, two straight-backed chairs, a practical hotplate on a sideboard, a small desk—littered with papers—,a wardrobe, a sagging couch covered with rumpled sheets, an enormous six-candled candelabra, and assorted utensils, cups and dishes. On various surfaces there are several old containers (pitchers, glass jars, vases, etc. filled to the brim with goat milk; and there are a dozen or so jars of honey on the card table and lined up against the back wall. The screen upon which slides are flooded as indicated, is on the wall, S.C.
At curtain’s rise, Abbot Dover is discovered, S.C., aiming a .22 single-shot, bolt-action rifle at a small regulation target on the wall. Dover, a man in his mid-forties, wears a black, ankle-length soutane and a pair of thong sandals. Pinned on the left breast is an army Expert Rifleman’s Badge, with crossed rifles. Dover stops aiming, places the rifle on top of the table, heists his cassock in back, exposing red-and-blue plaid Bermuda shorts, takes a bandana handkerchief out of his hip pocket and wipes his tonsured head and then his face. Dover aims again and fires. He ejects the empty cartridge, reloads, puts the rifle on the table again, and crosses to check the target.
DOVER: (Nodding with satisfaction) Bull’s-eye! (He looks up.) Thank you, Lord.
SPRINGER: (There is a hesitated knock on the screen door, center.) Abbot Dover?
DOVER: Come in, come in! Don’t stand out there in the hot sun!
SPRINGER: (Enters. John Springer is in his late twenties. He is wearing a multi-colored sport shirt, yellow linen slacks, and white tennis shoes. He has a small overnighter suitcase in his right hand. There is an air of uncertainty in his speech and in his actions.) Are you Abbot Dover, Sir? The Right Reverend Jack Dover?
DOVER: That’s me, son. What can I do for you? Are you a pilgrim, boy? Or are you interested in buying a little Florida real estate—or are you just a mendicant looking for a handout?
SPRINGER: None of those, sir, I’m afraid—but as a writer, I might be a little of each. I’m tired though. I know that much. I rode up here from Miami on the bus to interview you, and the driver let me off in town, back there in Orangeville. It was my mistake, not his. All I knew, you see, was the Church of God’s Flock monastery was in Orangeville. So he took me on into Orangeville. If I’d told him I was going to the monastery, he could’ve let me off here and saved me the five-mile walk back down the highway.
DOVER: Many pilgrims from Miami way make that mistake.
SPRINGER: (Chagrined grimace) No harm done, I suppose. Been a long time, though, since I walked five miles. As I came down the path, I thought I heard a rifle shot.
DOVER: (Pointing to target on the wall) You did. (Simply) I am a sharpshooter for the Lord. But then, you’re here to interview me, you said. Sit down, sit down. Had your breakfast yet?
SPRINGER: No, sir. Just a Coca Cola down the road at the Save Gas Station.
DOVER: Then have breakfast with me. I’ve got plenty of grits, and some delicious orange-blossom honey, made by our own holy bees. Do you like grits, son?
SPRINGER: Yes, sir. I’m so hungry after riding that bus all night, I could eat almost anything.
DOVER: Good! And I made some fresh hoecake, too, before target practice period.
(He serves two plates at the hotplate, and pours two cups of coffee. Springer sits at the card table.)
Now just what did you want to interview me about, Brother—?
SPRINGER: Springer, sir. My name is John Springer. I’m a free-lance writer; not a reporter, or anything like that, from any magazine or newspaper. What I am, really, is a novelist. The trouble is, though, I haven’t sold any novels lately. And the main reason I haven’t sold anything lately is because I haven’t written anything lately. I’ve had this awful writer’s block, you see. That’s what they call it— writer’s block. But I think the real reason I haven’t written anything lately, the last year and a half, is because I haven’t been able to think of anything to write about.
DOVER: You don’t sound like much of a writer to me. What gave you the idea that there’s a story here, in the Church of God’s Flock monastery?
SPRINGER: Well, I read about the monastery closing down in the Miami News. And as soon as I saw the news item, I got to thinking. In the first place, I didn’t know there was any such thing as a Protestant monastery— I thought they were all Catholic monasteries. And then I figured if I didn’t know that there were any Protestant monasteries, a lot of other people probably didn’t know about them either. And then, the paper said the monastery was closing down, so there must be a good reason why— and I couldn’t think of any good reason for a monastery to close. You know, a monastery has always seemed like a pretty good deal to me— for those who like that sort of thing, I mean. Sit around and pray, and stuff like that, no worries or responsibilities.
DOVER: (Dryly) So you’ve already written your interview; and now you want me to confirm it for you.
SPRINGER: No, sir! I didn’t mean it that way at all. I was merely explaining how I got the idea to come up here from Miami. I didn’t mean any offense, sir.
DOVER: I don’t know what kind of a novelist you were, but you’re certainly a lousy reporter. Let me see your credentials. (Dover holds out his hand.)
SPRINGER: (Apologetically) Like I said, sir, I’m not a real reporter, and this is the first time I’ve ever interviewed anybody. I’m really a novelist, sir, and novelists don’t need any credentials, sir.
DOVER: Just a minute. Let’s you and I stay on friendly terms. I don’t like to be “sirred” by anybody. I was an enlisted man in the Army for twenty years before I became Abbot here, and I don’t like to have people “sir” me.
SPRINGER: I’m sorry, sir— I mean, Abbot Dover. But how should I address you? I don’t know anything about church titles, or things like that.
DOVER: Just call me `your holiness.’ Or, if you prefer, you may call me `Abbot,’ or `Papa’— that’s the familiar for `Pope,’ or just plain `Sergeant.’ I’m a retired Master Sergeant, and still I’m entitled to my rank. All right?
SPRINGER: Yes, sir. Your holiness, I mean. What I was going to say is, if I could get an idea for another novel I’d go ahead and write that instead of writing a feature story—on speculation—about your monastery. But I can’t seem to get any good ideas.
DOVER: How many novels have you written?
SPRINGER: One. (Proudly) It was called No Bed Too High.
DOVER: No Bed Too High. An interesting title. I like it. In fact, the connotations are intriguing. Was it published?
SPRINGER: Yes, it was, your holiness. It was published two years ago by the Barrabas Press in New York. I got a $250 advance in royalties on it. Enough to quit my job immediately. The book didn’t sell very well, though—not the way I thought it would. But by the time I found out that the first advance royalty check would also be my last, I’d quit my job and moved from Cleveland down to Miami. But then I got a break. The Barrabas Press sold the reprint rights a few months later to a paperback publisher, and I got a check for $1,100— just as my savings were about to run out. But since then, since my first novel, I haven’t written much of anything. I’m working on a sort of essay, however, about D. H. Lawrence; but just about everything’s been said about Lawrence already. So I’ve been having trouble trying to think about something new to write about him, too, you see.
(Slide: 2 seconds, D. H. Lawrence.)
DOVER: Yes, I see. What I don’t see is how you even managed to write your first novel. Don’t be afraid to put some of that good goat butter on your grits!
SPRINGER: Goat butter!
DOVER: That’s right. There’s plenty. It isn’t rancid, son, it only smells that way.
SPRINGER: (Uneasily) I’ve never been much for goat butter, your holiness.
DOVER: Suit yourself. Tell me about your novel.
SPRINGER: There isn’t much to tell. I was an accountant, and I worked seven years for the Tanfair Milk Company in Cleveland, Ohio. I kept their books. To be completely frank, Abbot Dover, I didn’t like the job. I hated it. And all I could think about, day in and day out, was a way out. Escape. And then one evening I got the idea that if I could write a book in my spare time, at night, after work, well, I could make enough money to quit my job forever. In the beginning, writing was just a way out of a terrible job. But now I know that I was cut out to be a writer all along.
DOVER: Except that you now can’t think of anything to write about?
SPRINGER: But I will! I got this idea, didn’t I? To interview you for an article? All I need is a little time to get organized; that’s all. I finally ran out of money in Miami, even though I lived pretty cheap. If I hadn’t seen that item in the paper about your monastery closing, I really don’t know what I’d have done for an idea. I still owe room rent in Miami, and my landlady’s holding on to my typewriter until I pay up. So if you’ll just give me some background information, your holiness, I’ll be on my way and stop bothering you.
DOVER: How much do you know already?
SPRINGER: Just what’s in this clipping.
(He takes a ragged clipping from his shirt pocket, and reads it.)
“Orangeville, Florida. The Church of God’s Flock Monastery, established in 1936, is being sold, according to the Right Reverend Jack Dover, Abbot of the Protestant religious order. All of the monks have been reassigned, and only Abbot Dover has remained at the site to oversee the sale of the property. Long a colorful part of the Orangeville scene, monks of the Church of God’s Flock order were self-supporting, raising goats and citrus and selling orange wine and honey for subsistence.” And that’s all it says.
DOVER: (Takes the clipping, crumples it, and tosses it on the floor.) I’m familiar with it; I sent this news release out myself, hoping to get a few bids on the property. But that’s the whole story, Brother Springer. I doubt very much that the readers of any commercial magazine would be interested in this small religious order.
SPRINGER: Oh, I disagree, sir! Your holiness. The Reader’s Digest, for example, is always printing articles about religious matters.
DOVER: All right, Brother Springer. I’ll tell you a few things about the monastery. And then you’ll know for yourself why it isn’t worth writing about for a magazine. If you want sweetening for your coffee, use some of that good orange-blossom honey.
SPRINGER: You’ll let me be the judge, then?
(He has some trouble getting a spoonful of honey out of the jar on the table.)
DOVER: Of course, not! I won’t okay anything you write, and if you do write and publish anything about this order, I’ll issue a denial and then institute a civil action against you!
SPRINGER: That doesn’t sound fair—!
DOVER: Of course it isn’t fair. Who said it was?
(Dover crosses to the wall and taps the poster (24”x30”) of Cosmo Bird. It is a poster of a Negro. He wears a high Herbert Hoover collar, and his hair is a snow white halo encircling his dark face.)
Take a look at this picture.
SPRINGER: (Examining photo) I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such beautiful bone structure in a man’s face before! And the cheekbones are high, too— for a Negro, I mean.
DOVER: That is a photo of the Right Reverend Cosmo Bird, of Birmingham, Alabama. He was part Indian, I believe; that probably accounts for his high cheekbones. But handsome is as handsome does; and Cosmo Bird was filled with great spiritual beauty as well as being handsome physically. He started our Church of God’s Flock in Birmingham, after making his pile in Pratt City real estate. And the more money he made, the more churches he started. There are two Church of God’s Flock churches in Birmingham, two in Mobile, one in Atlanta, one in Tuscaloosa, and one in Jacksonville. And every one of these churches is poor as hell. They’re poor because their parishioners are poor.
SPRINGER: These churches are all in addition to the monastery?
DOVER: I’m getting to that. When Cosmo Bird died in 1936, he left all of his remaining money to a fund to establish this monastery in Orangeville. He owned the property already through a previous real estate deal. Back in 1936, this was truly an isolated location. And an ideal spot for a monastery. That was long before the state put the main highway through, and before anybody even dreamed of the Sunshine Parkway, seven miles away—
(He points.)
SPRINGER: But why did Reverend Bird want to start the monastery?
DOVER: He was an idealist, that’s why, a man of great vision. And he was way ahead of his time. Reverend Bird believed that white men and Negroes could learn to love one another. And that was the base on which this monastic order was founded. The monastery was supposed to balance out at a constant ratio of one white monk for every Negro monk— or vice versa, if you prefer. In 1936 this ratio was easily maintained. There was a Great Depression scourging the land, and a monastery was a good place to sit it out while waiting for prosperity—which was right around the corner—only waiting for a war to show itself again.
(Slide: 3 seconds, Herbert Hoover)
In the beginning there were six monks, all from Birmingham; three white men and three Negroes. They pitched tents, cleared out the palmettos and the jungle and planted the orange grove. It was an inauspicious beginning but, for the first couple of years, everything worked fine. The first Abbot, a white man by the name of Terence Norton, kept a diary, and I found it inspiring indeed to read of the day by day progress; it was quite a struggle getting organized.
By 1939, however, the money began to run out. And along with the shortage of money, the trustees up in Birmingham gradually began to lose control. First there would be all Negro monks here, and then there would be all white monks. This kind of trouble flared up off and on until the war started. Then the monastery got some national publicity: All of the monks flatly refused to be drafted into the Army as Privates. Their complaint was legitimate enough. They were all perfectly willing to serve the country as officers, with reserve commissions as Chaplains—but not as Privates.
