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considered leafing through these magazines to look for drawings； but it would be absurd for Debierue； with his keen sense of order； to hide sketches in magazines。
In the center of the studio was a maple worktable （in furniture catalogues； they are called 〃Early American Harvest〃 tables）； and this table； in a rather finicky arrangement； held a terracotta jar with several new camel'shair brushes in varying lengths and brush widths； four rubber…banded； faggoty bundles of charcoal drawing sticks； four one…quart cans of linseed oil and four one…quart cans of turpentine； all unopened； and a long row of king…sized tubes of oil paint in almost every shade and tint on the spectrum。
There were at least a hundred tubes of oil paint； in colors； and three of zinc white。 None of the tubes had been opened or squeezed。 There was a square piece of clear glass； about 12〃 x 12〃； a fumed oak artist's palette； a pair of white gloves （size 9 1/2）； a twelve…inch brass ruler； a palette knife； an unopened box of assorted color pencils； and a heaped flat pile of clean white rags。 There were other unused art materials as well； but the crushing impression of this neatly ordered table was that of a mercial layout of art materials in an art supply showroom。
Beside the table was an unpainted wooden A…frame easel and a tall metal kitchen stool painted in white enamel。 There was an untouched 24〃 x 30' canvas on the easel。 Bewildered； and with a feeling of nausea in the pit of my stomach； I climbed onto the high stool facing the easel and lit a cigarette。 A single silver filament； a spider's let…down thread； shimmering in the brilliant light washing the room from the overhead fluorescents； trailed from the right…hand corner of the canvas to the floor。 The spider who had left this evidence of passage had disappeared。
Except for the pole…axed numbness of a steer； my mind was too stunned for a contiguous reaction of any kind。 I neither laughed nor cried。 For minutes I was unable to formulate any coherent thoughts； not until the cigarette burned my fingers； and even then I remember looking at it stupidly for a second or so before dropping it to the floor。
Debierue's aseptically forlorn studio is as clear in my mind now as if I were still sitting on that hard metal stool。
I had expected something； but not Nothing。
I had expected almost anything； but not Nothing。
Prepared for attendance and appreciation； my mind could not undo its readiness for perception and accept the unfulfilled preparation for painting it encountered。
Here was a qualified Nothing； a Nothing of such deep despair； I could not be absolved of my aesthetic responsibility…a nonhope Nothing； a non…Nothing…and yet； also before my eyes was the evidence of a dedication to artistic expression so unyieldingly vast in its implications that my mind…at least at first…bluntly refused to accept the evidence。
I had to work it out。
The synecdochic relationship between the place and the person was undeniable。 An artist has a studio： Debierue had a studio： Debierue was an artist。
Here； in deadly readiness； Debierue sat daily in fruitless preparation for a painting that he would never paint； waiting for pictorial adventures that would never happen。 Waiting； the incredibly patient waiting for an idea to materialize； for a single idea that could be transferred onto the ready canvas…but no ideas ever came to him。 Never。
Debierue worked four hours a day； he claimed； which meant sitting on this stool staring at an empty canvas from eight until noon； every day； seven days a week； waiting for an idea to e…every single day！ At that precise moment I knew； despite all of the published documentary evidence to the contrary that he was not merely suffering a so…called dry period； a temporary inability to paint since moving to Florida。 Without any other evidence （my own eyes were witness enough； together with my practiced critical intuition）； I knew that Jacques Debierue had never had a plastic idea； nor had he painted a picture of any kind in his entire lifetime！
Debierue was a slave to hope。 He had never accepted the fact that he couldn't paint a picture。 But each day he faced the slavery of the attempt to paint； and the subsequent daily failure。 After each day of failure he was destroyed； only to be reborn on the next day…each new day bringing with it a new chance； a new opportunity。 How could he be so strong willed to face this daily death； this vain slavery to hope？ He had dedicated his life to Nothing。
The most primitive nescience in man cannot remain pletely negative…or so I had always believed。 Forms and the spectrum range of colors； the sounds a man makes with his mouth； the thousands of daily perceptions of sights and sound； invade our senses from moment to moment； consciously and subconsciously。 And all of these sights and sounds…and touch； too； of course…demand an artistic interpretation。 Knowing this basic natural truth； I knew that Debierue； an intelligent； sentient human being； must have had hundreds； no； literally thousands of ideas for paintings during the innumerable years he sat before an empty canvas。 But these ideas were unexpressed； locked inside his head； withheld from graphic presentation because of his fear of releasing them。 He was afraid to take a chance； he was unable to risk the possibility…a distinct possibility…of failure。 His dread of failure was not a concern with what others might think of his work。 It was a fear of what he； Debierue； the Artist； might think of his acplished work。 The moment an artist expresses himself and fails； or mits himself to an act of self…expression by action； and realizes that he did not； that he cannot； succeed； and that he will never be able to capture on canvas that which he sees so vividly in his mind's eye； he wifi know irrevocably that he is a failure as an artist。
So why should he paint？ In fact； how can he paint？
How many times had Debierue leaned forward； reaching out timidly toward the shining canvas before him with a crumbling piece of charcoal in his trembling fingers？ How many times？…and with the finished； varnished； luminous masterpiece glowing upon the museum wall of his febrile mind？…only to stay his hand at the last possible moment； the tip of the black charcoal a fraction of an inch away from the virgin canvas？
〃Nonono！ Not yet！〃
The fear…crazed neural message would race down the full length of the motor neuron in his extended arm （vaulting synapse junctions）； and in time； always in the nick of time； the quavery hand would be jerked back。 The virgin canvas； safe for another day； would once again remain unviolated。
Another day； another morning of unmitted； untested acplishment had been hurdled； but what difference did it make？ What did anything matter； at high noon； so long as he had delayed； put off until tomorrow； postponed the execution of the feeble idea he had today when there would be a much better idea tomorrow？ If he did not prove to himself today that he could paint the image in his mind； or that he could not paint it； a tendril of fort remained。 And hope。
Faith in his untried skills provided a continuum。
Why not？ Wasn't he trying？ Yes。 Was h