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Show 21. On a dark December day Bill Vanderveer decided to paint his room. "A good sign," said Norman Lander, his unofficial clinician. "It's therapeutic." So the house took up a collection and Vanderveer bought paint. Black. "It's OK," said Norman. "Bill's working things out." Vanderveer painted the ceiling, started down the walls, black, very black. "It's OK," said Norman. "He's sane enough. Notice he doesn't paint from bottom to top and drop on his own work." Vanderveer painted over his windows. "It's OK," said Norman. "He's at a turning point, he's at the bottom, the only way left to go is up." Vanderveer started on the floors and soon his room resembled mine with the light off, one color, no space, no time. "It's OK," said Norman. "He's expressing himself." When people went in to compliment Vanderveer, he threw black paint at them. "It's OK," said Norman. "He's venting his hostilities. Be patient." Then Vanderveer went next door into Norman's room and started painting it too, walls and furniture and Norman and all, and Norman called the cops, who put Vanderveer in a strait jacket and hauled him away. I hated to take his room but somebody had to, and I started scraping black paint off the windows. Two windows! Ben got the landlord to repaint the walls, grey, the only color which would cover in one coat, so that instead of looking black as Hell it looked gray as Limbo. For days I scraped at the windows, seeking light, and the others in the house now treated me with such respect and consideration that sometimes they came in to keep me company. Ben was in there one day and happened to mention that Kate was on vacation. "Kate is? Did she go back to Colorado?" |
