Considering this second by which a heartfelt praise was the spark of a sophisticated friendship, I considered my pal, the author Robert Bingham, who died of a heroin overdose in 1999. At a gallery present in New York within the early Nineties, Rob, then a stranger, got here as much as me and instructed me he’d learn a brief story of mine and appreciated it very a lot. The story was a few younger man whose father died younger. I might later uncover that Rob was a man whose father died younger, as had mine, although this affinity was one thing we by no means truly acknowledged in phrases. Rob later received concerned in a literary journal I’d began and we had varied adventures at house and overseas; he received married after which he died. Now all of it appears to have taken place within the blink of a watch, although the precise span, gallery to funeral, was about seven years. Within the spring of 2000, we each revealed novels, his posthumous.
We had a wierd dynamic with our writing: outwardly supportive however not concerned within the particulars. We talked about literature on a regular basis however we didn’t learn one another’s work or provide notes. We have been every a supply of hysteria for the opposite, but additionally of confidence, in equal if fluctuating measures. To say we have been aggressive is unquestionably true, however it could miss one thing extra attention-grabbing: Rob and I wholeheartedly needed one of the best for one another, whereas additionally feeling stressed by the prospect of being exceeded by the opposite.
Vivid in my reminiscence is an answering-machine message he as soon as left that begins with the exultant however gently delivered information that he had positioned a narrative at {a magazine} of word, the place I had additionally revealed, suggesting we get collectively to rejoice. Then, as if he had run out of issues to say however didn’t wish to put the telephone down, he concluded with what nearly felt on the time like a taunt: “How about that, Jack?”
Rob’s loss of life was so abrupt that I nonetheless stay shocked: the swearing off medication, the drunken relapse, the overdose, the found physique, and abruptly, the groomsmen at his marriage ceremony reassembling six months later to be ushers at his funeral. Nowadays, my friendships with different writers are extra cordial, even delicate, as if we’ve seen sufficient folks burst into flames after which go up in smoke that we respect the fragility of the opposite particular person’s presence. I’ve by no means been in a position to write correctly about my pal Rob or that point in my life. As a substitute, I smuggle mentions of him into varied items of writing, as I’m doing right here, as if I can solely see him in reminiscence by way of eclipse glasses.
It could be this dynamic, above all, that prompted my visceral response and repeat visits to “Manet/Degas.” The mysteries of the artists’ friendship have been most conspicuous in a gallery devoted to 2 work, facet by facet, one by Manet and one by Degas. They’re variations on a theme: In every, a lady is seen in profile taking part in the piano.