Bluebeard

by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

He leafed through my portfolio while saying things like this, very quietly, thank God, so his students could not hear: “Oh, dear, dear, dear,” and “My poor boy,” and “Who did this to you—or did you do it to yourself?” I asked him what on Earth was wrong, and he said, “I’m not sure I can put it into words.” He really did have to think hard about it. “This is going to sound very odd—” he said at last, “but, technically speaking, there’s nothing you can’t do. Do you understand what I’m saying?” “No,” I said. “I’m not sure I do, either,” he said. He screwed up his face, “I think—I think—it is somehow very useful, and maybe even essential, for a fine artist to have to somehow make his peace on the canvas with all the things he cannot do. That is what attracts us to serious paintings, I think: that shortfall, which we might call “personality,” or maybe even “pain.”” “I see,” I said. He relaxed. “I think I do, too,” he said. “It’s something I’ve never had to articulate before. How interesting!” “I can’t tell if you’ve accepted me as a student or not,” I said. “No, I’ve rejected you,” he said. “It wouldn’t be fair to either one of us if I were to take you on.” I was angry. “You’ve rejected me on the basis of some high-flown theory you just made up,” I protested. “Oh, no, no, no,” he said. “I rejected you before I thought of the theory.” “On the basis of what?” I demanded. “On the basis of the very first picture in your portfolio,” he said. “It told me, ‘Here is a man without passi...