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Clement Greenberg was a prolific art critic who wrote on “American-Type” painting in order to respond to Harold Rosenberg who wrote The American Action Painters, another art critic and quite the opposite to Greenberg. While Greenberg preferred a more abstract and academic approach to art, Rosenberg preferred the whimsy, letting artists lean into the Avant Garde and use their art to act.
Greenberg stepped into the busy restaurant, invited there by one of the people he disliked the most, Rosenberg. Why he even accepted this invitation he had no idea. Perhaps this time the man had come to his senses, and was ready to accept that using true medium in abstract art was the way of the future. He adjusted his coat and looked around before spotting Rosenberg, making his way over to the table.
Rosenberg chuckled to himself as he saw Greenberg enter the restaurant, actually rather surprised to see that he was willing to have a civil conversation about their differences. Perhaps finally seeing the light about true creative expression through the Avant Garde instead of the hoity-toity academia angle Greenberg seems so married to. Rosenberg nodded respectfully to Greenberg as the other man sat down across from him.
“Rosenberg,” Greenberg greeted. “I’m glad you’ve finally come to your senses.”
Rosenberg raised an eyebrow and took a long sip of wine out of the glass in front of him. “My senses? I just wanted to have a civil conversation with you, but it seems like you think you’ve already won something.” He scoffed.
Greenberg sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Well then, what's the point of me coming here for a conversation? Clearly your silly ideas about ‘action painting’ are barbaric. Where pure abstraction is the most civilized form of art, untangling the essence and idea of medium to create a truly touching piece of art.”
“Well? How about Kooning’s Woman I? Surely there is something you like about it. The feeling and grace of the brush work, the expression in the paint!”
“Woman I is a disgrace to painting! It’s a mess of paint and relies far too much on its audience being able to see the woman! What’s the point of feeling when the audience is forced to feel based on what they see? Pollock’s No. 1 however, is true art and feeling. Calculated paint splatter and lines, layered beautifully on top of each other until there is nothing left but true, unadulterated feeling!”
“I’m beginning to believe that you wouldn’t know ‘feeling’ if it punched you in the face, Greenberg.” Rosenberg sneered. A look that Greenberg was rather familiar with by this point, he clenched his fist under the table fighting the urge to wipe the demeaning look off of his face.
“Well? How about you Rosenberg, surely that’s not all you have to say about No. 1?” Greenburg scoffs. “Perhaps you don’t have as much rattling around in your brain as I thought if that’s all you have to say about it.”
Rosenberg’s grip became tighter on his wine glass, almost white knuckling it at this point. “Well of course not. I’ll give you credit where it’s due, Greenberg. You do know how to find… interesting pieces of art. However, I don’t understand how you think that something so calculated could evoke emotion, especially when it's so starved for creativity. I could walk into about fifty galleries and find similar paintings, all looking as if a chicken had done it.” Rosenberg hummed.
Greenberg gritted his teeth together, as if Rosenberg knows good art. “I'm not sure you’re qualified to tell good art from bad, if you can’t tell the difference between art and a urinal.”
“Greenburg, the so-called ‘art’ you like so much, looks like it belongs in a urinal.” Rosenburg chuckled. Not for long though, Greenburg reached across the table and punched him square in the face before Rosenburg could even react.
It was a quick scuffle, the two men threw only a few punches, grabbing each other by the suit jackets to try and get the upper hand. They knocked over their table, sending wine and fine dining wear scattering across the floor as other patrons scattered with it. Surely this will be on the news the next morning. The two critics are forced apart by a few male patrons who were not afraid to get between the two and forced out of the restaurant rather quickly.
Rosenberg lost his footing as he was shoved out the door, landing on the sidewalk with a grunt. His head still spinning from a hit, Greenberg landed right on his cheek. Rosenberg pushed himself slowly off of the concrete regaining unsteady footing. His gaze landed on Greenburg, who was leaning against a lamp post and wiping blood from his nose, Rosenberg can’t help but feel a bit of pride from getting Greenberg at least a little.
“Is it broken?” Rosenberg asked, the smug pride evident in his tone.
“Of course not.” Greenberg scoffed. “You think you would have broken my nose with those pathetic little swings? Bleeding doesn’t mean broken, you insufferable worm.”
Rosenberg rolled his eyes. “Careful, you sound like you’re asking for it to be broken now.”
“You can barely hold yourself up, Rosenberg. I would beat you and you know it.” He laughed and pushed himself off of the lamp. “Now if you excuse me I have better things to do, than argue with someone like you.”
“I was the one being civil.” Rosenberg spat. “You threw the first punch.”
“You antagonized me from the start, if you didn’t want to be punched then maybe you shouldn’t have acted like you wanted it.”
“You can act all high and mighty all you want but you’re no better than I am.”
Greenberg started to walk away attempting to ignore what he deemed to be the inane ramblings of a madman. He made it far, Rosenberg’s shouting getting quieter as he made his way down the street, hoping that his nose bleed would stop before he returned home, not wishing to get blood all over his floor or furniture. While Greenberg was off in his thoughts at this point Rosenberg stared holes into his back, enraged by the sheer audacity of this man. Rosenberg eventually found his footing after a moment longer and ran after the other man.
Rosenberg barreled into Greenberg, the two collapsing to the ground with the force of the collision. Rosenberg managed to catch himself, scraping up his palms on the concrete. Greenberg caught himself as well, quickly turning to stare in utter disbelief at Rosenberg.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing you loon!” Greenberg spluttered.
“I am sick and tired of you, Greenberg.” Rosenberg growls. “You think you’re so much better than me because of your dog water opinions.” He adjusted himself so he could grab Greenberg by the shirt, effectively pinning him against the ground. “You act like you have the best opinions but really all I can see is a sad lonely man with a sad lonely life. All you do is push others away and act like that’s fine, but really you’re just as pathetic as you claim I am.”
Greenberg stared at him. His rage melted from him and instead was replaced by utter shock. Was this really how Rosenberg saw him? Was this how other people saw him? As this sad pathetic man? No… he was a respected art critic! He laughed and sneered at Rosenberg, getting in his face. Their breath mingling together with how close they are by this point.
“I believe it’s called projecting, dear Rosenberg.”
Rosenberg saw red, although his next action almost seemed strange. Perhaps it was how close they were, the adrenaline of the moment pumping through his veins, their mingling breath but he kissed Greenberg. It wasn’t gentle or loving though, no, it was full of frustration and hate for the man in front of him. A desire to shut him up, to prove that he can, to humiliate him through humiliating himself. The only thing that surprised both of them more than the initial action was Greenberg’s reaction to kiss back.
The two critics now engaged in a heated and rough kiss, attempting to fight for a kind of dominance, biting, and shoving each other in attempts to get and stay over the other. Teeth occasionally clacked against teeth as the two scuffled but Rosenberg eventually won. His hands gripped tightly around Greenberg’s wrists, keeping them firmly on the ground and practically sitting on his chest to keep the rest of him down.
Greenberg had struggled, trying his best at first but Rosenberg managed to wear him down rather easily. He had been so determined not to be the one on the bottom, but here he is- just as eagerly biting and bruising Rosenberg’s lips. That is until Rosenberg pulled away and Greenberg found himself following his lips until they were gone. Flushing with embarrassment as soon as he realized what he had done.
Rosenberg smirked at him, his chest raising and lowering quickly with the panting breaths he took. “Well well well…” He crooned. “Look who’s all high and mighty now…”
Greenberg glared at him, the scathing look mixing with embarrassment. “You only had the upper hand because you caught me off guard.”
“Asking for another?” He ignored how excited that had him, adrenaline making his heart flutter.
“Only because you seem to be enjoying yourself.” Greenberg quipped back. “And maybe I’d like you better if you were quiet more often.”
“Then we finally agree on something. I think I prefer you when you’re quiet as well.”