Ebook rtf mathematics Feynman, Richard Surely You’…

good one
." I looked at the others. "That's good too, so is that one, but that one's lousy." I had 
never heard of these panels, but I decided that they were all good except for two. 
I went into a place called the Sala de Raphael--the Raphael Room--and I noticed the same phenomenon. I thought to myself, "Raphael is 
irregular. He doesn't always succeed. Sometimes he's very good. Sometimes it's just junk." 

---

When I got back to my hotel, I looked at the guidebook. In t he part about the Sistine Chapel: "Below the paintings by Michelangelo there are 
fourteen panels by Botticelli, Perugino"--all these great artists--"and two by So-and-so, which are of no significance." This was a terrific excitement 
to me, that I also could tell the difference between a beautiful work of art and one that's not, without being able to define it. As a scientist you always 
think you know what you're doing, so you tend to distrust the artist who says, "It's great," or "It's no good," and then is not able to explain to you why, 
as Jerry did with those drawings I took him. But here I was, sunk: I could do it too! 
In the Raphael Room the secret turned out to be that only some of the paintings were made by the great master; the rest were made by students. I 
had liked the ones by Raphael. This was a big jab for my self-confidence in my ability to appreciate art. 
Anyway, the guy from the art class and the nifty model came over to my house a number of times and I tried to draw her and learn from him. 
After many attempts I finally drew what I felt was a really nice picture--it was a portrait of her head--and I got very excited about this first success. 
I had enough confidence to ask an old friend of mine named Steve Demitriades if his beautiful wife would pose for me, and in return I would 
give him the portrait. He laughed. "If she wants to waste her time posing for you, it's all right with me, ha, ha, ha." 
I worked very hard on her portrait, and when he saw it, he turned over to my side completely: "It's 
just wonderful!
" he exclaimed. "Can you get a 
photographer to make copies of it? I want to send one to my mother in Greece!" His mother had never seen the girl he married. That was very 
exciting to me, to think that I had improved to the point where someone wanted one of my drawings. 
A similar thing happened at a small art exhibit that some guy at Caltech had arranged, where I contributed two drawings and a painting. He said, 
"We oughta put a price on the drawings." 
I thought, "That's silly! I'm not trying to sell them." 
"It makes the exhibition more interesting. If you don't mind parting with them, just put a price on." 
After the show the guy told me that a girl had bought one of my drawings and wanted to speak to me to find out more about it. 
The drawing was called "The Magnetic Field of the Sun." For this particular drawing I had borrowed one of those beautiful pictures of the solar 
prominences taken at the solar laboratory in Colorado. Because I understood how the sun's magnetic field was holding up the flames and had, by that 
time, developed some technique for drawing magnetic field lines (it was similar to a girl's flowing hair), I wanted to draw something beautiful that no 
artist would think to draw: the rather complicated and twisting lines of the magnetic field, close together here and spreading out there. 
I explained all this to her, and showed her the picture that gave me the idea. 
She told me this story: She and her husband had gone to the exhibit, and they both liked the drawing very much. "Why don't we buy it?" she 
suggested. 
Her husband was the kind of a man who could never do anything right away. "Let's think about it a while," he said. 
She realized his birthday was a few months ahead, so she went back the same day and bought it herself. 
That night when he came home from work, he was depressed. She finally got it out of him: He thought it would be nice to buy her that picture, 
but when he went back to the exhibit, he was told that the picture had already been sold. So she had it to surprise him on his birthday. 
What 
I
got out of that story was something still very new to me: I understood at last what art is really for, at least in certain respects. It gives 
somebody, individually, pleasure. You can make something that somebody likes 
so much
that th ey're depressed, or they're happy, on account of that 
damn thing you made! In science, it's sort of general and large: You don't know the individuals who have appreciated it directly. 
I understood that to sell a drawing is not to make money, but to be sure that it's in the home of someone who really wants it; someone who would 
feel bad if they didn't have it. This was interesting. 
So I decided to sell my drawings. However, I didn't want people to buy my drawings because the professor of physics isn't supposed to be able to 
draw, isn't that wonderful, so I made up a false name. My friend Dudley Wright suggested "Au Fait," which means "It is done" in French. I spelled it 
O-f-e-y, which turned out to be a name the blacks used for "whitey." But after all, I was whitey, so it was all right. 
One of my models wanted me to make a drawing for her, but she didn't have the money. (Models don't have money; if they did, they wouldn't be 
modeling.) She offered to pose three times free if I would give her a drawing. 
"On the contrary," I said. "I'll give you three drawings if you'll pose once for nothing." 
She put one of the drawings I gave her on the wall in her small room, and soon her boyfriend noticed it. He liked it so much that he wanted to 
commission a portrait of her. He would pay me sixty dollars. (The money was getting pretty good now.) 
Then she got the idea to be my agent: She could earn a little extra money by going around selling my drawings, saying, "There's a new artist in 
Altadena . . ." It was 
fun
to be in a different world! She arranged to have some of my drawings put on display at Bullock's, Pasadena's most elegant 
department store. She and the lady from the art section picked out some drawings--drawings of plants that I had made early on (that I didn't like)--and 
had them all framed. Then I got a signed document from Bullock's saying that they had such-and-such drawings on consignment. Of course nobody 
bought 
any
of them, but otherwise I was a big success: I had my drawings on sale at Bullock's! It was fun to have them there, just so I could say one 
day that I had reached that pinnacle of success in the art world. 
Most of my models I got through Jerry, but I also tried to get models on my own. Whenever I met a young woman who looked as if she would be 
interest ing to draw, I would ask her to pose for me. It always ended up that I would draw her face, because I didn't know exactly how to bring up the 
subject of posing nude. 
Once when I was over at Jerry's, I said to his wife Dabney, "I can never get the girls to pose nude: I don't know how Jerry does it!" 
"Well, did you ever 
ask
them?" 

---

"Oh! I never thought of that." 
The next girl I met that I wanted to pose for me was a Caltech student. I asked her if she would pose nude. "Certainly," she said, and there we 
were! So it was easy. I guess there was so much in the back of my mind that I thought it was somehow wrong to ask. 
I've done a lot of drawing by now, and I've gotten so I like to draw nudes best. For all I know it's not art, exactly; it's a mixture. Who knows the 
percentages? 
One model I met through Jerry had been a