Skin

“He had always liked picture galleries.”

This quote marks the true beginning of the story. The reference to the gallery links Drioli to his past, evoking memories of Chaim Soutine and setting up the main conflict. Not only does Drioli like picture galleries, but he has become one.

“It was a landscape, a clump of trees leaning madly over to one side as if blown by a tremendous wind, the sky swirling and twisting all around.”

Drioli looks twice at this painting because he believes he has seen it before. He and the artist shared the view of the landscape before the war. Though Drioli is about to be ridiculed for entering the gallery, he possesses valuable insights and background knowledge related to this work.

“And this Soutine, this ugly little Kalmuck, a sullen brooding boy whom he had liked -- almost loved -- for no reason at all that he could think of, except that he could paint.”

The artist and the art are nearly one to Drioli. He loves Soutine for his art, which becomes the reason for their friendship. In the same way that Drioli becomes the art and is effectively put to auction, so too are the artist and the art understood as a singular entity. This blending of the body and the art dehumanizes the artist and reduces the person to the form.

“It was odd, Drioli thought, how easily it all came back to him now, how each single small remembered fact seemed instantly to remind him of another.”

Though memory is fickle and unpredictable, Drioli realizes that it is especially strange that he does not reflect on the details of being tattooed by Soutine more often. Another tattoo, a small dog that he put on his arm as he taught Soutine how to tattoo, should serve as a ready reminder of this experience with his friend.

“‘The trouble is,’ the boy said gloomily, ‘that in themselves they are not nourishing. I cannot eat them.’”

This line, uttered by Soutine in response to Drioli’s praise of his work, displays one of the issues with The Great Divide. After Soutine’s death, his art is celebrated and worth more money than the story suggests Soutine saw in his lifetime, but while creating the art, he could not even afford to eat.

“‘It is only the very wealthy,’ Drioli said, ‘who can afford to celebrate in this manner.’”

Drioli’s joy of having the privilege to drink is layered in meaning. First, it foreshadows his desires at the end of the story; he is eager to experience a comfortable and stable life again. Second, there is an irony in Drioli’s spending: The moment he comes into money, he frivolously spends it on nine bottles of wine. This lavish expense affords him a night of escape from his deprivation.

“I mean a picture that I can have with me always … for ever … wherever I go … whatever happens … but always with me … a picture by you.”

Drioli’s wish to take Soutine’s art with him wherever he goes—in a permanent way—represents his support of his friend. His body becomes a canvas for his friend.

“The portrait was quite alive; it contained much of that twisted, tortured quality so characteristic of Soutine’s other works.”

The liveliness of the painting in its initial description and the personification of it parallel the twisted and swirling landscapes that Drioli observes outside the gallery. The tattoo’s movement is governed by the movement of Drioli’s body, rather than derived purely from Soutine’s techniques on canvas.

“And taking up the buzzer again, he inscribed his name in red ink on the right-hand side, over the place where Drioli’s kidney was.”

Soutine, happy with his work, signs Drioli’s back, and the signature is worth more than the art itself; however, this inscription over a vital organ determines Drioli’s fate. Perhaps had the tattoo not been signed, the manic fight to own the art would not have ensued. His body has aged, and the art has warped, yet because of the signature, the crowd accepts its authenticity.

“Those were the pleasant years, the years between the wars, with the small shop near the docks and the comfortable rooms and always enough work.”

Drioli served in World War I and returned home to live happily with his wife; however, the Second World War took everything away from him—his wife, his work, and his financial stability. During the interwar years, he enjoyed a pleasant and comfortable stability, and he was satisfied with a moderate, predictable life.

“No one had wanted pictures on their arms any more after that.” 

Because of the inhuman acts of the Nazi regime, including branding prisoners with a tattooed number on their arms, Drioli’s business of tattooing arms is no longer viable. Though Drioli’s comment here is brief, it addresses the atrocities of the Second World War and its lasting trauma.

“If I take the picture, I take you also. That is a disadvantage. […] The picture itself is of no value until you are dead.”

In the gallery owner’s assessment, the value of Drioli’s life is inseparable from the worth of the art on his back. The owner barters for Drioli’s skin, and the reality that the picture can be sold only if he dies is presented as an unfortunate—but not deal-breaking—reality, reflecting the dehumanization of Drioli.

“You would never survive. Only the picture would come through.”

Though the stranger says these words to Drioli to convince him not to make a deal with the gallery owner, his lines foreshadow Drioli’s fate. Thus, when the image appears in a gallery later, it is clear that Drioli had to die for it to be taken from him.