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[必]工 作 量：27,812 字
[必]工作報酬：中文每千字600元
[必]涉及語言：英譯中
[必]所屬領域：藝術‧繪畫
[必]文件類型：書籍的一部分
[必]截 稿 日：12月15日
[必]應徵期限：
[必]聯絡方式：du.wentian@gmail.com
[必]付費方式：洽案主
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[選]參考段落：（提供部分段落讓譯者評估難度，若未提供請勿刪除)
[選]試 譯 文：
Outside the Cedar Tavern in Greenwich Village one night
in the early 1950s, someone observed two painters sitting on the curb,
passing a bottle back and forth. One of them, Willem de Kooning,
was in his early fifties. He had a mind made for mischief. A sense of
irony gurgled beneath his habitually open and generous manner.
“Self-protection bored him,” said his friend Edwin Denby. And he
did not like to be bored. De Kooning was fiercely intelligent.
He had seen it all—and yet the world continued to astonish him.
“Jackson,” he was saying, as he slapped the back of Jackson Pollock,
his fellow painter and friend, “you’re the greatest painter in America!”
Pollock had a volatile temper. It got the better of him when he was drunk;
and these days he generally was—certainly at the Cedar Tavern, a gathering
place for painters and their retinue and a boozy stage for displays of
strutting machismo. Pollock was also intelligent in his peculiar,
inarticulate, combustible way. He yearned to make connections with people,
but he habitually sabotaged those connections. He liked and admired de
Kooning. And although they were far from best friends, for most of the ten
years they had known each other the feeling had been more or less mutual.
Still, it was complicated.
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