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There being no substantive aesthetic issues to be addressed by an authorized Andrew Wyeth biography, you might hope such a book would answer the one question still on anyone’s mind: Did the old coot nail Helga Testorf? Richard Meryman’s Andrew Wyeth: A Secret Life lacks an index, so you actually have to read some of it to find that it’s every bit as coy about the matter as its subtitle suggests. Along the way, you discover a desperate attempt to ally Wyeth, temperamentally at least, with the maniacally driven AbEx-ers. “I might as well be in an orgasm when I get going,” Wyeth says of his painterly trances, giving rise to speculation that some guys’ orgasms are more fastidious than others. This, however, is topped by a fish story about a post-Thriller Michael Jackson portrait that—alas!—wasn’t meant to be. Meryman reads and signs at 7:30 p.m. at the Corcoran Gallery of Art’s Hammer Auditorium, 17th & New York Ave. NW. $15. (202) 639-1770. (Glenn Dixon)