Sunday, 26 February 2012

Revenge of the Decorated aRT School: Part One

Reena is standing, but not sitting. Her hands are behind her, but not in front of her. She’s keeping an eye on two rooms at once: the room containing Lara Proctors What’s it Like? 2011 and the one with Portraits 2010, the pre-battle panorama of awful photomontages that have seeped along side coherent critical works this year.

Reena’s eyes are brown? Blue? Something like that. Why describe her as beautiful? She’s not. She’s pre-aesthetic. Meaning there is no man or woman on earth who could say with complacency what it is that makes him or her go back a few steps to see her, or simply what makes him or her see her. What we need is a picture. A poet might have said her nose denoted two conflicting things: independence, and sensuality. And that her eyebrows bespoke female gallantry. But again, how does he or she come up with these conclusions from looking at her? Something in her face said “... ocean... radar.” And something in her face and body together said “Trampled Grass.” When you actually drive to the prairie. But I don’t want to make her out to be more or less or other than human, or even human.

How is she? Young and ugly and beautiful. All-in-one vehicle. A sponge, a vacuum. Strands of not-so-blond hair escaping her barrette. A scouting eye would say. . . let’s get some highlights. Not a wig no, no extensions, no, just a bit of colour perhaps, and a brush. Same story with her skin . . . never seen a facial. Not yet. Not at this point in her life. She knows about these matters, but she doesn’t care, nor has she met anybody who made her care or made her want to encounter such improvements. Well, she somehow is required to put her hair out of the face. Because she works in public. And there are rules in a public. But her hair likes to slip. She’s somewhat careless with her uniform too.

Well, Reena stands there with a gold disc on each lapel like all the other guards. They look like toy soldiers, porters, bell-boys, 19th-century things, something snazzy but depressed, controlling yet puppet-like, serving. Serving the world, the studio, the art- works. Serving it up. Their own nothingness, wrapped in a funny costume. A bit scratchy too. All polyester. I love these guards! Waiting, waiting observing. Being magnificently bored. Bearing boredom. What a job! She is not happy, not sad, not nothing. Un- useful servant. You don’t need to demonstrate business in that job, but deliver cool static. She is good at that. That’s how she got the job in the first place, despite her young age. She has worked here at the museum now for the last seven months. Her sense of listening and her sense of observing with the eye have drastically improved. Super-sensitized, she’s become a recording instrument. She knows secrets, she’s heard people talk, opinionated, despair: “I don’t think she’d understand me”...“what adventures did you have since I last saw you”...“I’d like to live in t-shirt and undershorts”...“How long was I out there crying?”...“Do your best”...“I’m gonna kill this man”... “I love it”... “come on, we all know there will be war.” Nobody ever talks in the way it would blow her brains out. Plus she has no desire to interfere with the flows that brought these streams of people, words. It all goes through her now, a surplus of subjectivities at her disposal. Reena, magnificently bored again, all day long. So she began to daydream…

I sensed someone, and I opened my eyes to see you sitting on the stool with a big grin on your face. I wanted to question your presence, but it was so welcome that I dared not for fear you would disappear. You removed the covers and pulled me to the edge of the table. Hoisting my legs to your shoulders, you were just about to demonstrate your mean pussy eating skills when...

Someone, in the gallery coughed loudly, interrupting her imaginative flow, "For fuck sake." Reena thought to herself, as she allowed herself to become sucked back into her imaginary world:

I wonder what your tongue would have felt like between my legs. The scene then cut to my flat, where I decided an interlude under the bathtub faucet was in order. You once told me you’d really like to see that.

 I stripped off my pyjamas, the striped shorts with the navy blue whales, and the solid blue top. I turned the faucet on, scooted my ass under the stream, and positioned my feet on the wall.

 One nice thing about this method is the variability of the water. That is, it doesn’t just come out of the faucet in a steady stream. It jumps around a little, which results in it teasing my clit. This prolongs the build up, improving the quality of the resulting orgasm.

 I was planning to do the stop and start trick, optimally letting go on the 10th, but I was too turned on to get past three. When I blew, it was unbelievable, and so awesome to be able to scream the way I really wanted to. I imagined your reaction had you been here, and sighed heavily contemplating your absence.

 I started wondering what we would be doing if you were here. For sure, you would be pretty turned on watching my show. I imagined you perched on the edge of the tub, reaching down to caress me, maybe kissing me once or twice. By the time I let go, your cock would already be in your hand. You’d help me out of the tub, dry me off, take my hand and lead me down the hall to the bedroom. We’d get into bed and I’d lie naked on top of you, pressing our bodies together while we kissed.

 I would decide before too long that it was time to pleasure you, and I would kiss a trail all over your body...

She stopped suddenly, knowing if she got too carried away it would be noticed. As the grainy surveillance monitors are registering all her moves... sometimes she thought of herself as just a monitor staring back at the other monitors. A Russian man has just asked her where he could find Furniture Sex, by Cara Mason, but his party has already found it and is laughing with enthusiasm over this allegory of lost virginity they’ve come so far to see.

Reena's shift had ended, she took up her wattle bottle and headed to the common room to get changed, as she was coming out her eyes were bright and her hair looked windblown. Her boy’s white oxford shirt was frayed in the collar and in the cuffs, and through it, her purple lace bra was visible. She looked perfect.

“Oh, My God,” whispering in the back of the common room. “Did she, like, pick up her clothes at a homeless shelter on the way here?”  Imagine Reena and the drummer/ model leaning against a big, black van, his drumsticks jammed in his back pocket. heS was very cold, and had got his saliva in her hair, but it was worth it. Then picture Reena and another imaginary boy on a ski lift. They began to kiss and couldn’t stop themselves. How cool. Hands down, Reena Spaulings was the coolest girl in the entire world. 

Reena walked fervently across the field heading towards her flat; the day had been a long one, more and more each day Reena was growing frustrated with merely standing around in the studio and simply staring at others works. So she continued her daydream, daydreaming enabled Reena to get through the dullest and longest of hours, closing her eyes as she walked… 

Now where was I … The trail of kisses would go everywhere except where you wanted it most, and when you objected I’d tell you you’d thank me later. In fact, I might even produce restraints from my nightstand to make sure you never forgot the experience.

 Once you were tied up, you’d make quite the picture. Your amazing body would be on display for me to admire, and your cock would stand straight up, demanding my attention. Ignoring it, I might lick your nipples, kiss your face, position my wet cunt over your mouth, or distract you in any number of other ways from what you wanted most.

 Finally I begin licking ever so lightly, causing you to moan in frustration. I’d ignore your protests and keep to my own maddeningly slow pace. I would not be rushed. 

I might interrupt myself to lick your balls, causing you to moan involuntarily. Or maybe, just maybe, I’d give in. I’d use my right hand to slide your throbbing cock into my mouth, little by little, gently squeezing your balls in my left. While you were inside, I would draw all over you with my tongue. I’d take my mouth off and lick your underside, and you’d go wild. “Please, baby – please make me come,” you’d beg.

 “I will,” I’d reply. “Be patient.” 

I’d resume tonguing your cock and squeezing your balls, which were getting bluer by the moment, but I’d also squeeze your steel, making it even bigger and harder. Impossibly, you’d tell me you were getting close. God – you are such a pushover! “Come for me, baby. I want to taste you.” 

I’d keep working on your cock with my hand, lowering my mouth to the perfect spot to take your sweet cum, until you let loose. I’d feel your balls contract, and hear your moan, and swallow every bit of your amazing juice.

 Meanwhile, back in my house, I got out of the tub and realized I wasn’t done. Because the water had washed away all my juices, I grabbed a finger full of lube and started rubbing my clit. I was so turned on, I kept saying “Oh, fuck” as I stroked myself, alone in my king-size bed. I never felt so out of control, and I liked it. It didn’t take long before a shattering orgasm overcame me, and my screams echoed through my big, empty house. Wish you were here…

Lost in her world, Reena didn’t notice one of the curators from the museum walking towards her, CRASH Reena collided into Kevin, “I’m so sorry” she stammered, edging backward, “Sorry Mr. Forrester.” Reena staggered backwards a few paces before whirling around and hurrying away. Kevin stood in the Earley Gate Park perplexed for a second who was that woman? The walk across the park hadn’t been such a good idea for Kevin: his shirt was soaked with perspiration. He took off his backpack and jacket and tried flapping his arms but that just made him sweat even more. So he decided to stand as still as possible and hope for the best. He would rest a little before continuing to the much-anticipated event, his first public preview of the artists to be included in the Studio 4 Biennial. Draping his linen jacket carefully across his knees, Kevin leaned back against the high stonewall, using his backpack as a prop. The number 21 bus rushed past and its fume-choked wake stirred up a small tornado of trash and leaves. Kevin gagged at the stench of stale dog shit and urine. It reminded him of his childhood, this familiar fecal aroma tinged with rotting leaves and damp stone. 

Indeed Kevin’s upbringing differed very greatly from Reena’s, his indulgent parents had frequently taken him on outings to Thorpe Park some hour or so away from Reading where, despite the allure of such things as the dairy, the castle, and the zoo, he preferred to spend hours clambering up and down the park’s schist outcroppings. An only child, Kevin occupied himself like this for hours, pretending to be a squirrel. 

He felt a vibration against his thigh and reached for his phone. The name “Donna” flashed on its tiny screen.           
“Hey,” Kevin said. “S’up?”
“I hear cars. You aren’t at Desmond’s” Donna meant the post Trump Trianon Whiteknights House residence of museum trustess Peggy and Perry Desmond.
“I know. I’m right across from it. It took longer than I thought.”
“Why? Did you stop for a blow job in the Ramble?”
“Ha ha. No. But there was a guy at the band shell roller skating with a cat. He had this amazing trick where he…”
“Whatever. Look, get your ass up to Desmonds’s asap. You have to do a run through of the PowerPoint.”
“Okay, okay. I’m going.”
“Call me.”  
“Right” Kevin snapped the phone shut, Donna, his assistant, had urged him to take a taxi to the event but he’d insisted on walking. It was part of his new exercise regimen, begun that very morning when he’d noticed a disconcerting waistline bulge. For some time he had dismissed his exaggerated equatorial curve as a common attribute of the Classical physique: why, even the Met’s perfectly adorable Polykleitan Diadumenos had what some people reffered to as “love handles.” But the Diadumenos’ stomach didn’t fold over his underwear, so Kevin resoled to be rid of it. At breakfast, he drank water instead of orange juice and took only half a donut in the morning staff meeting.
            Kevin glanced at the time. “Cock,” he said under his breath. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and flapped his arms again, trying to dry the dark sweat blotches that extended from his armpits to his waistline. The back of his shirt was soaked and, when he slipped off his backpack, the perspiration felt cold against his skin.  

A black town car eased to a stop in front of the Trianon. Kevin instantly recognized the woman who stepped out: Violet Tweed, his boss’s wife. Tweed, the man who would only ever look down at people like Reena as a piece of shit on the bottom of his shoe; despite the fact, and he knew it, Studio 4 could not run without them. Violet looked like an R. Crumb character with stiletto-heeled boots, a scandalously short bottom-clenching skirt, and sequined halter top wrapped around an impressive bust. Russell Tweed, Director of the Studio 4 Museum of Art, followed behind her. Dressed in a dark suit, gleaming white shirt, and red tie, Tweed was balding and considerably shorted than his strikingly attired, and appreciably younger, spouse.

Another town car pulled to the curb behind Tweed’s the driver quickly stepped out to open the rear door for a tall, grey-haired man who Kevin recognized to be Peter Merton, billionaire media mogul and founder of the Merton Museum of Art and also of Studio 4. Merton’s wife, Constance, emerged after him. The museum patriarch kissed Violet Tweed on both cheeks and then shook the directors hand. Mrs. Merton nodded reservedly towards them crying “Cunty! Cunty! Cunty!” (for that was how Constance Merton was known to her friends). This harried apparition was Biddy Boswell, the most powerful of Readings notorious “art consultants.”

Kevin’s heart raced as he imagined the scene that awaited him at the Desmonds’s cocktail soiree. The event was hosted by the museum’s Contemporary Art Circle, a mid-level donor group that sponsored exhibitions deemed too risqué by corporate underwriters. The members included some of the more adventurous trustees as well as collectors, consultants, and even a few outright dealers all of whom benefited from knowing what was being planned for the museum’s more cutting edge programming. Being included in a show at Studio 4, especially in the Biennial, immediately added ten to twenty percent to an artist’s prices, occasionally much more. Kevin dismissed as irrelevant the influence his work had on the market, but at an event like this it would be hard to ignore: the information he was about to impart was literally worth a fortune. 

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