REENA SPAULINGS FINE ART
165 EAST BROADWAY
NEW YORK, NY 10002
Dear Reena
I’m Sorry.
Can we start
over?
Alana
Wednesday 29 February 2012
Revenge of the Decorated aRT school: Part Five
Reena’s on her feet again, presiding over the meeting between people and
pictures of people. She’s
still a little lost in the after-effects of last night’s muscle workout and
drugs. A pleasant, run over by tires feeling. If called on to speak she would have trouble
doing so. The paintings seem to be getting what they need, and the people are
heavy, drowsy in the galleries today. A young Japanese couple is drifting
through, laughing, brushing, crushing each other’s clothing. An American bald
man seems to follow, or drift along in their wake.
Reena kills some time by contemplating the painting in front of her. Violets in hand,
she looks like an appropriated renaissance Madonna. A fallen, half-peeled
orange lies at the bottom of a stand upon which the parrot is sitting. In front
of the parrot is a glass with water for him to drink. The woman is standing
against a dark blackish-green background. Her dress is huge, covering her
entire body with salmonish-pink satin. It is quite a contrast. One notices
right away the other black parts in the portrait, as they seem to be connecting
agents to that abstract plane: one tip of a boot stepping out of the pink, the black
velvet choker round her neck, and her eyes. There is also the parrot’s one eye.
Reena has stationed herself in the carnival route, where people
come out from the 3rd room all turned on and flyby the 1st to get to the 4th.
That seems to have been the idea, she meditates, to have the 4ths naked woman and
parrot, right at the end of the arcade, a destination. This woman sprawls on
her back laughing, flirting with her own bird, who is on her finger flapping
his wings, seemingly maddened by the acre of hair that flows from her head.
What’s her body to him? Her nipples. Reena is still tasting the cocaine, and her own hair smells
cigarettes from last night and the oil from her actions.
She’s
starting to fall asleep on her feet while guarding. It’s something every guard has done, and
knows how to do. She
starts running back snippets from last night. Sometimes she unintentionally makes a face
while standing there, or speaks a little by surprise in response to her memories. Not
even memories but actual odors. Some of what happened at After Dark eludes Reena’s memory of the
night before. Like the dark parks in the painting, these gaps are the
connecting agents to the abstract plane she calls “good times.” They are the
not so good times, or the times in-between, the parts that contrast with the
fun, pink, fleshy areas that unite the composition of her conscious experience of the party.
She remembers
the sexy, almost scary shine of Maris’s glossy lips, but not what they said. She remembers that at
one point they were alone together. But not what caused the commotion
afterwards, or how she
ended up alone in the street. She remembers the cab ride home, but not how she paid for it.
Reena has a blackish-green bruise on her thigh; somebody’s phone number is
inscribed upon her
palm, half erased there in the chemical sweat. Reena is drifting in and out of
consciousness while standing and looking.
“Now,” it
occurs to Reena,
“I’m ready to extend the domain of pleasures.”
Meanwhile in
the background of the gallery Kevin had been sat at his desk for an hour already, but
still hadn’t begun the pile of letters, leaflets and magazines that were
teetering on the edge of his desk. On the top of the pile was the quarterly magazine, Currents issued by the Lightbox gallery
in Woking where Kevin
had begun his
curatorial career. Leafing through the pages filled with glossy pictures of
second-rate artworks, articles on the museum’s multi-cultural outreach
programs, and dozens of photos of donors and trustees forcing smiles and
clutching glasses of chardonnay, Kevin mused on how far he had come. Even though, just out
of college, he
had secured a coveted internship at the Royal Academy of Modern Art and
believed with hard work he could rise through the ranks there, Kevin was suddenly enlightened
when he
overheard the director of the museum confide to one of his deputies: “There’s
no was we can use Phillips for that job. To promote from within was to promote
mediocrity.” Gaining entre into the exclusive world of the art museum, he’d
discovered, required a stint of some duration out of town. So, setting his sights on
the smaller counties, he found a posting online for an entry-level job at the Lightbox.
The interview process was pro forma, as his RA credentials, meager as they were,
trumped his
competitors’ Ph.D.s.
He settled back in his chair and looked at the cover of Currents. It featured a photo of his smiling
former boss, a career museum bureaucrat, proudly displaying the museum’s newest
acquisition, a set of Matisse’s Jazz prints.
He tossed
the magazine into the trash. Next on the pile were several dozen reception and
dinner invitations on which Kevin hastily scrawled “REGRETS” then set aside to
give to his
assistant. Kevin
despised openings – at which it was impossible to see any art – and loathed the
obligatory dinners that followed. Yet he knew there were some he must dutifully attend. The
dynamics of the art world played itself out at these gatherings where careers
were made, and sometimes lost. He paused, as he was about to add another invitation to the
reject pile. It was from Peter Merton himself, an invitation to a party in
honor of the publication of John Russell’s monographs. One that he really
couldn’t squirm his way out of.
Monday 27 February 2012
Revenge of the Decorated aRT School: Part Four
The evening
had gone well for Kevin.
He had
survived the wrath of the critics, collectors, and his bosses. The work that he was planning
to show in the Biennial was new, edgy, and raw. The Emily’s video had gone down
especially well; it was much better than any of the “real” video art that was
out there anyway. Kevin
ambled home slowly, enjoying the crisp air; as he was walking home Reena’s night at
After Dark was just beginning.
Kevin’s apartment was small but clean, by Norris Road standards
anyway, and miraculously there were no cockroaches. It had been a godsend –
thanks to a tip from a friend of a friend – a sunny one bedroom in a pre-war
elevator building which, seventy-five years before, had been the address of
choice for immigrants who’d made it big in the furniture, restaurant, or
rabbinical supply business. To the right of every one of the wide apartment
doors was the telltale outline of a mezuzah, each covered in a thick coat of
black paint. The building still exuded a faded elegance, its spacious lobby
adorned with chic art deco detailing and a mural representing the original
Dutch settlement of New Amsterdam, apropos of the edifice’s name, The Peter
Minuit. The current residents were mostly artists, writers, and musicians. His next-door
neighbour was typical, a successful screenwriter who could have lived anywhere
she pleased but chose Norris Road because it provided her with “material.” At
her wedding, to which she’d invited everyone on their floor, Kevin was
amused to see not only Reading celebrities but also some familiar characters
from the neighbourhood: the taciturn Korean dry cleaner and his wife, the Gorth
cashier at Kim’s video, and the homeless man who slept in front of Rahim’s shop
in a cardboard box.
Kevin’s apartment was cluttered with furniture and books, most of
which had belonged to his parents. It was an odd assortment: an antique German cabinet
and an old clock his
mother’s family had brought over from Latvia, a Danish Modern living room set,
a faded Persian carpet, a dozen or so contemporary photographs, drawings, and
prints, and a large oil painting of a rabbi in a fur hat (a distant relative, he’d been
told). The windowsills were crammed with his mother’s houseplants, which Kevin had
dutifully cared for since she passed away, carrying them with him on two
cross-country moves. Every available surface was covered with books. They
filled several walls of shelves as well as teetering in uneven piles on top of
the coffee table and in stacks that lined the corridors, making it treacherous
to move from one room to the next. Kevin loved his private little nest though at times it
did make him
feel just a bit suffocated and prematurely old.
Kevin sometimes wondered if his own passion for art derived from the fact
that it was the Lower Earley gallery boom that saved his neighbourhood and made it safe
again for him
to play outside. One of the fire galleries to open was right across the street
from Kevin’s
home, a tiny place called 5.5:6.1. At first it seemed like just another
eccentric Lower Earley storefront, no different from the place a few doors down
that had in its window a dusty collection of plastic dinosaurs hanging by
nooses or another nearby that had filled its entire front window with a
thriving colony of ants. What made 5.5:6.1 truly eccentric was how clean it was
and how brightly lit. Kevin was intensely attracted to the crud-free interior that he recalled
having his
very first hard-on the day his mother relented and let him step cautiously inside
on his
way back from school.
The next
morning Kevin
stepped out of his
building onto the tenement-lined street. Even through a thick blanket of haze,
the sun felt as if it were burning through his clothes. “And its not even 8,” he thought. As Kevin walked
down Norris Road to Pitcroft Avenue, a garbage truck followed bleeping loudly
as it lurched and groaned from one towering pile of garbage bags to the next.
Leaping off the metal perch at the back of the truck, a young man in a sweat
soaked wife-beater set upon the bursting plastic bags stacked high within the
wheelie bins on the path. Kevin admired the man’s glistening coffee-coloured skin and a
gentle, almost childlike face. He seemed subdued, already exhausted at the
start of a long, hot day. In another line of work he might be considered
attractive, mused Kevin.
A block ahead,
Kevin spotted
the decrepit white building that was the Studio 4 gallery, once an old war
hospital the building had not changed much on the outside since it was built in
the 1950’s, apart from the large conversion that jutted out of the back of the
building that was constructed some time during the 90’s. Unattractive to start
with the building had no aged well. Its concrete façade was streaked with grime
and, in the damper months, covered with a mould-like crud that had to be
blasted off – when the museum could afford it – with high-powered steam guns.
The interior was even worse. The parquet floor was buckling and had acquired a
tacky, mottled look. The galleries were poorly proportioned and flowed
awkwardly. Most of the interior walls were white hardboard screwed into the
solid brick walls. In some galleries the ceilings were too high, in others too
low, the lighting system was antiquated and flakes of asbestos occasionally
descended on visitors like the first hint of oncoming snow. The main lobby, a
small and uninviting space, had recently become home to an outsized and garish
enterprise called “The Studio 4” experience,” were you could buy ties and
coffee mugs with images of works from the collection. Pin boards adorned the
walls here, with notices and posters from various past Studio exhibitions, and
other shows happening in near by London.
Kevin came in the staff entrance, “You certainly are an early
riser,” mused Gary, the regular guard. Kevin found the security guard to be rather
insular and hard to read, but Gary was an exception. He always brought Kevin a coffee
whenever he wandered over to the near by coffee place, and treated Kevin to other
perks, like not having to sign in or call down to admit in his guests.
“I
don’t have much of a life,” admitted Kevin.
“Lie
in bed a while, man.
Enjoy your sweetheart,” said Gary with a schoolmasterish frown.
“No
sweetheart now, I’m afraid.”
“That
won’t do at all,” said Gary, shaking his head gravely.
“What
happened to that nice young man you brought to the staff party last year?”
“I
haven’t seen him for months. He had issues.”
“Issues?
What issues, man?
He looked like Brad Pitt.”
“Trust
me Gary. Serious ISSUES.” Kevin gave Gary a pat on the arm. In fact, though Kevin hated to
admit it, the guy’s only “issue” had been that he liked Kevin enough to ask him to move in
with him. After which Kevin stopped returning his calls and resumed his weekly
forays to the adult video store where he got and gave as many blow jobs as he liked
without ever having to deal with anything more personal than an occasional
unpleasant smell. Kevin had only
had one serious live in boyfriend and that had been such a disaster that he had vowed
never to repeat the exercise. It was during Kevin’s second year at University.
He’d been
chosen to play Romeo, despite having little acting experience, and found himself
suddenly involved in a relationship, onstage and off, with the first year who
had been cast in the role of Mercutio. Their affair was built around the play,
and even after they moved in together their daily conversations, including
sex-talk, were peppered with Shakespearean quotations. Kevin cringed to recall how his
thespian boyfriend used to cry out, “Romeo! Humours! Madam! Passion! Lover!”
whenever he had an orgasm. When it got to be too much – a year after the last
curtain fell on Romeo and Juliet they were still speaking with English accents
– Kevin
tried to break off the relationship. At which point, Mercutio took things to a
new level, swallowing some improvised poison and stabbing himself with an old
letter opener. He was taken away by people from the Student Health Services and
Kevin
never saw or heard from him again.
Revenge of the Decorated aRT School: Interlude 2
REENA SPAULINGS FINE ART
165 EAST BROADWAY
NEW YORK, NY 10002
Dear Reena
It has been a week now since
my last letter. And still no reply. All silent on the Spaulings Front. My
questions weren’t hard, I thought they were fair? So why don’t you answer, you
don’t fucking care. You exist. I came to that
conclusion. Reena, as much of an artist as any of these fucking cunts in this
institution.
Why are we institution, what
do we gain? We label ourselves as though we should be sectioned, enforced to
padded cells.
WE ARE THE INSITUTION. WE
THE INSTITUTION ARE.
Claire Fontaine ignores me still. They glue their matches, burn… burn…
burn. FLAME FIRE ASH.
ANSWER ME NOW
Alana
Revenge of the Decorated aRT school: Part Three
Whilst Kevin’s evening
was set, Reena
was experiencing a very different time; Kevin and Reena were polar opposites within the aRT
Institution. One climbing to the peak of the scale of who’s who, the other,
stuck invariably at the bottom.
Donnington
Gardens: Reena
thought to herself as she walked down the street, “Where has the day gone? Why
does this street never open up? Will I ever kick in a window? And: am I a
bisexual?” A Garden of questions Donnington Gardens, already: Bodies, outfits,
bricks, traffic, traffic reflected in polished granite, glass, cops, bags,
voices and horns, sliding doors, Reena Spaulings. The smog-loving gingko trees
outlasting us all.
Reena made the decision that she did not want her day to end, so she made her way into town,
towards the After Dark club; a small dingy place on the outside After Dark
still looked like the small terraced house it had been way back when. Getting
in was as simple as knowing whose name to mention at the door, “Debbie
Mayfeild.” Crossing the dark entry and on through a low arched way, cut through
what in old times must have been a great central chimney with fire-places all
round, you entered the main upstairs party room, dark, with such low beams
above and such old wrinkled planks underneath that you would almost think you trod
some old craft’s cockpits on a howling night. On one side stood a long low,
shelfilike table covered with glasses and cracked open cases of beer.
Projecting from the far angle of the room was a dark-looking den – the bar,
behind which bustled a withered man selling the girls and boys their deliriums.
Distracted by
a guy she once
dated making out with a girl she also used to date, Reena stumbled in the entryway and scraped her face either on a
rusty nail or on somebody’s long fingernails as they tried to break her fall. Then she lost her one
twenty-pound note under some feet in the dark. On her hands and knees, she was trying to
recover the money but lost an earring in the process. The twenty pounds weren’t
so important but the earring was sentimental. She waited at the bar, dabbing her face with a paper
napkin until it stopped bleeding. At least her drinks would be free tonight.
She
noticed the place had been repainted in the style of certain late Francis
Picabias. Depicted in muddy browns and mossy greens, sad and startled woman’s
faces were superimposed with birds, guns, ships and bowls of fruit. A black
vagina-shaped hole or eye was splitting the sky open in the background of one
of the wall paintings. Reena stared at this last detail for a long time, and every so
often a bright, but alas, deceptive idea would dart through her – It’s the
Black Sea in a midnight gale. – It’s the unnatural combat of the four primal
elements. – It’s the blasted heath. - It’s a hyperborean winter scene. – It’s
the breaking-up of the ice-bound stream of Time. But at last all these fancies
yielded themselves back to that one portentous something in the picture’s
midst. That once found out, all the
rest would be plain. The place looked much better before when the only decoration
to speak of was a winking, blinking, dusty, year-round Christmas tree. As
always, she had to look around to find the way downstairs, down to the party
behind the party beneath the party.
At the bottom
of a long flight of concrete steps was a room of dressed masonary out of which
several archways stretched, forming an al-Queda-like underground party-maze. In
the hallways the music from the medium-sized rooms containing the bars and DJs
was only a faint murmur and the speakers out here/there played a soundtrack
consisting exclusively of the summery sounds of crickets. The central room was
painting black and against the wall opposite the steps was a long row of cheap
vinyl restaurant chairs whose tall backs had been transformed into gravestones,
Sharpied with the names and life spans of various deceased ex-regulars: Lil’Nut
1971-1999, Tweetie 1968-2001, Kurt Kokain 1975-2003, Karin E. Glabb 1982-2004,
Stubbs 1819-1929 etc. Sparsely lit and with a number of TV monitors showing
videos ranging from amateur Mexican bull riding to a film of a Mick
Jagger-in-the-early-seventies look-alike putting his dick through the window of
a subway booth. There is no DJ in this room. He is upstairs, on the second
floor, alone, named Sunny, in a brightly lit room, with beer cans. His bright
music is being pumped down to this basement cave, two levels below the main
floor.
After dodging
a dancing Pris Hilton look-alike with no arms to pick up a few free drinks at
the bar, Reena
sat sown on a low bench in one of the narrow hallways, next to a group of
French guys wearing home-customised jeans of the kind girls in dancehall videos
used to wear, facing a video about a rowdy group of fashion models on a camping
trip.
Tonight the
party is in full effect. You know this immediately. A party like this one has a
very simple graph to it. In about an hour, or two at the most, people will be
vomiting, but now, in this particular room, this appendix, people are euphoric.
Smoke,
perfumes and body oder. Girls, competing crazily for attention, drugs, jobs,
beauty. Luck was on Reena’s
side tonight.
As Reena crossed the
room, laughing out loud, Maris Parings reached out and stabbed her bottom with a lit Marlboro Light.
“Ha.
Ha. Ha. Ow! Wow, bitch...!”
Maris wasn’t sure what had made her want to burn Reena. She tried to
behave apologetically and fished an ice cube out of her glass.
“Oh
dear, I don’t know how that happened. Here…”
Reena let this thirty-something woman rub her down there with an ice cube.
“I
was watching you before. You’re having fun.”
Reena was out of words.
“You’re
kind of cute, but you don’t have a lot going on up there do you?” said Maris pointing
at Reena’s
messy hair.
Reena helped herself to one of the woman’s cigarettes and lit the wrong
end of it.
“I
like your face.”
Reena was
suddenly in the mood to befuckedintheass. Maris took Reena by the hand and led her to one of the
quieter rooms, down the next corridor. She glared the few that were sat in the corner
and slammed the door behind them. Reena was unsure of what she should do now. Still in her euphoric
assfucking mood she
decided to let Maris
just take control and do whatever she wanted her too. Walking up to her slowly Maris ripped Reena’s outfit
straight off her
back. Not wearing any underwear Reena was now stood there naked, the lights dancing
off her pale
skin. It’s time for you to befuckedintheass Reena Spaulings. It’s time for you to scream this
godforsaken place down to the ground.
Revenge of the Decorated aRT School: Part Two
“Kevin! Kevin Forrester!”
The man who
got out of the car was clearly not Ebony Mars: he was tall, handsome, white,
and, most remarkably, he was calling out Kevin’s name. Brashly exciting on the traffic side,
the man
dashed in front of the on coming cars and bounded across the avenue. Kevin, an
expert at sizing things up from afar, noted the impressive “runner’s lump” that
bounced obscenely from side to side as the man sprinted the last few
yards to the safety of the curb.
“You’re
Kevin Forrester,
right?” the young man said, catching his breath. He gave Kevin a
quizzical stare.
“Yes.
Yes, I am,” answered Kevin.
“I thought
that was you. What the fuck are you doing over here? Don’t you have a party
going on?” He
gestured to the Trianon.
“Ah,
yes.” Flustered, Kevin
extended his hand. “And you are?”
“Dash. Dash Harwood.
Now let’s get out of here before you step on a hypodermic needle.”
“Sure,”
said Kevin.
He put on
his
jacket and slung the heavy back-pack over his shoulder. At a break in the traffic, Dash put
his hand under Kevin’s
elbow – a gesture that struck Kevin as oddly familiar, even solicitous – before
leading him
to the opposite side. Suddenly Kevin remembered where he’d heard the name Dash Harwood
before. It was the curatorial assistants – the Girls from Good Schools, as Kevin called
them – who twittered around him incessantly. Rich, well-connected, and
terrifically ambitious, Dash was the catch of New York society. The Girls
from Good Schools were beside themselves that Peter Merton had his eye on the
fellow as match for his own teenage daughter, a girl who for some reason lost
in family lore, was saddled with the inauspicious name, “Moo.” Kevin recalled
hearing that dash had been absent from the art scene. Apparently he was black.
As
they strode into the marble lobby, Dash turned to Kevin with a smile, “so what were you doing over there? Looked like
you were causing the joint.”
“I
was preparing myself mentally,” said Kevin.
Dash
laughed. “The Biennial isn’t an Olympic diving competition.”
“Actually
it sort of is.”
“Don’t
be silly,” said Dash. “Anyway, you’re a pro. You’re ‘The Man Who Decides
What Art Is!”
Kevin blushed at Dash’s mention of the article just out in Time. It was a profile of him, authored
not by the magazine’s highly respected art critic, Robert Hughes, but some
feature-writing hack who’d exaggerated Kevin’s power and influence with naïve, if
well-intentional zeal. It was a year since Kevin had been appointed Curator of
Contemporary Art at the Merton Museum and only six months since he had been
formally announced as Chief Curator of the Merton Biennial. Yet even with relatively
limited experience in the New York art World, Kevin knew that such exaggerated
could be the kiss of death.
“There
was practically a full-page picture of you in Time,” said Dash. “And a feature article! You’re a star.”
“Yeah, one
that’s about to explode.”
Dash gave the concierge their names. As the man checked them
against his list, Kevin
noticed that his uniform had subtle “period” touches – brocade cloth, wide
cuffs, and gold trim – to match the lobby’s Louis XV décor. The interior of the
elevator, in turn, was modeled on the famous Hall of Mirrors at Versailles,
which made it difficult for Kevin to avoid staring at Dash no matter which way he
looked. The young banker leaned nonchalantly on the golden elevator handrail.
With rakish, jet black hair, a strong Roman nose and intense – some might say
beady – eyes, Dash
bore an uncanny resemblance to the young Christian Bale; Kevin hadn’t
been this close to anyone so sexy in a very long time. He felt the precious tycoon’s eyes
grazing over him
with brazen curiosity. Dash was the kind of person, Kevin decided,
who was so used to having exactly what he wanted that the boundaries between him and
the rest of the world had diminished to the most minimal exercise of desire.
The gap between wanting and having was virtually non-existent. Kevin begins to visualise;
I am hoping this elevator ride will take as long as possible so I get
to continue my visual assault on your sexy body. I quickly moved aside a little
to distribute myself better inside the small space. You turn you head slightly
as you register my movement. I stay behind you though. I want to check out your
ass some more. I stare from the side of my vision. My gaze travels again from
your heels, up your legs, up over your round ass and up to your suit jacket.
You turn you head and look at me. My thoughts are interrupted. I am caught. It
is so obvious what is on my mind. You know exactly what I'm thinking. You look
directly in my eyes for an instant and then turn back to watching the floor
numbers ascend. Your expression is indifferent. For a second I think I see a
hint of a smile at the corner of your mouth, but then nothing. I step towards
you and grab your ass and pull you towards me. I kiss you hard and one of my
hands finds the back of your head. You kiss me back. I'm surprised by the
passion in your kiss. I kiss you back harder. Our tongues find each other and
you tease me with your kisses. I bite and suck on your bottom lip, teasing you
back and you respond by grinding your pussy hard against me. My cock is getting
fucking hard.
I press against you and you push back. I can feel your wet pussy juices soaking the front
of your panties. I push you against the wall and continue kissing you as I pin
both of you hands above your head. I kiss your neck and bite you playfully and
you moan with lust. Your suit jacket is off in an instant and I pull up your shirt
to expose your sexy tits. Your tits is free now and you feel the cold of the air
conditioning on them, which only makes your nipples harder. I keep your hands
pinned above your head and suck your nipples into my mouth one at a time. I
flick my tongue over them, nibbling lightly and teasing you with my teeth. Your
nipples swell and harden between my lips and your moan repeatedly. I pull your shirt
over your head and admire your sexy shoulders and neck.
We kiss and grind
some more. My cock
is granite
hard now
and straining through my pants. My balls are churning. Our lust is escalating fast. I
want to slow down so I can enjoy this, but we don't have much time. I grab your
pinned hands and spin you around and grind against your sexy ass. I trace my cock over the
crack of your ass. I put my arms around you from behind. I'm playing with your
nips with one hand as my other hand moves down between your legs. I tease you
briefly before sliding my hand under and massaging your moist pussy
over your pants. You moan louder. I kiss and bite your neck playfully as I play
with your soft, sexy tits and tease your pussy some more.
I push my mouth
against your ear and tell you all the fucking bad thoughts running through my
mind at this moment…
He caught Dash’s eye and was rewarded
with an easy, generous smile. Kevin glanced at the floor self-consciously. Kevin felt
embarrassed that he
had let himself
slip into that fantasy, sure that Dash would have realised what he was
thinking. So he
was relieved when the elevator pinged and the doors slid open. They stepped
directly into the Desmonds’s cherry wood paneled entrance hall where a modestly
uniformed servant greeted them with a silver tray holding a thick array of dewy
champagne glasses. A maid offered to take Kevin’s backpack but he explained that it was needed
for a presentation and asked where the event would be held. He followed the
woman to a large room that had been cleared of most of its everyday furnishings
with rows of folding chairs set in their place. A portable screen stood in
front of a large and garishly coloured Frank Stella wall relief that extended
around it like a bizarre exploding frame. Gwen, the Director’s heavyset
executive assistant was waiting for Kevin and eyed him disapprovingly. “Donna told me
you’d be here early,” she said. “I’ve been waiting since six.”
“Sorry,
sorry, I was stuck in traffic,” Kevin replied, reaching into his backpack for the
laptop. He
didn’t want to tell her that he had just spent the last five minutes fantasizing
about what Dash
would be doing to him
in the elevator if he had his way.
“Calm
down Gwen, calm down, he’s here now isn’t he and everything’s fine!” Dash said winking at Kevin.
“Fine!”
Gwen exclaimed turning to leave the room, well you have 10 minutes to set up,
everyone’s waiting for you Kevin.
“Thanks
so much. I would have been screwed without you.”
“My
pleasure, Mr.
I-Decide-What-Art-Is.”
“Don’t,”
said Kevin.
“That article was stupid.”
“Are
you kidding?” replied dash. “That article was a fucking gold mine. You should be all
over that shit. It’s cash-in time my boy.”
“I
don’t think you know how nasty the art world can be.”
“You’re
right. I don’t know anything about the art world. Or about art. But I know a
good investment when I see one. Why do you think all these people are here?
Because they love contemporary art? This is big business and, for better or
worse, right this second you are calling the shots. Don’t let this one pass you
by.” Through his little pep talk, Dash maintained a wry grin that accented the
dimples of his
smile. Kevin
studied the way his cheeks hollowed as he spoke, the small movements of the
muscles at the corners of his jaw, and the naked smoothness of the skin
beneath his eyes. He
could smell Dash’s
cologne, which had the earthy, yet opulent scent of the locker room at an
exclusive men’s
club. It was intoxicating.
“Time
to go out there and work the room,” advised Dash. “But let’s start you off
with a drink.”
As they made
their way through the crush of guests towards the bar Kevin felt Dash guiding his elbow with
a light touch just as he had done when they crossed the street, He noticed the
subtle way in which both men and woman cast glances at Dash as he passed. “They either
want to fuck him
or kill him,”
Kevin
thought.
“What’ll
it be?” asked the bartender.
“Champers,”
said Dash,
holding up two fingers. He took the glasses and handed one to Kevin.
“Thank
you,” said Kevin.
“Cheers.” As they toasted, Kevin noticed a red string tied around Dash’s
wrist. “Buddhist?” he asked.
“Kabbalah,” Dash
replied nonchalantly. “Look, there are some folks here I haven’t seen for a
while. Need to catch up. You going to be ok on your own?”
“Of course,” Kevin answered.
“Thanks, really. And nice meeting you.”
Dash smiled
and was gone. “Fuck” Kevin thought to himself, “What a shit way to say goodbye.”
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