23 June 2010

Worship and Tribute


Paul was talking to Edward, with Margot they formed a Bermuda Triangle of conversation. Art was being baptized by their tongues, licked half-way to death, they were licking Art like a fancy stamp to paste onto their chest, wear and point to. Tim hadn't arrived yet to be awkward and make everyone uncomfortable, so I guess I had to warm his seat.

"This is Tammy," thus I was introduced. Paul continued, "she's a really good writer, very experimental as well as instrumental to our last project, she wrote all our content on the website--" Paul paused, and positives adjectives were offered as nouns by the isosceles listeners. "Cool...nice...sweet...awesome, etc."

I loved Paul but he made every rock into a diamond, even the ones that loved the generality of just being a good, heavy rock. Its a shame that some diamonds don't know that they're in fact, just rocks. A person like Paul isn't instrumental in helping them reach that revelation. I chose just then, in the middle of my narrator's description, to turn my head round and take yet another view of the main room of ABG. The table at the left corner was serving red and white Rossi; Tim is going to love that, he'll find at least one person tonight to talk to about biodynamics. Most likely it'll be me. Boring!

"--She seriously wrote a magnificent critique on the Modernist view and pin-pointed the exact moment when Modern became dated...Tammy is going to be one of those writers who will not let you off easy, and I love that...Personally I support anyone who will put shit right up to your face and make you notice it, too many people want to suggest instead of state. Thats what we need more of--Honest, un-compromised statements."

The main room was long but narrower than the paintings would have like. It was easy to form spontaneous social knots anywhere between either end of the room. The lighting was good, the hip-hop was okay, and the crowd kept swelling. Most of the artwork was by Juxtapoz hopefuls, who jerked off to Shepard Fairey and usually looked far more interesting, in appearance, than the work they produced. Edward, for example, wore a trim fitting, dusty-gray tuxedo with pink keds and his blonde dreads neatly locked and falling back over his broad shoulders. Meanwhile, Edward drew circles, too shyly with pencils and painted around the lead spheres with acrylic dipped in elmer"s glue. He named his work dramatically, "The Last Heartbeat" or "Killing Death to Avenge Life's Suicide." The same barely seen circle and dark, blotches of bored paint were also "Dream is Irony's Insomnia" and his favorite, "If Life Were Easy Then God Would Be Alive." Same stupid, scared circle and unfinished acrylic fills.

"David Lynch, Allen Ginsberg, and late night, drunk White Castle invasions! Thats all you need..." Laughter, pause, point to Art on the chest, lick the corners that were beginning to free themselves of saliva and fabric. "Fuck the MoMA, if the exhibit offers audio guides then you know what kind of mainstream bullshit you're visiting; its just fucked up that those are the only places you can view certain masterpieces."

I did enjoy some of the pieces, John Kerner's portraits were "close-ups of faces, just an eye or a slope of nose, ambiguously like an impressionist haze, they looked more like pieces of horizon during dawn or dusk." The 4" x 4" sextet that formed a kiss was hung half-way into the room, "joining the lips of one side to the other." Marsha Leigh Kenji's woven, multi-chromatic threads onto canvas created "complex cubic forms that were simple and just pleasing." Tim would enjoy her work when he gets here, especially her color choices; "navy blue, black, cloudy gray against carnation pink, mozzarella yellow, and bruise violet." Margot had descriptions for everyone.

"What do you think about Sammy's piece?" I was asked.

"I like it..." I thought about something else to say, scanning the hanging sculpture of an eagle's wingtip. "Very...good." I laugh to end the topic.

Tim finally arrives and immediately is sucked into a session of dialogue with Margot. Essay writing is the topic and whether to be direct or cryptic. Tim, who happens to sound like a talking rubix cube is surprisingly in favor of direct, straightforward compositions. Margot wants to make her readers earn understanding, for comprehension to follow incomprehensible intrigue. Tim gets nervous and shows it thus:

Intense Eye Contact: Like he's attempting to move her with telekinesis. He's barely blinking and nods like he's being given instructions rather than rebuttal.

Unnecessary Agreement: He ejects the word "right" at the end of Margot's every sentence, especially as an alternative to just listening.

Open Sentences: Throws away the period and lets the sentence hang in mid-air, as if waiting for someone to finish the thought for him. "Especially this day and age, everything needs to be more, uh...immediate--if for no other reason than..."

I enjoy the growing tension in Margot's face as she's beginning to notice that Tim sounds like a crazy person. His loud hand gestures, and chronic laughing, his face jerks around at any sudden movement around him. God bless you Tim, I hope you find a wine geek among these normal weirdos. Tim is tall, and boney, Jack Skeleton with an under-developed beard, wavy blonde hair and a crooked nose which he always manages to explain was from playing wrestling as a kid without ever providing details.

Why did I come here? Sammy isn't here, she might not even come. Paul is by one of John's pieces and Sue is clicking her iPhone over The Kiss, they exchanged a word the way couples often did after they've been together for so long as they had. I didn't notice when Sue arrived but she made me note Sammy's absence. Tim wasn't with Margot when I scanned back to where a funeral now progressed and buried a pointless five minutes of nothing. I walked over to where I found him, reaching his hand out to accept the plastic cup of Rossi Chablis. He smiled and looked over to me. "Cheers," I say to him and he takes his first sip.

"I am beyond the point where I'm smart enough to be interested in what this guy has to say." Sammy was beautiful. "He's talking to me about art history and museums and the elite, blah, blah, fucking blah." If I looked like Sammy I'd punch people. For no reason. I'd deck the fuck out of anyone and if they dared return the message, I'd bet I could make a murderer out of any hero, provided he was stupid and had a cock.

"I wanted to tell him I'm sorry but Art is gay and so are you." Sammy shrugs insincerely apologetic; wrinkling her face and pouting her lips. "Niggas be beastin' like just cause I'm an artist doesn't mean I want a fucking art lesson...and if I did it won't be from you nigga, straight up all I need is Bob Ross--" We laugh. "Furreal, with his sexy ass chia pet fro and tree fetish." Index finger marking her word, "Now...thats a man!"

I was ready to leave by the time Sammy arrived, we were all outside. Paul and Sue were talking with an older lady, a photographer--They discussed living in Canada and languages, Sue had a major in Linguistics and European History. Tim had left before me and Margot was still upstairs; sometime after her conversation with Tim she met John Kerner and the two were probably engaged by now. Edward and I were sharing a cigarette. He talked a bit about the rain and I told him about Tilda Swinton as a modern day Lady Chatterly. "Io Sono L'amore at Sunshine," I wanted to suggest it as a film I knew he'd appreciate but I recalled it too soon. "Read about it," I chose to say instead. Sammy was on her Blackberry, texting with a cigarette between two fingers as her thumbs writhe over the keypad. She laughed suddenly, looking up to me with her wide eyes and whipping her dark bangs away from her brow. "I just notice I haven't even been inside yet!" Her dress is a yellow ridged-miniskirt with a silver, string-strap top. Her shoes were stilettos with ribs that cage her small, pedicured feet.

"Eddy!" Edward smiles at Sammy and taps his pink keds with her heels. "i hate opening receptions--I want to get some food." Thats probably what we'll do. I suggest a place. "Fuck yea dude!" She was about to tell me something else when a song jumps out of her phone until she answers it. "Hello...Oh shit, what's good?" This bitch is Art, the kind you can't stick on your chest with saliva. "Whatever that shit was lame-a-zoid!" Thats probably all she'll ever say regarding ABG; I'll be surprised if she even returns to pick up her eagle's wingtip.

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