The Italian Teacher(33)
“I need your application essay and proposed topic of study.”
“In my defense,” he says, “romantic spontaneity is a bit tough given our present location.”
“How about this location?” She hip-checks him into a visitors’ bathroom and locks it after them. Pinch kisses her neck and breasts, struggling for passion in this setting. When he glances up, her hand is clapped over her mouth, eyes giggling. She strokes the back of his neck, looks into his eyes. He presses his forehead against hers. Barrows hugs him. “We need to stay together,” she whispers.
30
When Marsden is fired for giving away too many drinks at the Pilot Tavern, a customer hires him at an edgy Yonge Street gallery, where his first assignment is babysitting the artist Temple Butterfield, a strapping Californian ex-marine so polite that no one can tell if it’s humility or sarcasm.
Temple’s exhibit opening is packed, the sizzling disco beat punctuating crowd babble. Women in floppy hats wave to friends, purses smacking into displays, while mustachioed men slurp from beer bottles, admiring each other. Now and then, someone notices the art, points a pinkie, and explains as those around nod gravely.
Through this sweaty throng, Pinch and Barrows edge, intrigued because Marsden—normally scornful of contemporary art—raves about Temple. The first piece they encounter is Moment O’ Mori, a pink vanity mirror in which the viewer is supposed to look and ponder death. Next is Beethoven, a whoopee cushion on a chair. There are a couple of performative works too: one featuring male strippers who offer fruit punch from pitchers labeled “Urine”; the other is two nude women covered in blue paint doing interpretive dance, first bunny hops, then dropping to their knees and humping the floor. Temple’s most celebrated piece, however, is Piss Shit Fuck, a large electric freezer. The artist statement explains the title as a tribute to Duchamp and Manzoni, the former having signed a urinal in 1917, the latter having canned his feces in 1961 and sold them for their weight in gold. Temple joins such esteemed company by offering frozen vials of his semen for $500 each, encouraging collectors to inseminate someone with his seed. He has pledged to sign any resulting offspring.
Pinch reads this to Barrows, widening his eyes at her, shaking his head. He adds over the pulsing music: “From politeness to Marsden! Let’s say nothing too mean until after we leave!”
“Agreed!”
Marsden approaches with a man of thirty, blond hair to his shoulders, wearing train-engineer dungarees: Temple Butterfield himself. Marsden looks at his two friends. “So?”
“Isn’t it incredible what one can do with art!“ Barrows says ambiguously.
“Hey, man,” Temple responds gratefully, raising his hand before her. “Gimme five.”
With an ironically soft slap, she obliges. The artist holds on to her fingers, adding, “Your support means a lot.”
“Do you even know who I am?”
A stoned smile. “I do now.” He speaks as if watching each word float to the ground, belatedly releasing her hand. “My practice is still so young, you know? So that means a lot.”
“Don’t be so modest!” Marsden tells the artist, explaining to his friends that Temple was already a huge star while studying at CalArts.
“What’s it like there?” Pinch asks. “I always wondered about those famous art colleges.”
“CalArts? It was an experience.”
“What kind of experience?” Barrows presses.
“If I had to say in one word, I’d go with ‘pretty unreal,’ actually.”
Pinch joins the hunt, he and Barrows dogs on the scent of stupidity. “Unreal how?”
“Like, I don’t know. Pretty trippy.”
It occurs to Pinch that, unless someone takes control, they risk exchanging vapidities for the next half hour. “We’d like to hear how it was studying there. Could one learn, say, how to paint? Is that possible?”
“Painting is repetition at this point, right?”
“Are there life-drawing classes?”
“Maybe. But it’s more free-flow. It’s about finding your own subversion, right? You bring work in for crit, and see what gets born. But nobody’s judging. It’s pretty antifascist that way.”
Pinch glances at Barrows, then at Marsden, as if to ensure that both are registering this gobbledygook.
Barrows asks, “Sorry, Temple, just to be clear, what do they teach?”
“Well, you can’t teach art. You either fake it. Or you fake it. Right?”
“Temple’s mentor was John Baldessari,” Marsden notes. “He’s the one who did that video piece Teaching a Plant the Alphabet.”
“Does the plant get its MFA at the end?” Pinch asks.
Temple claps, laughing. “I dig that question.” Other revelers are pulling at him, and he allows himself to be led off, with Marsden hurrying after. An adoring crowd closes around the new genius.
Pinch gapes at Barrows.
She shouts over the noise, “At least he’s cute!”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m not allowed to admire another man’s looks?”
“If you must. But can’t you have better taste?”
“Jealous?”
“Can’t hear you!”