An Exhibition
As if by fate, but not, for this couple would never leave their encounters to chance, they meet. Meetings in public locations, random events and experiences form the tapestry of their illicit relationship. Disguised as strangers, their conversations tread on the mundane, possessing an undercurrent of irony and double-entendres. This time, the latest incarnation of feigned encounters leads them to the opening of a gallery on the Bowery.
Cliques of thirty-something’s tarnish the clean and symmetrical open space and white walls. They walk in colourful swarms, clacking their heels and toasting pink champagne while feasting on smoked salmon and caviar strewn languorously upon crackers.
It’s in this salon of contradictions, the tensing and contracting of space and show, where Max and Jacob casually bump into each other while staring at one of the abstract and vivid canvases. Jacob stands in front of the painting dressed in Tom Ford eyeglasses and a chequered shirt delicately adorned with pearl buttons.
“So what do you think of this piece?” Max’s sweet but maturely sultry voice rises to meet Jacob’s ear, fighting for attention in the midst of people’s cackling and the background sounds of TV on the Radio.
“There’s something almost self-destructive about it. Maybe it’s the violent placement of the jagged and bright shapes on top of one another. It’s as if the piece was consuming itself,” he sighs and takes a gulp of the fizzy peach substance.
“I can’t believe that they try to pass this sparkling wine as some quality champagne. It’s really an insult to people’s intelligence. Or at least mine.” Max angles the glass towards the spotlight examining the bubbles as they straddle one another in a competition to make it to the top.
“I don’t think it’s intelligence they’re insulting Jake. More like refined culture.”
“Anyway I find it amusing you detect a struggle against the self in this piece. What is it titled? An epiphany…how interesting.”
Max carefully smoothes out imaginary creases around her thighs before she continued, “I see delusion and evasion. Do you notice the way the turmeric shape cascades against the bright crimson rectangular structure?” She doesn’t wait for his response.
“It’s almost like its seeking escape beyond the borders of the canvas. Since it knows this to be impossible, it surrenders, accepting its position, its destiny, if you will. And that’s where the colours start to blend and combine, in a sea of surrender.”
“Come on Maxie. Nothing is further from the truth. This dance between shapes and symbols is a choice. And the consequence of this decision affects all elements in the composition. Just the fact that there always exists a choice means that all parties involved bear some responsibility, whether it’s for a violent struggle or surrender.”
Jacob pauses; his eyes scan her face for a hint of a reaction but soon descend to examine the luscious curve and dip of her body, caught tightly in a metallic dress. The image of a brightly shining silver train wreck flashes across his mind.
“So when did you become such a philosopher? Do you realise how smug you sound?” She lets out a rancorous giggle that seems to burst and implode, vehemently inhabiting the space around them.
When she gathers herself she retorts, “Look it’s just another fucking painting. Colours splashed upon other colours, no shape, no form, just a goddamn expression of someone’s inner psyche.”
“Meaningless probably, just a series of random and shallow events that resulted in a convergence of colours, caught in time, like fish flapping furiously for their life while still on a line. The only meaning is the one we attribute to it.” Her cheeks flush with a peony hue at the machine gun rhythm of her words.
A woman with rambunctious sandy curls, the one thing she failed to polish or place, which sits in stark contrast to her famously designed and harshly cut dress, runs over to Jacob. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you. What on earth have you been doing? Jesus we’re talking about a possible sale here Jacob. Connie is practically pulling out her check book for The Caretaker piece.”
The title of the canvas almost floats away as they hastily turn and make their way to the other end of the gallery.
Max hardly blinks as she stares and gets lost in the serrated shapes.
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Hi Pia! Thanks for getting this up and running. Clearly, we need to expand our readership :) In regards to the "The Exhibition," (clever title) my first thoughts is that the tone/pace, etc reads as I imagine Max and Jacob's relationship to be: smooth, illicit, tantalizing, sensuous, secretive, etc. I think in another situation the dialogue would seem too prepared and too unnatural. But if I'm not mistaken, that is the whole point: the deliberateness and sort of "performance" aspect of their encounters. How they seem to be familiar and complete strangers with each other all at once. On my first read, it took a moment to confirm that Max is a women as she is first introduced as Max and not Maxine and there aren't any pronouns for a the first few paragraphs. My favorite descriptions are in teh dialogue itself -- how both characters describe and understand what they are seeing. And then when Max seems to drop the performing: "“Look it’s just another fucking painting. Colours splashed upon other colours, no shape, no form, just a goddamn expression of someone’s inner psyche.” Question for clarification: since Max doesn't seems to not react to Jacob's provocative statement (violent struggle vs. surrender) and she appears completely stoic at the end, is it because she continues to be deluded or because she is not showing her revelations?
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