Art’s Theory 2

chapter two

Max Neo

          Balancing her coffee, umbrella and purse with one hand, Zia fumbled with the ring of keys in her raincoat pocket.  With the chrome lock finally open she pushed on the heavy plate glass door, leaving her greasy hand print over the words: Max Neo etched into the thick tempered glass.  She climbed a sleek modern staircase to a landing filled with small paintings hung on the walls and tiny sculptures atop corner pedestals.  Max’s best-selling artists always had a work displayed in the entry gallery.  Rotating one hundred and thirty degrees to her right, Zia entered the cavernous main room of the gallery.  She struggled to reach her triangular shaped receptionist’s desk and then, with a heavy sigh, plopped herself into a black leather office chair.

          Not yet fully awake, she stared lazily at the telephone on her desk.  Instinctively, she reached out to grab it but her hand froze in mid-air.  Zia resisted the urge to check on Sam.  As he has rudely reminded her many times, she is not his mother.  The ultimate punch line of his mother being dead always followed that set up.  Her boyfriend’s abrasive personality was exhausting to live with.  Add to all that, Zia’s recurring nightmare that she might be the one thing holding him back, keeping him from just moving to New York City and showing in a “real” gallery, as he liked to say.  Sam thought he needed an art pimp while Zia believed he just needed his own Gertrude Stein – a collector so insightful she bought the sketchbook Picasso used to invent Cubism.

          They are so different it begged the question of how they got together all those years ago.  Zia was only eighteen when she agreed to check out the psychic fair with her new college roommate.  A product of hippie parents and alternative thinking, Rainbow Bliss was determined to broaden Zia’s experiences of the world.  From Zia’s viewpoint, such psychic nonsense was just silly superstition and she couldn’t understand why someone as smart as her roommate would have time for such crap.  As they stood outside the palm reader’s tent arguing about whether knowing the future eliminated the possibility of free will, Rainbow gave her a sisterly push and Zia entered the darkened army surplus wall tent just to shut her roommate up.

          Inside, the claustrophobic canvas house had the musty odor of an unwashed old lady who barely even looked at Zia before growling, “Sit there!” and “It’s five bucks up front.”  Zia sheepishly put her money on the portable card table and the wrinkled hag uncovered an obligatory crystal ball.  For what seemed like an eternity, they sat in silence and stared into the glass sphere.  Instead of a vision, Zia remembered seeing a glass cylinder frozen in the center of the psychic’s ball.  The seer finally looked up and slowly whispered, “Your life will change forever upon exiting this tent.”  Zia recalled how the old lady stared blankly ahead and droned on about a soul mate - the yang to Zia’s yin, the night to her day, the missing half that would make her whole.  The psychic warned her that he would be a diamond in the rough, so she would need to look closely to avoid missing him.  Zia could still hear the one question she asked that day, “And how exactly will I know he’s the one you speak of?”

          At first the old lady looked puzzled by the question, but then added, almost silently, “He will make you laugh, Sweetie.”  What followed still rings in Zia’s head today, an eerie detached laugh like that of a mad scientist filled the psychic’s tent and sent Zia groping for the cloth doorway slit.  Outside stood Rainbow talking to some strange guy – it was Sam and first impressions were not good.  Zia still vividly remembers rolling her eyes in disgust as the slick talking stranger turned his attention onto her.  She just grabbed her roommate by the arm and rudely walked away from Sam without speaking a word.  He walked behind them through the packed psychic fair crowd and strained to listen in on their conversation.  Just as Zia finished telling Rainbow what the palm reader had predicted, Sam popped between them and uttered the most pathetic pick-up line she had ever heard.  “You are going to look great in your fifties!”

          Zia spontaneously laughed right in his face and asked, “Does that mean I look awful now?”  

          Sam pleaded, “See, I made you laugh, just like the psycho said I would.”

          “Psychic,” Rainbow Bliss corrected Sam’s sense of humor.

          Then, in the most charming of ways, he invited both of them to his downtown studio.  Zia remembered thinking it was just another attempt to bed one of them and going along only to protect her naïve roommate.  When they entered Sam’s workspace, Rainbow went so completely nuts over the paintings that Zia was embarrassed for her roommate, fearing she might just drop to her knees and suck his dick on the spot.  The funny thing was, the more Rainbow tossed her hair and raved about the artworks the more Sam ignored her and focused all his attention on Zia.  He could be very persuasive and next came a dinner date, then a movie, a weekend sleep over and by the time her sophomore year began, Zia had moved out of her campus dorm room and into Sam’s downtown apartment.

          Refocusing, Zia turned her attention to the pile of work covering the uniquely shaped wooden desk in front of her.  Whether one saw it as a yield sign, home plate or guitar pick, her receptionist’s desk was composed of contrasting bands of various colored woods and, if hung on the wall, could pass for a late modern abstract painting.  Zia’s delicate hands sort through yesterday’s mail, while her luminous green eyes scan the return addresses.  Mostly overdue bills, Zia extracted the only payment check stuck in the bundle.  A pleasant ambient tone announced the opening of the street level door at the base of the stairs.  Step by step, she could hear the heavy footsteps of the gallery owner.  Zia got out of her chair and entered the crowded storage room to make coffee and turn on the gallery lights.

          Max barely grunted good morning as he continued his linear death march towards the back office.  He flopped down behind the most impressive artwork in this gallery - more sculpture than furniture; the trapezoid shaped desk blends cherry wood, Italian marble and chromed steel into a postmodern masterpiece.  The top is buried under letters, show cards, unpaid bills, and photographic slides from artists asking for a chance to exhibit their work.  Max picked up a slide sheet and squinted at the transparent images.  He had never understood why famous collectors would pay big money for art that looked much like the shit he can’t give away.  Tossing down the slides in disgust, Max picked up a softball-sized wooden ball nested in the clutter.  The sphere appeared to be constructed from multiple blocks of various size, shape and slightly different colored white oak.  Max pushed on several places around the orb and, with a twist, separated it into equal halves revealing a hollow interior containing a small glass vial.  Attached to the lid by a necklace chain was a tiny ornate silver spoon that Max shoved into his nose to snort some hair-of-the-dog that bit him last night.

          Rays of crisp morning light ricocheted off Max’s diamond encrusted Rolex watch causing flecks of color to dance up the wall and crawl across the ceiling.  Using the chemical stimulant from that wooden ball for ambition, he picked up the phone and began the process of calling his “A” list clients with deep pockets.  Art lovers are everywhere, but art buyers get scarce as the prices go up. 

          He transformed into an art telemarketer and said: “Hello Noel, this is Max Neo calling to personally invite you to the gallery opening.  Trust me Mr. Probity – this crazy kid is the next big thing.  Why read about him tomorrow when you can experience his performance here tonight, as my guest.  I always look forward to seeing you,” Max lied.  “Ciao.”  He hung up the phone and attempted to look through the wall.  “Zia, would you bring me some coffee, please?”

“In a minute, Max,” the receptionist barked back without looking up from the task of sticking address labels and postage on next month’s exhibition cards.  Anything would beat the performance artist Max was featuring this month.  According to Sam, performance art was nothing more than bad theater.  She wondered if he could still be sleeping, but resisted the urge to call. 

Finally standing up, her graceful body glides over and pours Max some French roast coffee.  As she is walking back towards Max’s office, the phone on her desk begins to ring.  Involuntarily, her left hand jabs outward to grab the object and quiet the offending noise.

“Max Neo’s Gallery, how may I help you?” Zia mechanically recited.  “Ur, I’m very sorry Mr. Lackey.  Max just stepped out to run some errands.  May I take a message?  Yes sir.  I’ll be sure to tell him you called, again.” 

As she hangs up the phone, Max is rounding the corner to approach her.  “That IRS agent again?” Max asks knowingly while grabbing the ceramic mug in Zia’s hand.  “For Christ’s sake, that bastard won’t let up.  Maybe I should just pay those back taxes.”

          Max took a sip of hot coffee and turned back towards his office.  The main gallery formed a gigantic open space consisting of twelve-foot walls topped with clerestory windows.  Gloriously warm natural sunlight spilled into the cavernous room.  Leaning up against the gallery walls were twelve-foot panels spray painted with skyscraper stencils.  Over that cityscape, multi-colored nude body prints acted out a variety of gestures.  The installation is complicated by various flashing lights, sound effects and crime scene tape.  This student-level production represented the artistic expressions of Max’s latest boy toy.  Max turned his head away from the art installation and looked back at his beautiful receptionist - she almost made him wish he were straight.  Then Max quickly remembered how much he hated her obnoxious boyfriend, a local painter that he banned from his gallery for insulting the customers.

          Zia sat at her desk twisting a lock of blonde hair between her fingers as the phone against her ear transported a distant ring.  Where the hell was Sam?  After numerous calls to the apartment and his studio, she was beginning to worry.  Had he been mugged?  Did he just walk out of her life without even saying goodbye?  They seemed to stay together out of habit, like their own dysfunctional ritual tradition.  How can two people who are so different make a relationship work?  Maybe opposites do attract each other and create a composite whole.  They completed each other, or was that just some sappy chick flick idea?

          She hangs up and the phone instantly rings.  Is Sam finally calling to say everything is fine so she can stop worrying and go get some lunch?

          “Hello.  Max Neo’s …err..well…yes, of course Mr. Probity,” Zia stuttered in response to the rude phone manners and rapid interrogation coming through the line.  As her lips began to form a polite exit, a sharp click echoed in her ear, followed by an insulting dial tone. 

          Already on his way out the door for lunch, Max turned abruptly to ask, “What was that all about?”

          “Mr. Probity wanted to know if Sam would be attending tonight’s performance.”

          “Your Sam?!”  Max twisted up his face and ranted, “Didn’t I just throw that asshole out of my gallery last month?”

          “Come on Max, he’s not that bad.  Why do you hate him so much?”

          “That freeloading boyfriend of yours is delusional.  He is not the greatest artist of our time, he’s nobody.  The entire local art community hates him.  You’re the only one in town who can stand to be around him.”

          “Well apparently not!  Mr. Creepy Money Bags just requested that we have Sam here tonight.”

          Max stopped to ponder the conflict and added, “All right, you can bring him.  But if he causes any problems tonight, I’m calling the police.  His unrecognized genius act is getting very old.” 

          “What if he is our local artistic genius?  You must admit his paintings are amazing,” Zia argued.

          “Eye candy,” Max snorted.

          “What does that even mean?  How is that a criticism?”

          “Your boyfriend’s paintings don’t mean anything,” Max explained.  “They just seem like a random jumble of stuff.”

          “They mean many things,” Zia declared.  “Sam’s images are chosen for how multifaceted their associations are within our present mass-media culture.”

          “What?”

          “They mean a lot, Max.  In fact, they mean everything!”  Zia stared at her boss and lectured, “Can you still recall his paintings?  Long after one sees them; his images remain in your subconscious mind.  Many of those meaningless paintings have affected me in a profound way.  Why not give him a show?”

          “You know how fond I am of you, Zia,” Max began.  “But your Sam will not be showing in my gallery, ever.”  As Max headed out for an early lunch he softened and added, “Okay Zia, that boyfriend of yours can enter my gallery tonight.  But you must promise to keep that loser on a short leash.”

          Zia picked up the phone to inform Sam his presence had been requested at tonight’s opening and performance art event.  The last time Sam had called her from his studio was years ago.  Out of breath and in a panic, he had been chased out of his work space by a bat flying around near the ceiling.  The bats got in overnight whenever he forgot to shut the windows.  After that, Sam began to keep his old tennis racket by the entrance door, ready for any future battles.

          The memory makes her smile.  She feels bad about not letting him put his head on her lap the other night.  It is the only time Sam is off guard and truly relaxed.  And even then, he might put a hand over his eyes so Zia doesn’t accidently blind him.

          Why the fuck wouldn’t he just pick up the phone?  Zia thought it was disrespectful.  Sam thought she was clueless.  “Would you expect me to pick up the phone while performing brain surgery?”  Her boyfriend often spoke with surgical precision, destroying most arguments preemptively.  He will beat you to the end of your own sentence and thought.

          At the other end of the line, Sam’s studio phone begged to be answered.  With syringe in hand, Sam continued to squirt tubular squiggles of fire red paint onto the stretched canvas lying on the floor.  At the far end of his third-floor workspace, a bay of large drafty windows overlooked a busy city street and, what the locals called Wino Park.  On a park bench sat a homeless man surrounded by garbage bags full of recycled cans and salvaged clothing.  He was hard to miss.  First, there was the size and shape of his head – too big for his body and quite elongated.  Bordering on circus freak, the sharp jaw line and long ear lobes seemed unnatural.  On top of his head sat a Russian Cossack hat made of fake fur.  That flat top afro tilted on the hobo’s head as he bent over to pet a stray dog sniffing around his stuff. 

          The canine is spooked by the falling fluffy hat and runs away towards the gigantic chessboard in the center of this urban green space.  The dog winds his way between the classic Staunton chessmen arranged on the mandatory eight by eight grid of black and gray cement squares.  The dog’s wagging tail slaps a pair of white pawns and then quickly disappears behind a wall of three-foot royalty.