Art’s Theory 4

chapter four

Elvis Jesus

          A small horde of art groupies jumped out of the street and back onto the sidewalk to avoid being hit by the ominous jet-black limousine swiftly pulling up to the curb in front of Max Neo’s Gallery.  Illuminated by the blue halogen headlights most of the crowd consisted of local art students trying their hardest to look like relevant artists - the effect was similar to getting dressed in the dark.  The argon street lights revealed a kaleidoscopic swirl of discordant color resulting from the mismatched outfits. 

          Inside the exotic foreign car, a brutish driver turns off the engine; the windshield wipers stop and then slowly descend into a hidden compartment.  As he exits the car and stands erect the driver seems to grow in both size and strength.  Walking through rain that has now slowed to a light mist, the bodyguard makes his way around to the curb and opens an odd shaped oversized rear passenger door with a window so darkly tinted the occupant remains a mystery.  

          Finally, out stepped Mr. Probity slowly rising to a standing position he took in the details of this strange environment.  The contrast was multi-layered – Noel in his Italian designer suit and the art students in their Goodwill hand-me–downs.

          With subwoofer booms, a cube of compressed sound pulsated down the gallery stairway, inviting all art seekers upstairs into the large exhibition space - now alive with tattooed skin and pierced flesh.  The affluent collectors were the ordinary looking people scattered throughout this hipper-than-thou freak show crowd.  A mild sense of danger had the art collectors mulling nervously about, rubbing up against a sweaty pack of fragile egos and broken dreams. Buying art made wealthy people feel hip and sophisticated, as if they were helping create the culture of today.  But, as Sam has pointed out to Zia, that still doesn’t explain why socially elite conformists subsidize the anarchy of the counterculture.

          Back in his studio, Sam has nodded off for a short siesta in the room’s only comfortable chair.  His brain stem urged him to wake up and go urinate, but his unconscious mind was still deep in REM sleep.  Slowly opening his heavy eye lids, Sam was disoriented by the tubular fuselage he now occupied.  On his right an empty leather seat separated him from the commercial jet’s window.  Looking over his left shoulder, down the aisle and past the curtain, Sam saw a plane crammed with discount fare passengers.  Sam was in first class?!

          With his bladder still demanding to be emptied, Sam looked back towards the front of the plane finding the bathroom’s small backlit sign: occupied.  Shit!  The urgency to piss was becoming intense when the light finally blinked to vacant and the bathroom door opened.  Out stepped a beautiful young woman, with unnaturally red hair, wearing a sky-blue pin-striped business suit.  She walked down the aisle and smiled at Sam staring at the cleavage sticking out of her push-up bra.  He involuntarily smiled back and then quickly looked down at his feet, embarrassed like a school boy.  He continued to fantasize slutty thong underwear beneath that tailored blue skirt.

          Oh my god!  She stopped next to Sam’s left knee and looked at the empty seat next to him.  Her expression seemed to be saying, “Could I get to my fucking seat, dumbass?”  Sam struggled to stand up and let the siren slide pass him.  Inhaling, he smelled the distinctive aroma of Nag Champa – the incense of head shops nationwide.  He self-consciously sat down and stared straight ahead.  The seat pouch in front of him had an Art in America magazine hanging out.  Sam is shocked to see the top third of one of his paintings peeking above the seat back pouch.  Just when he reached to pull out the glossy magazine, the red head next to him whispered, “Stop obsessing over what they said and just be glad you made the cover, Sam.”

          “Do I know you?”  Sam’s confusion was growing.

          “Well for starters, I’m the art pimp that made your sorry ass famous!”

          “Really, how funny is that?  I never wanted to be a famous person – I just wanted my paintings to be known to the world.”

          “You can’t have one without the other, Einstein!”  The femme fatale lifted the arm rest separating their two bodies and draped her slender left leg over Sam’s right knee.  This made her short tight skirt slide up her tanned inner thigh, revealing a triangular swatch of electric blue satin.  Using her lowest and sexiest voice, she moistly whispered in Sam’s right ear, “Are you a member of the mile high club?”

          “Are you offering to do me on this airplane?” an astonished Sam asked.

          “Don’t be such a Puritanical prude.  Just follow me into the toilet in twenty seconds.”  The love goddess next to Sam stood up and proceeded to the rendezvous point.  He obediently followed as instructed.  She is seated on the toilet as Sam barely managed to enter the tiny crowded cubicle.  He struggled to lock the bathroom door as his seductress unzipped his designer jeans.  She used her delicate right hand to free Sam’s throbbing gristle while the fingers on her left hand probed an already wet vagina.  Sam watched his entire polish sausage disappear into her mouth.  He can feel the blood engorged head of his dick pulsate against her warm wet tongue.  No longer able to wait, Sam’s cock exploded – spewing cum inside of his underwear.

          Sam woke up in a panic, afraid, but not because of oneirogmophobia.  He feared missing tonight’s gallery opening and disappointing his girlfriend again.  Luckily, he kept a change of clothes in the studio for attending such art events.  Overdue for the laundry, Sam smelled them and decided the outfit was clean enough for one more use.  Throwing away his ejaculate-stained ratty underwear, he laughed while remembering a joke from high school.  What do you call a nocturnal emission during the day?  A matinee!  Having no spare pair of wear, Sam would be going commando for the rest of the evening.  Locking the studio door, he descended the steps to the street and followed the sidewalk around the block to Max Neo’s second story gallery.

          Sam pushed through the crowd, ascended the beautiful modern staircase and slipped into a collage of familiar faces.  No one spoke, but everyone noticed his arrival.  Mr. Congeniality had managed to insult just about every artist in town.  For a while he put his caustic opinions in print and took home a little pocket money.  Published by the alternative weekly newspaper, Sam wrote a monthly review of the latest art exhibitions.  He was amazed at how transparently the local art community sucked up to him for some free press.  Be careful “what” you ask for.  No one remembered the positive critiques; it was always that one extra comment that managed to cut to the bone.  His blunt honesty generated waves of hate mail that just encouraged him to push the limits of what the liberal paper would publish.  The line was drawn over a review that started with Sam peeing in the toilet and ended with a flush.  The censorship allowed him to quit as a free speech martyr.

          Somehow that heroism meant nothing to the leering eyes and muffled remarks of this hostile crowd.  Worse yet, they missed the true genius of Sam’s reviewing style.  The entertaining shock value of his reviews generated a mass audience for this city’s provincial art clique; gallery attendance shot up and sales followed.  But Sam remained unappreciated.  His experiences attending art school, exhibiting in galleries and writing reviews caused Sam to hate most artists.  He now saw them as a collection of insecure social rejects with psych issues and no marketable job skills.  Personal therapy may be good for mental health, but that doesn’t make the resulting art important or even interesting.  A romantic at heart, Sam still insisted the aesthetic experience required a well-made thing, and very few living artists had the necessary skills.

          When reduced to a mere activity, art became no more important than knitting.  Art’s therapeutic function was not what qualified it as a university department of higher education.  Like philosophy and science, Art (with a big “A”) was an exploration of who we are, what we are and where we are.  Art provides one way to contemplate reality and search for meaning in our lives.  From Sam’s personal experiences, university art departments were dominated by mediocre artists teaching concepts they didn’t fully understand.  Sam had noticed that something as fundamental as Renaissance linear perspective could pose a real challenge to most fine art professors.

          Sam preferred to think of himself as making art with a big “A”, but not necessarily “fine art.”  He had always been confused by the term.  It just dumbfounded Sam that the world’s most prestigious fine art museums, like the Metropolitan or the Louvre, had fucking furniture in them!  Mere things as Heidegger would say.  What the hell does an antique chair have in common with a painting?  Besides both being possessions of wealthy people – nothing!

          In Sam’s opinion, the vast majority of those world-famous collections could be skipped, especially Napoleon’s furniture.  There was nothing to be gained by standing in front of them, so why not just look at them in a book.  For Sam it was all about getting lost in the maker’s invented world.  The artworks that have changed the history of humankind always set up a world within themselves that contain the viewer.  Every time Sam had encountered an important work of art he knew it.  When that Caravaggio painting made it to America as part of the Vatican Exhibition, Sam sat in front of it for half an hour without realizing it was the same one Rubens copied.  Sam seemed to intuitively identify the masterpieces of the past.

          Art functions as a portal to another realm, an experience most people have had with music.  To be sure, most music, like most art, sucks.  But every once in a while something magical happens allowing us to get lost in the song.  Sam has this experience with artworks.  He doesn’t just walk by those Egyptian and Greek sculptures.  Sam teleports back into ancient times.  

          Lost in his thoughts, Sam involuntarily reaches into his front pocket, plucks out a fine example of a hand-rolled joint and sticks it in the corner of his mouth.  A disposable lighter appears in his hand and he struggles to remember how it got there.  The smell of marijuana inside the gallery causes the crowd to part like the Red Sea.  Zia looks up and sees Sam in the void.  She walks towards him with a familiar frown of disappointment. 

          “Put that thing out!  Max promised to have you arrested for shit like that!”

          “Fuck that faggot.  I don’t need him or his poseur gallery,” Sam snarls while snuffing out the roach.  “Besides, didn’t he already throw me out of this place?”

          “Would you please stop with that ‘faggot’ stuff?  I know you couldn’t care less about what Max sticks his dick in,” Zia reveals.  “Why do you say shit just to get a reaction?  Why must your default setting be abrasive?”

          “I prefer the term socially irritable,” Sam requests.  “And I do believe that your gay boss already banned me from his gallery for life.”

          “Actually, he was forced to give you a reprieve tonight.”

          “How’s that?”

          “Max’s richest and creepiest client wants to meet you,” Zia explains.

          “Yeah, right!  And Max agreed to do something that might actually help me?  I don’t think so, Zia.”

          “Would you please stop being such an asshole for once and try to be…,” Zia’s plea is eclipsed by the sonic beats of a drum machine.  Like a school of fish, everyone wiggled towards the far end of the large gallery.  Zia and Sam felt the social pressure to do the same.

          The theme for tonight’s performance was somewhere between a high school play and a crime scene.  As the jungle beats got louder through the gallery’s sound system, a dry ice fog machine created a Halloween ambiance.  Finally entering from Max’s office, Elvis Jesus crept through the haze looking like one of the Spiders from Mars.  Clad in a Ziggy Stardust glam rock costume with circular cut-outs to reveal his pierced nipples, Elvis overacted his way around a small performance space defined by yellow crime scene tape that should read: danger, bad art ahead.  As the primitive music melted away, he slowly growled, “Motionless, yet descending.  Air breathing in and out.  Up, now down.  In is out.  Down and out.”  While the monotone repetition of these phrases became increasingly tedious, a search light dot moved over the painted backdrop behind the performance artist.

          Finally breaking the monotony, Elvis adds, “Surface texture coming into focus.  Unblinking in the moonlight, the stone-cold ground stares back at me.  Motionless, yet descending.  Flashing neon strip club hookers smear blood and cum on my face.”

          All the track lights in the gallery are dimmed to near darkness.  A rotating police car light flashed blue onto the walls and ceiling.  A warning signal and siren helped build the suspense.  By this time, Sam’s running commentary in Zia’s ear made her involuntarily laugh out loud.  As people turned to look, she backed away in embarrassment and Sam nudged her in the direction of the free champagne.  On the way out he offered, “Hey, it’s a piñata.”

          Elvis grabs a baseball bat spiked with nails and swings it in the air.  A large transparent bag full of dark red iron oxide paint hangs down from the ceiling.  With a spin towards the center wall, the nails protruding from the club rip into the thick plastic, spattering acrylic paint onto the cityscape panels that lean against the walls.  As the viscous red liquid drips down the nude body prints that decorate the urban cityscape illustrations, Elvis Jesus continues his lame rip off of a scene from the movie: Carrie.

          “Blood warmly bathes my naked body.  A river of life slowly snakes its way down the gutter to the filthy sewer below.  Descending.  Motionless, yet descending.”

          Music, words, sirens, lights – everything stopped on cue.  With only the faint glow from the emergency exit sign to light the silent darkness, it felt like time had stopped.  But as Sam would gladly point out, being bored produced the exact same effect.  Faint animal noises emerged from the uneasy darkness and ten seconds of polite applause erupted inside the crowded gallery space.  Sam grabbed a second glass of domestic champagne and sidestepped the rush of thirsty art lovers.  Zia delegated the job of hostess to the unpaid college intern and joined Sam hiding in the small entrance gallery.

          “Are you interested in going for drinks after this shuts down?” Zia asks her distracted boyfriend.

          “What? Don’t make me,” Sam begs.  “Max hates me.  Why would I want to spend time with him?”

          “I thought you might want to be with me,” Zia pouts.

          “I live with you.”

          “We share an apartment.” Zia clarifies.  “I can’t remember the last time we did anything together.”

          “Yeah, I can’t remember the last time we did it, either,” Sam sarcastically agrees.

          “A girl might need supper and a movie.”

          “Doesn’t that make it prostitution?”

          “No, Sam,” Zia scolds.  “It makes it a date.”

          Sam looked away from his girlfriend for a moment and noticed Max Neo walking towards them.  “Oh, shit,” Sam reflexively stepped back and bumped into a white plywood podium jammed into the corner.  The clay sculpture on top began to tilt so Sam quickly grabbed the raku glazed head and prevented a ceramic disaster.  The trite knick-knack-sized piece consisted of a crudely modeled dog peeing on an Easter Island head.

          Zia looked back into the main gallery and saw her boss approaching with the evil billionaire.  “Don’t panic.  Max isn’t going to throw you out.”

          “Who is that with him?” Sam whispered out of the side of his mouth.

          “Satan,” Zia cautioned.

          The self-important pair arrived and Max began the introductions. “Zia, I have someone here who wants to meet your boyfriend.  Mr. N.O. Probity, this is Sam Bored.”

          Sam sheepishly stuck out his hand to shake, but Noel ignored the germ infested paw.

          For an awkward couple of seconds, he stared into Sam’s eyes then said, “Hello Sam.  I’ve wanted to meet you in person for quite awhile.  Besides being infamous for your art criticism, I understand you actually make paintings yourself.”

          “I try.”  Sam was already done with this conversation.

          “Sam’s work is amazing.  You should really check it out,” Zia promoted.

          “Well, I’m sure we could arrange a viewing here in the gallery,” Max offered, obviously trying to get a piece of any possible sale.

          Sam’s blood pressure spiked as he attempted to kill Max with an angry leer.  Zia ignored the tension between them and continued her sales pitch.  “Actually, Sam’s studio is just around the corner from here.  You could go see the paintings right now.”

          Now, both Max and Sam looked at her with anger in their eyes.  Sam is reminded of the Irish philosopher, George Berkeley, and his assertion that the non-material mind is actually the creator and controller of matter.  Yet in this case, it was not Sam’s mind in control.

          “That, dear girl, is an excellent idea,” Mr. Probity accepts an invitation Sam never offered.

π

          Things are bound to change now.  We don’t know how else to prepare you for the journey ahead.  The future, what a quaint concept of time and space you have.  We will do our best to help you understand.  It is our mission after all.  We have always tried to help.  We have been assigned to watch over mankind, something many cultures have suspected.  Normally We aren’t allowed to override your free will unless your choices become dangerously self-destructive.  We can’t even begin to explain how dangerous it can be to alter the space-time continuum.

          There is a consciousness.  We can at least tell you that.  It is a force known to the human mind but not to the five senses of sight, sound, touch, taste and smell.  Actually, that last one isn’t true.  It turns out humans can smell our materialization.  As a rule, We are not allowed to interact with your five senses and four-dimensional reality, but there are exceptions.  Your religious texts are full of such visits.

          We will be coming again.