A Faithful Recreation of "Avocado Behind Bars".
"You call that art!?"
Within three-hundred miles this could be heard as I was thrown out of the gallery. Or at least that was my intent. Maybe that asshole was right, maybe I did drink too much. Who knows? I lost count. Around seven or eight I start yelling a bit above the acceptable volume. Acceptable volume being silence save for the wispy explanations of some fashion whore. I know I was under twelve though. That's when I begin to noticeably slur my speech.
"Eh! Eh 'ere, gaha smoke?"
"Excuse me?"
There goes that theory. "Sorry. Lil' outta breath." I had taken all of my concentration away from breathing and placed it solely on not breaking my face as I flew down the stairs. "Sorry, do ya have a smoke?"
"Sure, rough night?" He reached into his blazer jacket and retrieved a soft pack of camel lights, four left.
"Thanks." He cupped his left hand around my cigarette and held the lighter in his right. The quick succession of spark, flame and smoke filling my lungs made me stagger. "Guess I had a few too many."
"I'll say, kicked out for bullying some artist..."
"Artist? Ha!"
"Well, the man with no doubt deep regret for inviting you, whatever title you give him. A man doesn't expect to have his life threatened at his own show."
"Threatened? Who'd ya hear that from?"
"Came out of your mouth, to have him hung for such atrocities, I believe that's what I heard. Suppose that's what the whole city heard."
I tried my best to express a face of concern, "Didn't expose myself did I?"
"To the best of my knowledge, no."
"Did well then tonight." I set my sights on my car, across the street and made an attempt to leave.
"And what exactly was your purpose at tonight's function, may I ask?"
"Aside from the obvious, which would be my indis... indispensable qualities as a public drunk, I'm an art critic." I took another lurching step and he stuck like a shadow.
"You don't say."
"I do. I did. Didn't I?"
"I don't suppose you'll be writing anything positive concerning tonight?"
"These damn modern art shows, no I suppose... I suppose it won't be pretty. Not sure if I'm a critic in the right times. Only times we have though. No damn emotion. Too experimental. Random. No real art."
"Surely that's not true for all, wouldn't you say it's more about a personal connection? The artist's experience and the viewers?"
"But in order... damn! Dropped my smoke. In order to establish "whatever it is" with "whoever it is" there has to be emotion. Some words we can pin to it... scrambles in our head, tied to words or something..."
"You don't remember me do you?"
"Course I do, you just lent me a smoke. I thank you."
"We've met before."
"Sorry buddy, I told you I've had a bit to drink."
"You won't mind if I read a bit of something to you?"
Damn poets, all these new art junkies hover around the same bland flame. "Shoot."
"Perhaps, if a faithful recreation of an avocado behind bars speaks to you in the tongue of a genius, you missed out tonight. Otherwise, tonight's show provided nothing stimulating or important concerning the art community."
"Sounds good, sounds like something I would write."
"You did."
The man then reached around to the backside of his waistline and retrieved a handgun. Personally I don't know enough about guns to tell you what kind, but I know enough to say that it was one. Before I could let out a single syllable the hammer of the gun was pulled back and drove something right into my stomach. For a moment I was fine, reeling from the shock and adrenaline. In this moment, dealing with scrambled receptors and slurred electric brain messages, I pinned who he was. Although we were never formally introduced this could be none other than Ilma Tundmus. What he had read me had been my review of his show from nearly eight years ago when I had begun criticizing art. I then realized my hand was doing a poor job of restricting the overwhelming cascade of blood coming from my fresh wound. I could feel the bullet burning as I winced, fell, and promptly passed out. That's the last time I drink at an art show.
Within three-hundred miles this could be heard as I was thrown out of the gallery. Or at least that was my intent. Maybe that asshole was right, maybe I did drink too much. Who knows? I lost count. Around seven or eight I start yelling a bit above the acceptable volume. Acceptable volume being silence save for the wispy explanations of some fashion whore. I know I was under twelve though. That's when I begin to noticeably slur my speech.
"Eh! Eh 'ere, gaha smoke?"
"Excuse me?"
There goes that theory. "Sorry. Lil' outta breath." I had taken all of my concentration away from breathing and placed it solely on not breaking my face as I flew down the stairs. "Sorry, do ya have a smoke?"
"Sure, rough night?" He reached into his blazer jacket and retrieved a soft pack of camel lights, four left.
"Thanks." He cupped his left hand around my cigarette and held the lighter in his right. The quick succession of spark, flame and smoke filling my lungs made me stagger. "Guess I had a few too many."
"I'll say, kicked out for bullying some artist..."
"Artist? Ha!"
"Well, the man with no doubt deep regret for inviting you, whatever title you give him. A man doesn't expect to have his life threatened at his own show."
"Threatened? Who'd ya hear that from?"
"Came out of your mouth, to have him hung for such atrocities, I believe that's what I heard. Suppose that's what the whole city heard."
I tried my best to express a face of concern, "Didn't expose myself did I?"
"To the best of my knowledge, no."
"Did well then tonight." I set my sights on my car, across the street and made an attempt to leave.
"And what exactly was your purpose at tonight's function, may I ask?"
"Aside from the obvious, which would be my indis... indispensable qualities as a public drunk, I'm an art critic." I took another lurching step and he stuck like a shadow.
"You don't say."
"I do. I did. Didn't I?"
"I don't suppose you'll be writing anything positive concerning tonight?"
"These damn modern art shows, no I suppose... I suppose it won't be pretty. Not sure if I'm a critic in the right times. Only times we have though. No damn emotion. Too experimental. Random. No real art."
"Surely that's not true for all, wouldn't you say it's more about a personal connection? The artist's experience and the viewers?"
"But in order... damn! Dropped my smoke. In order to establish "whatever it is" with "whoever it is" there has to be emotion. Some words we can pin to it... scrambles in our head, tied to words or something..."
"You don't remember me do you?"
"Course I do, you just lent me a smoke. I thank you."
"We've met before."
"Sorry buddy, I told you I've had a bit to drink."
"You won't mind if I read a bit of something to you?"
Damn poets, all these new art junkies hover around the same bland flame. "Shoot."
"Perhaps, if a faithful recreation of an avocado behind bars speaks to you in the tongue of a genius, you missed out tonight. Otherwise, tonight's show provided nothing stimulating or important concerning the art community."
"Sounds good, sounds like something I would write."
"You did."
The man then reached around to the backside of his waistline and retrieved a handgun. Personally I don't know enough about guns to tell you what kind, but I know enough to say that it was one. Before I could let out a single syllable the hammer of the gun was pulled back and drove something right into my stomach. For a moment I was fine, reeling from the shock and adrenaline. In this moment, dealing with scrambled receptors and slurred electric brain messages, I pinned who he was. Although we were never formally introduced this could be none other than Ilma Tundmus. What he had read me had been my review of his show from nearly eight years ago when I had begun criticizing art. I then realized my hand was doing a poor job of restricting the overwhelming cascade of blood coming from my fresh wound. I could feel the bullet burning as I winced, fell, and promptly passed out. That's the last time I drink at an art show.