(no subject)
In an upscale gallery in a certain large city, an artist finishes the last-minute preparations for the opening of his new show; he fusses over the refreshment table, inspects the canapés that are to be served, double-checks the projector for the big installation that dominates the room, and generally exasperates the staff of the gallery who, naturally, have a lot more experience at this sort of thing. But this is his first major show, and rumor has it there will be some very important visitors tonight, so he wants everything to be perfect.
"Babe, you gotta stop," his red-haired girlfriend says, putting a hand on his arm. "You're driving the caterer crazy, and the more you keep pacing in here, the more likely you're going to trip or run into one of your sculptures, and we can't have that, can we?"
drip
"I just want it to be a good show," he says.
"It'll be perfect. I know it will. You just need to relax..."
"But the governor's coming. The governor! He's gone on record saying that funding the arts is a waste of money that can better be spent on more substantial things. Why would he come to my show?"
"Maybe he's had a change of heart," she shrugs. "Art is a family value. Why don't you have a glass of wine to help you relax?"
"You're too good to me, baby," he says, and gives her a kiss on the cheek.
"Finally gotten over your ex?" She takes two glasses of wine from a passing staffer, and hands him one.
"It's taken a long time," he says after a moment's thought, "but you know, I think I may have. I couldn't have done this show otherwise. My art before, it was always wallowing in the past, but this? This is hopeful. It's looking to the future."
drip
"Your future's here," she murmurs, glancing to the door. "You can do this, babe. Just remember to smile."
The show opens, the projector shows footage of city life on the wall, and patrons of the arts (as well as the bored and the pretentious) mill in, enjoying the drinks and the food, and absorbing some of the artist's vision. One or two of them even show interest in buying some of the sculptures. By any measure, it's off to a successful start.
drip
And then the governor arrives, an aggressively genial man with an overly-whitened smile and an overly-polished wife. They exchange pleasantries, and the artist walks the governor around to give him a personal tour and insight into his creative process, while the artist's girlfriend and governor's wife tag along behind them and make carefully appropriate small talk.
drip
The little tour reaches its conclusion, and a photographer for the city paper is snapping some pictures of the governor and the artist discussing the purchase of one of the sculptures--an angular thing meant to evoke the reach for the stars, which the governor says will go perfectly in his office--when the other guests start to realize, at first only the bored few who have been watching the projected video on the wall, but more and more as the sound system begins to emit grunts and moans, that there on the wall, larger-than-life and as flagrante as it is possible to be, are the governor and a certain red-haired woman...
drip
And what follows in the gallery is no less lurid and tabloid-worthy than the writhing and twining taking place on the wall. The governor's wife, the picture of shock and humiliation; the governor, seething while trying desperately to find a way to spin this to save his career; the artist, hurling his wineglass at the wall before running for the door; the girlfriend, hurrying outside after him; and of course the photographer, capturing all of it.
drip
"Babe, wait up. Wait."
"Now I know why he showed up tonight," the artist says, not looking back at her. "How could you do this?"
"What, help your career? Bring you the attention you deserve?"
"You--" Now he turns, eyes and voice full of bitterness and betrayal. "You can't honestly tell me you did it for my career. You never gave a fuck about my career. You just liked getting painted."
drip
(getting close now; some splashes out over the top of the bowl)
She winces, but tries to hide it. "You know that's not true. Yeah, I like it when you paint me, but I love you, love everything about you."
"So you fucked the governor."
"He's nowhere near as good as you. And when he gets thrown out of office, we'll get a governor who cares about the arts maybe, yeah? And you'll be remembered--"
"I'll be a punchline."
"He'll be a punchline. You'll be famous."
"Yeah? So will you. 'I'll take Political Whores for $500, Alex.'"
drip
(My dear one, it's almost time.)
She draws in her breath sharply. "You should stick to painting. Your sculptures are awful. Corporate courtyard bullshit."
He looks down at his hands, fumblingly lights a cigarette. "Why should I believe a word you say?"
"Still over your ex?" She doesn't wait for an answer; she needs to get out of there. There's not much time, and she hates to discorporate in front of other people, so she turns and hurries off down the street, feeling his eyes on her as she goes.
drip
(I'm so sorry. My husband.)
Why does the gallery have to be in such a busy urban area? It's eight-thirty on a Saturday night, and the street is full of the cultural set. Nowhere to hide. No alleys to duck into, just shops and cafes and--a narrow door leading, presumably, to an upstairs apartment. It'll do.
She puts a hand on the doorknob, opens the lock as she opens the door, and darts through--
"Babe, you gotta stop," his red-haired girlfriend says, putting a hand on his arm. "You're driving the caterer crazy, and the more you keep pacing in here, the more likely you're going to trip or run into one of your sculptures, and we can't have that, can we?"
drip
"I just want it to be a good show," he says.
"It'll be perfect. I know it will. You just need to relax..."
"But the governor's coming. The governor! He's gone on record saying that funding the arts is a waste of money that can better be spent on more substantial things. Why would he come to my show?"
"Maybe he's had a change of heart," she shrugs. "Art is a family value. Why don't you have a glass of wine to help you relax?"
"You're too good to me, baby," he says, and gives her a kiss on the cheek.
"Finally gotten over your ex?" She takes two glasses of wine from a passing staffer, and hands him one.
"It's taken a long time," he says after a moment's thought, "but you know, I think I may have. I couldn't have done this show otherwise. My art before, it was always wallowing in the past, but this? This is hopeful. It's looking to the future."
drip
"Your future's here," she murmurs, glancing to the door. "You can do this, babe. Just remember to smile."
The show opens, the projector shows footage of city life on the wall, and patrons of the arts (as well as the bored and the pretentious) mill in, enjoying the drinks and the food, and absorbing some of the artist's vision. One or two of them even show interest in buying some of the sculptures. By any measure, it's off to a successful start.
drip
And then the governor arrives, an aggressively genial man with an overly-whitened smile and an overly-polished wife. They exchange pleasantries, and the artist walks the governor around to give him a personal tour and insight into his creative process, while the artist's girlfriend and governor's wife tag along behind them and make carefully appropriate small talk.
drip
The little tour reaches its conclusion, and a photographer for the city paper is snapping some pictures of the governor and the artist discussing the purchase of one of the sculptures--an angular thing meant to evoke the reach for the stars, which the governor says will go perfectly in his office--when the other guests start to realize, at first only the bored few who have been watching the projected video on the wall, but more and more as the sound system begins to emit grunts and moans, that there on the wall, larger-than-life and as flagrante as it is possible to be, are the governor and a certain red-haired woman...
drip
And what follows in the gallery is no less lurid and tabloid-worthy than the writhing and twining taking place on the wall. The governor's wife, the picture of shock and humiliation; the governor, seething while trying desperately to find a way to spin this to save his career; the artist, hurling his wineglass at the wall before running for the door; the girlfriend, hurrying outside after him; and of course the photographer, capturing all of it.
drip
"Babe, wait up. Wait."
"Now I know why he showed up tonight," the artist says, not looking back at her. "How could you do this?"
"What, help your career? Bring you the attention you deserve?"
"You--" Now he turns, eyes and voice full of bitterness and betrayal. "You can't honestly tell me you did it for my career. You never gave a fuck about my career. You just liked getting painted."
drip
(getting close now; some splashes out over the top of the bowl)
She winces, but tries to hide it. "You know that's not true. Yeah, I like it when you paint me, but I love you, love everything about you."
"So you fucked the governor."
"He's nowhere near as good as you. And when he gets thrown out of office, we'll get a governor who cares about the arts maybe, yeah? And you'll be remembered--"
"I'll be a punchline."
"He'll be a punchline. You'll be famous."
"Yeah? So will you. 'I'll take Political Whores for $500, Alex.'"
drip
(My dear one, it's almost time.)
She draws in her breath sharply. "You should stick to painting. Your sculptures are awful. Corporate courtyard bullshit."
He looks down at his hands, fumblingly lights a cigarette. "Why should I believe a word you say?"
"Still over your ex?" She doesn't wait for an answer; she needs to get out of there. There's not much time, and she hates to discorporate in front of other people, so she turns and hurries off down the street, feeling his eyes on her as she goes.
drip
(I'm so sorry. My husband.)
Why does the gallery have to be in such a busy urban area? It's eight-thirty on a Saturday night, and the street is full of the cultural set. Nowhere to hide. No alleys to duck into, just shops and cafes and--a narrow door leading, presumably, to an upstairs apartment. It'll do.
She puts a hand on the doorknob, opens the lock as she opens the door, and darts through--