“One of the most remarkable features of Pollock’s art is how tactile it is,” Regan continued. “I encourage you to step forward to witness the painting’s depths up close; the layers of paint have a distinct solidity you will not find elsewhere.”
The Wife stepped closer, eagerly eyeing it upon Regan’s suggestion, and the others followed suit. The Husband hung back, hovering in Regan’s eyeline.
“Amazing they even call this art, isn’t it? I could do this. Hell, a six-year-old could do this.” The Husband’s gaze slid to hers. “I bet you could do it much better.”
Regan estimated his dick to be average-sized, and while that wasn’t necessarily problematic, the fact that he probably didn’t know what to do with it was. A pity, as he was handsome enough. He had a pleasant face. She guessed that he was unhappily married to his college sweetheart. She would have guessed high school girlfriend, given how that was relatively standard for people with his Minnesotan drawl, but he seemed like a late bloomer. She caught the faint pitting from acne scars on his forehead, which was a detail that most people probably missed—but they wouldn’t have missed it in the tenth grade, and Regan didn’t, either.
She had a couple of choices. One, she could fuck him in a bathroom stall. Always an option, and never not worth consideration. She knew where to find privacy if she wanted it, and he seemed like he’d probably strayed once or twice already, so there wouldn’t be a lot of easing his conscience beforehand.
Of course, if she wanted mediocre dick, that was deplorably easy to find without picking this mediocre dick. Out of all the things in the museum to focus his attention, the fact that Regan was his object of choice said far more about him than it did about her.
It could be a diverting ten minutes. But then again, she’d had more fun in less.
“Jackson Pollock was highly influenced by Navajo sand painting,” Regan said, her own gaze still affixed to the painting. “With sand,” she explained, “the process is just as important as the finished product; in fact, more so. Sand can blow away at any moment. It can disappear in a matter of hours, minutes, seconds, so the process is about the moment of catharsis. The reverence is in making art—in being part of its creation, but then leaving it open to destruction. What Native Americans did with sand, Jackson Pollock did with paint, which is perhaps an empty rendition of it. In fact, he never openly admitted to adopting their techniques—which makes sense, as it’s far closer to appropriation than it is to an homage. But could you do it?”
She turned to look at The Husband, sparing him a disinterested once-over.
“Sure, maybe,” she said, and his mouth twitched with displeasure.
The art is always different up close, isn’t it? she thought about saying, but didn’t. Now that he knew she was a bitch, he wouldn’t bother pretending to listen.
Eventually the tour ended, as all tours did. The Husband left with The Wife without having fucked any docents that day （that she knew of, though the night was still young）。 Regan readied herself for the next tour, feeling a buzz in her blazer pocket that meant Marc had found the underwear she’d left for him.
Everything was so cyclical. So predictable. At one point, Regan’s court-appointed psychiatrist had asked her how she felt about being alive,
THE NARRATOR: That whole thing was honestly so stupid.
and Regan had wanted to answer that even when it was never exactly the same, it seemed to follow a consistent orbit. Everything leading to everything else, following the same patterns if you happened to look closely enough. Sometimes Regan felt she was the only one looking, but she’d given the doctor a more tolerable answer and they’d both gone home satisfied, or something. Mostly Regan had felt thirsty, a result of her recent lithium increase. Dehydrate even a little and the pills would gladly offer her the shakes.
“Saint George and the Dragon,” Regan said, pointing out the painting to the next tour. A visiting family’s teenage son was staring at her breasts, and so was his younger sister. There’s no rush, Regan wanted to tell her. Look how warped the Medieval works are, she wanted to say, because there’s no perspective; because once upon a time, men looked at the world, took in all its beauty, and still only saw it flat.
Not much has changed, Regan thought to assure the girl. They see you closer than you are, but you’re further from reach than either you or they can imagine.
* * *
ALDO LIVED IN A BUILDING OF LOFTS that had once been occupied by a printing company in the early twentieth century. Initially he’d lived closer to the University of Chicago, on the city’s south side, but restlessness had driven him north to the South Loop, and then slightly east to Printer’s Row.