Sam sees my struggle and points to the artist’s statement. I read it twice but it might as well be written in Swedish for all that I understand it. “I’m not going to talk about the art,” I say. “I’ll furrow my brow and nod as I pace in front of it.”
“What if you’re asked what you think?”
I role-played this with Mei, so I feel confident. “That I’m fascinated and then ask them what they think.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Really?”
“Well, what would you say?”
“I’d pick an element and comment on it before asking them their opinion.”
I wave the pain-face picture at him and he plucks it out of my hand. “The placement calls to mind Yong Chen’s work on loneliness and juxtaposes the idea of isolation with that of rejuvenation. Is it an individual or communal activity?”
I try to release my clenched fists. “Because I am familiar with the works of Yong Chen.”
“Or you could say what you honestly think when you see it. How does it make you feel? What does it evoke?”
Before I answer, he’s barreling on to his next point, waving at the dossier. “Once art is out of the artist’s hands, it’s up to the viewer to determine meaning.”
“I disagree.”
“You do?” He raises those fine slanted eyebrows.
“Isolationism is passé.” I give a theatrical sniff and toss my wealth of fake hair. “You need to consider the context of the work and intent. Art isn’t created in a vacuum.”
“Yet interpretation is mediated by the experiences and values of the viewer.”
I’m getting into this. “Which are in turn affected by knowledge of the artist’s intention. Is ‘viewer’ even the correct word? Viewing implies distance and lack of engagement. Art should move us from viewing to active participation.”
“All art?” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. The pose drops his shirt down to reveal the shadowed muscles of his chest.
“Why do you act?” Looking down, I see his chest. Looking up, that face. There is no safe zone.
“I need to tell stories.” No hesitation when he answers. “Ones only I can give life to.”
“Do you want someone to watch and forget? Or to be changed?”
“The latter, obviously.”
I stare at him and he grimaces.
“That might be stretching it. Amused, at a minimum.”
“There you go.”
“You win.” He sits back up.
“We weren’t fighting.”
“No,” he says with surprise. “That won’t last.” He looks at his very pretty watch. “Almost time.”
Dread builds. Dinner the other night was fine since all I had to do was eat. This is going to be me on display, with people who are comfortable approaching me and expecting articulate conversation.
This is why I’m getting the semi-big bucks. Fangli is confident I can do it, and despite his multitude of personality flaws, Sam will have my back if it will help Fangli.
He’s getting into quiz mode. “What’s your latest art purchase?” he asks.
“A Murat Tekin painting,” I say. Triumphant, I scramble through my notes. “Damn. That’s the last I sold. Look at that price tag. Is this what art people talk about?”
“Depends on the crowd.” He sighs. “Why she can’t be interested in more traditional art, I don’t know.”
“What do you collect?” I ask. “Ming porcelains?”
“Ru ware from the Northern Song dynasty.” He glances at me out of the corner of those dark eyes. “My collection is currently touring. It’s in Berlin right now.”
“Oh.” I keep forgetting he comes from money as well as being famous. “That’s neat.”
He doesn’t grace this with a response, and I page through more screaming faces and outstretched hands as my anxiety ratchets up. At least I look right for the occasion and Sam’s single nod was a definite step up from his previous expressions when he saw me. The jumpsuit flows around my hips like water. It’s simple and perfect and the wig, with its heavy weight of hair, feels natural for the first time. I’ve even toned down my concerns about losing Fangli’s jewelry by about seventy percent.
The car takes us to the west end of town and turns down a residential street that transforms into an industrial zone. I peer out the window. “I know where we are.”
“You should. Don’t you live nearby?”