But it’s probably better to get this over with so he’ll fuck off and leave me alone. He desperately wants me to acknowledge what he’s done. “How’s your weekend going?” he asks, barely able to contain his grin. He thinks because he knows certain things about me, that there’s an intimacy between us. He’s taken every opportunity for revenge since, even at the cost of his own credibility. I intended for him to overhear, but I underestimated his capacity for spite. The complicating factor is the panel of judges, which includes Carl Danvers, a bitter misanthrope who has never forgiven me for making a joke at his expense at a gala eight years ago. That should be obvious simply from the crowd of people around it, who linger longer and whisper more intently than they do for anyone else’s work. I’m guessing Rose Clark, Alastor Shaw, and I will be the top contenders. Art may be subjective, but quality shines like brass next to gold. It’s obvious which will be in the running for the prize. I begin making the rounds of the pieces I haven’t yet seen. Then she picks up her own glass of wine and strides off toward the bathrooms. She examines the stains, a crease forming between her eyebrows. I watch the girl’s face to see if she’ll cry or rage or fall over herself apologizing to Brisk in return. “So sorry,” Brisk says carelessly, barely glancing at the girl, who is clearly a nobody, before turning back to his conversation. Merlot splashes from Brisk’s glass down the front of her dress, the wine soaking into the white cotton as if it were blotting paper. The fault is his-he was gesturing aggressively with his chubby hands-but it’s the girl who pays the price. I’m about to turn my gaze to a more interesting subject when the girl collides with Jack Brisk, curator of contemporary art at SFMOMA. A botanical tattoo runs down one bird-like collarbone. Her boots tell another story-the battered Docs look older than she is. The girl has tried to dress up for the occasion: she’s wearing a loose white shift dress, crisp and bright enough that she must have acquired it recently. Another starving artist scavenging on the outskirts. The girl is demolishing the smoked gouda like she hasn’t eaten in a week, which she probably hasn’t. Betsy never skimps-she’s provided a generous selection of fresh fruit, sandwiches, and macarons. In fact, the only person within my view I don’t recognize is the skinny girl shoving cheese in her mouth over at Betsy’s excellent buffet spread. Betsy and Alastor have fucked before, though she doesn’t have to worry about ending up in the Sutro Baths-she’s much too useful as a broker for Shaw’s art. Everyone knows everyone else, in both the common and biblical senses. The San Francisco art scene is incestuous. It’s all the same people, the same ass-kissing conversation. I know most of the people milling around, drinking complimentary glasses of merlot, examining the work on display, arguing its merit with increasing abandon as the wine takes hold. He reminds me of a pitcher plant, exuding sticky sweetness to lure in flies. She smiles up at Shaw, resting her hand lightly on his forearm as she laughs at some joke he’s made.Īlastor grins back at her, his face boyishly animated. Several women flock toward him, including Betsy Voss, who organized this event. He looks tanned, despite the viscous fog covering the city all week. He catches my eye as he swaggers into the gallery, giving me the merest suggestion of a smile, a tug of the lips that shows the glint of bleached teeth. His genius for self-promotion far exceeds his genius for art. Still, I’m sure he’ll sell a thousand prints, whether he wins tonight’s prize or not. All the color, all the bold strokes, all the symbolism hitting you over the head. Mine is better.Įverything is excess with him. I already saw the piece he’s showing tonight. His subjects can rarely be identified by teeth or even fingerprints. He delights in losing himself in the frenzy of beating and mutilation. I didn’t need to see his smug smirk at the showcase to confirm it. I knew it was Shaw, as surely as if he’d signed his name to his work. I saw the headlines that a girl had been murdered on Ocean Beach, her body left floating in the ruins of the old Sutro Baths. There Are No Saints Introduction Excerpt.
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