The exhibit was called What I shouldn't do for love and it was Jacques Renard's first. I hadn't seen my friend since art school and was shocked to see that he now had only one leg instead of his usual two.
When we were young, he would sleep with a new woman almost daily. Contemporary dancers, polyamorous vegans, film actresses, long distance runners, sous chefs, stage actresses, poets, teaching assistants, sommeliers, somnambulists. He met a woman who had been studying at the Sorbonne and was in Montreal for a few months writing a thesis on art and humanism in Florence during the time of Lorenzo de’ Medici. They fell in love and he left with her to France.
Jacques and I were fierce competitors throughout our academic years and I was crippled with jealousy when first i learned of his vernissage. For years I have been rejected by a myriad of foundations, councils, museums and galleries, all reluctant to show my work. Apparently there isn't any room or appreciation for my post-awesome interpretation of the AIDS virus using dilapidated apple printers and ground coriander.
As I walked through the halls admiring my old friend's work, I noticed a crowd had gathered at the other end where Jacques was. He stood under his own leg which had been crudely tacked onto the wall behind him. It was a shocking, hideous piece of work but it was brilliant and captivating and brutal and so perfect. Jacques had removed his own leg, a horrific and blunt act of self-mutilation in the name of art.
He told me later that night over a cold whiskey how he lost his leg.
"Anna and I were having a picnic and were involved in a heated argument. She ran away and I foolishly chased after her. She is faster than me and I lost her. I searched and searched and had it no been for her vicious screams in the distance I might have lost her forever. She was stuck in the train tracks you see, and only I could save her. The train was coming fast and hard. I dislodged her in the nick of time and saved her life. My leg however, was removed by the train and now hangs on that gallery wall for all to see. But I saved my Anna's life."
"Was it worth it?" I asked, dumbfounded by his tale.
" No. It wasn't." he said, while sipping his drink. " I dumped her 3 weeks later. She got fat."
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
And I will always love Bryan
An unmarked bus took me to an unmarked warehouse to meet a man wearing a cloth bag over his head. Black holes were in place of his eyes and he had no mouth. We stared at one another silently and I waved. His arms didn't move.
His tweed jacket hung to his ankles and his pants fit him well. His attire told me he was a man who knew business. The geometric design of his pinky ring told me he was an admirer of Etruscan jewelry. His refusal to wave back told me he was not very friendly.
My mother once told me that I was friendly and I've since taken great pride in that. My high school was filled with social invalids but I did my best at pretending to be their friend. Bryan McMullon in particular, struck me as odd. Maybe it was because he never groomed his thin mustache, or maybe it was because he concocted an intricate baseball/handball hybrid professional sporting league in his head and played out all the games alone against a wall in a courtyard, but he always just struck me as odd.
To be fair, a boy of his frail physique, crumpled facial features, and often grotesque choices of wardrobe, never really had a shot. I, along with a few of my sympathetic friends, often asked him how his league was going before putting his face through a locker. Of course the interest was feigned, but the effort was there no less.
The man in the warehouse, still refusing to wave, left me alone at which point I began to masturbate.
His tweed jacket hung to his ankles and his pants fit him well. His attire told me he was a man who knew business. The geometric design of his pinky ring told me he was an admirer of Etruscan jewelry. His refusal to wave back told me he was not very friendly.
My mother once told me that I was friendly and I've since taken great pride in that. My high school was filled with social invalids but I did my best at pretending to be their friend. Bryan McMullon in particular, struck me as odd. Maybe it was because he never groomed his thin mustache, or maybe it was because he concocted an intricate baseball/handball hybrid professional sporting league in his head and played out all the games alone against a wall in a courtyard, but he always just struck me as odd.
To be fair, a boy of his frail physique, crumpled facial features, and often grotesque choices of wardrobe, never really had a shot. I, along with a few of my sympathetic friends, often asked him how his league was going before putting his face through a locker. Of course the interest was feigned, but the effort was there no less.
The man in the warehouse, still refusing to wave, left me alone at which point I began to masturbate.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
I'm afraid of Latin Americans
Rodrigo, an old friend from my days in film school called me recently and needed help. He wasn't in any kind of danger, which relieved me. After twenty minutes or so of speaking excitedly over the telephone I hung up and booked a flight to Chile.
My seat was smaller than I had hoped but the woman next to me was symmetrical and British, so I was pleased. She smelt like Pina Coladas and worked in fashion, and her cleavage made up for the soggy fish that was served for lunch. We spoke about my life and hers, and time slipped away and clouds passed us by.
She was on her way to attend the launch of Maria Cornejo's new summer line, which was to be unveiled on the steps of the Bellas Artes Museum in the heart of downtown Santiago. Cornejo's clothes have a simplicity and elegance that is undeniable, but her dresses are often meandering and lack a certain edge. My British friend disagreed and offered me a peanut. I accepted.
Rodrigo moved to Chile three years ago after landing a job as a reporter for El Mercurio. Thousands of city workers were on strike and Rodrigo required my expertise in Chilean Labor laws to help him cover the story. I was also very good at dealing with impassioned Latin Americans but Rodrigo had yet to find that out.
I was to meet Rodrigo in the evening to go over notes, which gave me a full day to drink with my British friend. We ate what was perhaps the most succulent Curanto en Hoyo that I've ever tasted and drank bottles of Cabernet franc, Pinot noir, Sangiovese, Malbec, and Petite Sirah. We were drunk and made love under the hot Chilean sun.
Rodrigo was waiting for me outside of my hotel room with an impatient look tattooed on his otherwise placating face. His hair was thick and royal and could easily be sold to the highest bidder. Chile had treated my friend well. He looked fresh and his teeth were white and his jeans were tight. He wasn't wearing any socks.
The strike was being referred to as a lost cause by the Chilean intelligentsia. Rodrigo and I agreed. Workers masked their desire to increase their influence within the ruling centre-left coalition with basic monetary demands. It was bush-league and inconsequential and I preferred drinking wine and making love than concerning myself with the politics of a country best known for its Curanto en Hoyo.
I returned to Thornhill the following day to watch Family Guy with my dad.
My seat was smaller than I had hoped but the woman next to me was symmetrical and British, so I was pleased. She smelt like Pina Coladas and worked in fashion, and her cleavage made up for the soggy fish that was served for lunch. We spoke about my life and hers, and time slipped away and clouds passed us by.
She was on her way to attend the launch of Maria Cornejo's new summer line, which was to be unveiled on the steps of the Bellas Artes Museum in the heart of downtown Santiago. Cornejo's clothes have a simplicity and elegance that is undeniable, but her dresses are often meandering and lack a certain edge. My British friend disagreed and offered me a peanut. I accepted.
Rodrigo moved to Chile three years ago after landing a job as a reporter for El Mercurio. Thousands of city workers were on strike and Rodrigo required my expertise in Chilean Labor laws to help him cover the story. I was also very good at dealing with impassioned Latin Americans but Rodrigo had yet to find that out.
I was to meet Rodrigo in the evening to go over notes, which gave me a full day to drink with my British friend. We ate what was perhaps the most succulent Curanto en Hoyo that I've ever tasted and drank bottles of Cabernet franc, Pinot noir, Sangiovese, Malbec, and Petite Sirah. We were drunk and made love under the hot Chilean sun.
Rodrigo was waiting for me outside of my hotel room with an impatient look tattooed on his otherwise placating face. His hair was thick and royal and could easily be sold to the highest bidder. Chile had treated my friend well. He looked fresh and his teeth were white and his jeans were tight. He wasn't wearing any socks.
The strike was being referred to as a lost cause by the Chilean intelligentsia. Rodrigo and I agreed. Workers masked their desire to increase their influence within the ruling centre-left coalition with basic monetary demands. It was bush-league and inconsequential and I preferred drinking wine and making love than concerning myself with the politics of a country best known for its Curanto en Hoyo.
I returned to Thornhill the following day to watch Family Guy with my dad.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
In Memorium: Linnny G.
I went to the park with my friend Linny today. It was the day after her birthday so naturally I brought her an almond croissant and a latte. She hated them both.
Linny wore white tights that made her bum look smooth and proud. Her purple top, which had the words "Deport me" emblazoned in large pink letters across her chest, sat loosely on her fair, clean skin. She looked good enough to eat.
Our plans for the day were fleeting--set in anything but stone. She brought a book of Sudoku puzzles and an anthology of poetry written by Venezuelan orphans. I called her and her little books silly and she threw grass in my face.
We sat underneath a giant oak tree a few feet from one another. The sounds of rackets and bats hitting balls and sloppy men drinking beer echoed in the distance. My eyes were closed and my heavy head rested on my knapsack. Linny's pen scratched dutifully away at her Japanese puzzles and her frequent exhales of annoyance told me that she wasn't very good.
Linny and I met a few years ago at a party thrown by my publicist. She was vibrant and alive and different than the cocaine-addled models that had made a habit of throwing themselves at me. Linny's eyes were big and bright and full of secrets. I asked her to dance and she told me to fuck off and die. I called her a hatchet-face. We kissed. Our teeth bumped and she bit my upper lip. It was awkward and unpleasant. We spent the rest of the night alone in the courtyard of Jerome's (my publicist) home. Linny was passionate about Venezuelan politics and we discussed fervently the policies of Hugo Chavez--in particular the cronyism, political patronage, and corruption that we both agreed plagued his regime.
I realized then that Linny was too intelligent to sleep with. I had too much respect for her and therefor could not degrade her sexually, as I was accustomed to doing to women of her age (18) and her body type (pretty perfect). Instead, she would become my adviser, my closest confidante, and above all--a dear, dear friend.
It was Linny who told me to leave Montreal and move back to the suburbs with my parents. It was Linny who told me to buy that pair of skinny jeans, regardless of my thick and chunky thighs. It was Linny who told me to fire Jerome, walk away from my six picture deal at universal, and take a job serving burgers at Wayne Gretzky's instead. Without her sagacious and knowing counsel, I wouldn't be where I am today and for that, I am eternally grateful.
* * *
Linny passed away three days after that day in the park. She was 21.
Linny wore white tights that made her bum look smooth and proud. Her purple top, which had the words "Deport me" emblazoned in large pink letters across her chest, sat loosely on her fair, clean skin. She looked good enough to eat.
Our plans for the day were fleeting--set in anything but stone. She brought a book of Sudoku puzzles and an anthology of poetry written by Venezuelan orphans. I called her and her little books silly and she threw grass in my face.
We sat underneath a giant oak tree a few feet from one another. The sounds of rackets and bats hitting balls and sloppy men drinking beer echoed in the distance. My eyes were closed and my heavy head rested on my knapsack. Linny's pen scratched dutifully away at her Japanese puzzles and her frequent exhales of annoyance told me that she wasn't very good.
Linny and I met a few years ago at a party thrown by my publicist. She was vibrant and alive and different than the cocaine-addled models that had made a habit of throwing themselves at me. Linny's eyes were big and bright and full of secrets. I asked her to dance and she told me to fuck off and die. I called her a hatchet-face. We kissed. Our teeth bumped and she bit my upper lip. It was awkward and unpleasant. We spent the rest of the night alone in the courtyard of Jerome's (my publicist) home. Linny was passionate about Venezuelan politics and we discussed fervently the policies of Hugo Chavez--in particular the cronyism, political patronage, and corruption that we both agreed plagued his regime.
I realized then that Linny was too intelligent to sleep with. I had too much respect for her and therefor could not degrade her sexually, as I was accustomed to doing to women of her age (18) and her body type (pretty perfect). Instead, she would become my adviser, my closest confidante, and above all--a dear, dear friend.
It was Linny who told me to leave Montreal and move back to the suburbs with my parents. It was Linny who told me to buy that pair of skinny jeans, regardless of my thick and chunky thighs. It was Linny who told me to fire Jerome, walk away from my six picture deal at universal, and take a job serving burgers at Wayne Gretzky's instead. Without her sagacious and knowing counsel, I wouldn't be where I am today and for that, I am eternally grateful.
* * *
Linny passed away three days after that day in the park. She was 21.
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