“Well, isn’t that just phallic?” Wolfgang states in examination of one artist’s depiction of a weeping woman on a log.
“I guess we all see what we want to see.” I laugh.
“It’s wood,” he deadpans. “And the leaves are ejaculating.”
“It’s a very excited little log.”
“Now, girl, you know better than to ever call a piece of wood little. That’s just plain old insulting.”
“Well, somebody likes it.” I point to the red dot next to the title of the piece, indicating that it has been sold. “Enough to buy it.”
“Porn always sells.”
“C’mon.” I loop my arm through his. “Let’s keep moving.”
We proceed to the next installation—a high-speed video display of a man on a roof as the sun rises and sets. Of course, he’s naked.
Why is there always so much nudity in art? Maybe we are a bunch of horny people.
“So, I haven’t seen Foster,” Wolfgang states, probing. “I guess he didn’t make it?”
“No.” I smile, hiding the splinters in my heart. “I guess he didn’t.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“Briefly. He called yesterday when he arrived back in town.”
“And how did that go?”
“It was okay.” I bite my lower lip. “I really hurt him.”
“I’m sure he’ll forgive you. He has to understand what you were going through.”
“I think he does, but it’s no excuse.” I shake my head. “I pushed him away, simply for what he is. It was completely hypocritical of me, judging him on his family’s stature.”
“Man, you rich people have it tough,” he kids. “Money trees and vapid dreams.”
“We all just want to be seen as people, Wolfie. What do you think we do all day? Roll around on the bed, covered in hundred-dollar bills?”
Wolfgang takes my hand, winks at me, and then leads us toward the next collection of students’ work in a smaller space brightly lit to showcase the five brilliantly colored canvases on the wall. Within the room, Professor Turner nonchalantly speaks with a couple about the compositions, signaling and waving his arms in an animated fashion. When he spies my friend and me, he excuses himself from the attentive pair.
“I was just looking for you,” Professor Turner says, addressing me. “You have a buyer interested in your piece, and he’d like to meet you.”
“Oh,” I utter, surprised. “Well, it’s not exactly for sale. Is it mislabeled?”
“No, the label is correct, but he insisted on meeting you, in hopes of changing your mind.”
Wolfgang and I share a look.
“I doubt I’ll budge,” I confess, “but I’m happy to speak with him.”
“Come”—he gestures to the left—“I’ll introduce you.”
With Wolfgang by my side, we follow the professor toward the space where my work is displayed. A small number of people are gathered around my sculpture installation, but I’m only drawn to one. A man dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, his warm-brown hair falling just over his brow while sporting a pair of familiar dark-framed glasses, stares intently at my creation.
Foster.
He came.
