Friday, October 17, 2008
Just A Bad Memory
Once, when I was younger, I flew a thousand miles for a party launching a group exhibition which included my work. Of the dozen artists involved, I was the only female. The party was held at a bland, post-modern mansion filled with blue-chip paintings by all the usual suspects. The host was tall and too evenly tanned, with skin like well-oiled saddle leather. His hair had the iridescent sheen of expensive conditioning. When I arrived, I overheard a photographer hiss, “What the fuck is she doing here?”. I heard someone else joke that the exhibition was the first to feature the work of of nine artists and a fashion model.At the end of the night, a collector asked me for a tongue kiss. I complained about it to a dealer who represented my work. “Oh, he was just drunk,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. He probably won’t even remember it in the morning.” But I still remember it.It’ll be great for my career, I told myself when I was invited to be part of the exhibition. By the time it opened, I couldn’t help feeling like a whore.