Dinner at Paul’s was exquisite: pork chop with roasted peaches, sautéed green beans and mashed potatoes, a strong beer he had brewed himself. It was clear from my voice on the phone, he gently implied, that a large meal cooked with care would do me some good. While we ate he permitted me to speak wildly, about how incredulous Jackson and I had been when it first happened, how it continued even with all the materials hidden, the trip he made to the art store in his sleep. It was clear he was wary. Not of the validity of my story — he had a willingness to believe in the unusual that was endearing and familiar to me — but of art that was, well, schticky.
“It’s maybe a poor comparison,” he said, taking a sip of his beer, “but I’m reminded of that two-year-old who was recently lauded as an abstract expressionist prodigy. It was all over the place for a few months. The parents were both artists. They started giving her more than your average finger paint and printer paper. Canvasses, expensive oils and brushes, the works. And boom — through their connections they get her a show at a gallery, then another. The paintings started selling for ridiculous prices, and there were critics calling her Pollock reborn. And of course her success was propagated by all the controversy, whether her parents had helped or manipulated her, and then the big split between people who wanted to believe the paintings were real and were special, and those who called them phony. And before you knew it, it was more about the argument between the two groups, the believers calling the nonbelievers cynics, than the art itself.”
Paul smiled bashfully and realized he had gotten lost in his excitement. He poured me more beer.
“And then,” he continued more zealously, “that thing last year? With the elephants painting? Somewhere in Australia, I think. They gave the elephants paintbrushes and filmed it, and the footage cuts between the brush held in the snout and the canvas, and the end result is some real, like, thick Matisse-eque lines in a representation of an elephant. And what a sweet idea, I’ll give ’em that, to think that an elephant would draw what he knew: other elephants. There’s lots of evidence the footage is doctored, but people were willing to pay upward of twenty thousand dollars for an at best mediocre painting, just because it may or not have been done by a zoo animal. Meanwhile artists with vast talent and sincerity are not getting anywhere, and often, more often than I’d like to believe, it’s because they have no scheme. They’re not toddlers or elephants, they don’t, like, coauthor their work with an antique robot, they—”
He faltered and I smiled.
“Paul?” I asked. “Just look at them.”
“All right, all right. But I promise nothing.”
I brought the box to the table and placed it in front of him where he was propped up on his elbows, smiling wryly. I brought our dishes to the kitchen and washed them carefully, letting the water run longer than necessary, feeling calmer than I had in a long time.
He was enraptured and didn’t notice me come in. I placed a hand lightly on his shoulder and he jumped. I sat in the chair next to him and watched his face, which was glued to the pieces with consternation.
“Ida. Ida, I am so, so sorry. They’re … they’re nothing like what I expected. I don’t know … I don’t know what I expected, but not this. Not. This,” and he waved his hand over the same piece Nathan had become stuck on.
“ ‘I asked you nicely the first time’?! My God. So terrifying. And his face!” He stood and started moving.
“I’ll show them. In a heartbeat. We’ve got to. The only thing is … him, right? He doesn’t like them, is that right? Over the phone you said—”
“It’s not quite that he doesn’t like them. He just feels, I guess, that they don’t belong to him, that he doesn’t have any right to be congratulated for them. He can’t, you know, do anything like them while he’s awake.” My throat caught, but he didn’t notice.
“It’s perfect,” Paul exalted. “The best example of art that must … that there’s just no choice about.”
He was ecstatic and insisted I stay longer, refilling my glass of beer without asking and not noticing that my spirits did not lift with the warm carbonation. And why didn’t they? I couldn’t figure it out, quite. Wasn’t this what I wanted, for an authority on the subject to be as moved as I was? The omission rang out: in Paul’s praises of the pieces there was none of the struggle on my Jackson’s face in the morning as he wondered at a secret part of him so gruesome. None of the pain of opening your eyes in a different place than you’d closed them, of feeling unsure of where you’d been and knowing you had changed the world in small ways. I left Paul’s with the promise I would convince Jackson. I felt heavy with guilt and a familiar, obscure failure, like I had many years before when I’d tried to bring back what had been stolen and had instead unleashed forty-odd diseased, starving cats, clawing their way out of confinement, releasing a stench that drowned all else.
~ ~ ~
Paul’s gallery space was small, with well-worn hardwood floors and no windows. Still, it had gained respect in the concentric art world of our city, just as he had with his brand of quiet, earnest charm. He was a trust fund baby who lived modestly and took pleasure in funding projects and artists he felt to be noble. More often than not, there was some kid from East Lansing, Michigan, or Bentonville, Arkansas, or some other town you’d never heard of, a talent Paul had somehow “discovered,” staying on his couch until he found his feet in the city. In being so constantly generous, as well as having really quite the eye for art others were likely to overlook, he had built a following of people absolutely enamored with him and his pursuits, no matter how ridiculous. Every opening he held was full and buzzing with happy people, overflowing out the door and onto the street, talking passionately about the pieces inside, embracing individuals they’d just met. Jackson’s, unfortunately, was no different.
He had grudgingly agreed to a show, though not without a great deal of resentment, and mostly to appease Paul, whose interest was endearing and had only grown with Jackson’s aversion. After weeks of negotiation, Jackson had agreed to let his sleep’s works be shown in the gallery but had no interest in an opening. Paul, determined, had pushed for a “quiet unveiling” late at night in loyalty to the art’s conception; he promised there would be very little publicity and only modest curating that respected the artist’s queasiness.
These promises, of course, did not hold up. For all Paul’s munificence, he was still someone who generally got what he wanted from the world, and he had a hard time truncating his vision of desire. He made no posters or press releases, but his tongue was, as ever, free: word spread in the weeks preceding, and a substantial buzz began to sound.
Paul prepared furiously. He papered the ceiling of the space with pages of nineteenth-century French and German texts on sleepwalking and decided to name the exhibition after one of the titles, Somnambulism and Cramp, written by a man named Reichenbach who credited reports that sleepwalking was affected by the moon, and that sufferers were generally individuals with exaggerated sensory abilities; he called them “sensitives.”
In the shortening days leading up to it, Jackson maintained he would not be present for the unveiling, which was to take place at three a.m. He grumbled around the apartment and took on the reorganization of our closets, the waxing of our floors, the oiling of our creaky dead bolt. I caught him at the kitchen sink, sponge in hand and warm water running over his fingers into the empty sink, immobile and slightly smiling.