Pictures at an Exhibition

Karl sits at a red light in driving rain. He's holding a paper cup of black coffee. Late afternoon light is gray and romantic. A perfect time, he thinks, to meet Polly at Barnes & Noble for a browse. What he wants to talk to her about is politics; she's a lefty, like him. In their small, polluted city, progressive thought is as rare as a vegan restaurant. Karl craves his fix with Polly like a cerebral lover. She wears sexy, smart girl glasses and has a slender, sinuous body. Being next to her stopped his heart, once, when the only thing between them was mutual love of books, art, and David Lynch movies (Inland Empire, Wild At Heart). Now that artistic success has become important, she's flailing at the thought of failure. Polly's an explorer, sometimes so locked in thought patterns that she becomes blocked. Then Karl gets a call— “Wanna go browse?”

The music at B&N is usually by bands that he likes but hasn't listened to much before. Karl used to hear about new bands on MTV in the early 80s before the channel was hijacked by reality programming. He's still listening to R.E.M.— they’re always brilliant and cool. Michael Stipe's lyrics appeal to his analytic literary obsessions. If you're a singer singing the same songs every night wouldn't you want them to be minor miracles?

Karl has always used music to displace depression; 80s pop songs instead of pills. Any kind of art, really, has been an antidote to melancholy. That summer night when he stumbled into Polly's show, Karl was feeling as if he'd lost his soul. Seeing her semi-pornographic images made him smile. Since then, it seems, they've been on the same journey together.

Up the escalator, Karl notices his hands trembling. He hasn't seen her in six months, since she started seeing Jason. Where he finds Polly will make her mood known— literature: expansive; poetry: romantic; politics: combative; photography: erotic... Karl sees a new Sex Pistols bio and is instantly engrossed.

Never mind the bollocks, where is Polly? Past fiction, he sees her standing in front of literary theory. Fuck. She's wearing tight, faded Levi's and a form fitting t-shirt. Flaunting her body has always been second nature. Flame red curls sit on her shoulders as she reads some sort of feminist tract critiquing... what? Nabokov's use of a young girl? Polly's purse is sitting on a table just behind her. Hard rain continues to hit a window further to her right. Karl wonders how the content of her book will find a way into their conversation. Will he be accused of unknowingly profiting from the malignant misrepresentation of most of the world's women simply by being a white male? It's happened before.

Just when he's about to approach Polly, a song blasts from her purse. She turns quickly to silence the call and sees Karl standing by the table, smiling. Polly answers the phone while keeping eye contact with him. Sounds like a trivial check-in from Jason. Does she love him? It doesn't matter to Karl anymore, just an intellectual exercise in relationships. All he knows for sure is that Polly's a newly discovered language— she's untranslatable.

Polly closes the phone and says to Karl,

“Some people don't know me very well. But you do.”

She hugs him. He detects a trace of Chanel No. 5 on top of freshly showered skin. Her eyes are wide and alert, curious about his new, college-age girlfriend.

“Will your honey care you're here? I heard she's 19.”

“21. She doesn't care if I see old friends.”

“What's she doing now, homework?”

“What's Jason doing, stealing from the poor?”

Polly kisses Karl lightly on the lips.

“Let's not start this way.”

Karl backs off. Flashes of lightning fill the pane of glass to Polly's left. He's trying to understand how, or why, she ended up with a right-wing anarchist.

Maybe it's the money. Jason day trades out of an old building downtown that he's converted into studio space for Polly; this is her own personal Factory. Jason's office, on the top floor, consists of a very fast Macbook Pro, German coffee maker, and a desk chair that cost a couple grand. He's so good at his job that he didn't go bust in the 2008 crash. This way of surviving, in the midst of market meltdown, gives him a feeling of invincibility. It was effortless, taking Polly away from a poor, wanna-be artist/writer/filmmaker; whatever Karl was calling himself at the moment. Jason swooped in and installed her into his space. With an enormous budget and new equipment waiting, saying goodbye then was the easiest breakup session Polly had ever attended. .

“Why did you call?”

She looks at Karl as if he's asked a stupid, obvious question. All of her mannerisms are instantly recalled; he reads Polly like a book.

“To see you... to talk.”

“I thought that's what boyfriends are for.”

“Some things... Jason doesn't understand. You know... like art.”

Karl has met Jason once, at Polly's last show. It was in her usual, tiny gallery on a Friday night in January. He didn't want to go. Being dumped the previous week had left a bad taste in Karl's mouth. Now, dateless downtown, drinking a glass of watery Chardonnay, he tried to comprehend the new direction of Polly's work. Jason was suddenly standing right beside him.

“A lot of fags come to these things?” First words out of his mouth.

He was clinging to a bottle of Corona and bad manners. Jason had thrown an expensive jacket over his usual trading clothes (v-neck sweater, khakis) and pretended to know about, and understand, pictures.

“I don't know, I paid for half of this shit— am I supposed to like it? Why didn't she do more of the other stuff?”

The other stuff is nudes of Polly's assistant Marissa. Tall, dark skinned, sensuous, cameras were invented for girls like her. When Polly needs a surefire home run, she shoots a hundred softcore, cinematic portraits of her helper and calls it a show. Jason saw dollar signs and dragged her away from Karl.

She's always direct. “The new show's in two weeks. I need some help.”

When Polly looks this vulnerable, it's impossible to say no.

“I'm making a behind the scenes of the factory film and I need an editor. You'll have just a day to finish, but you can have final cut.”

Karl can't say no to that. Polly can see he's interested.

“As soon as we finish shooting, come over to the studio and hang out...”

“Who's shooting the film?”

“Marco... Bruno's son.”

Bruno owns the best gallery in town. Modern, abstract art is his metier.

“Jason's shooting the doc.”

“What does he know about that?”

“Nothing, but he paid for the camera and wants to do it.”

Karl knows it's just a promo, so even if he and Jason fuck it up it won't matter. But why didn't she ask him to shoot it?

“I would let you do it but Jason has financed the whole project. He doesn't want you around. The editing job is our secret.”

Polly's got a Mac Pro running Final Cut. Karl edited two of his shorts on it. He wants to borrow her camera for a new project but it's too early to ask. He'll go along and see how things play out. Right now he just wants to hang out.

“What are you reading?

“Ayn Rand essays. Jason recommended her.”

How is it possible to hate him more? Jason is like an IV dripping poison into Polly's veins. She's always taken more chances than Karl but this takeover is spoiling his vicarious thrill.

Sound drops out. He watches her lips move through an analysis of Rand. Karl sees Polly's expressive eyes widen when she makes a point. Finally, he follows her to Politics. This he does hear: “I voted Republican in the primary.” As if in a movie, dramatic flashes of lightning fill the windows behind Polly. Deep, growling thunder rumbles through the building. Karl is trying to recover while he comprehends her transformation. To see a girl with tattoos talk about conservative ideology is unsettling. Maybe she's reaching for something that appears stable— her whole life has been built on sand. That's why Karl is with Julia, 21, now— she's unafraid of waves.

“I also wanted to invite you to a group show this weekend. Connie convinced me to put in a few pictures— to publicize my going away extravaganza.”

Oh, yeah, in a few weeks you'll probably never see me again.

“So, you really are leaving?”

“Yeah, L.A. baby. Bruno's Chicago space is doing so well he's taking a chance out west. He said my stuff will play there.”

“I know it will. The real question is, how does it play here?”

Polly touches his arm. “It never has, honey.”