An abridged excerpt from one of my books

I Am Artist (you can be too)

The invitation

(A fanciful tale)

It is not often that I get an invitation to attend an art symposium and associated exhibition, in fact, it's never happened before. I have no idea how they got my name or address, must have been through one of my internet transactions most likely, we've lost our privacy nowadays it seems. I must confess that indeed I was pleasantly surprised and chose to think about it before replying with an acceptance. The invitation stipulated dress to be black tie. I don’t own a tuxedo, neither would I be happy turning up dressed in uniform looking like everyone else, just another one in a waddle of penguins. I’m an Artist you see, I jokingly refer to myself as the Artist with the capital A. Although I deny being a snob, I declare myself to be different and set apart from everyone else. Either way whatever I think of myself when it comes to parties and any kind of social gatherings, I always and very quickly end up alone in a corner somewhere clutching a drink and feeling embarrassed for being alive breathing air. I saw that the venue was to be held on the two lower levels of one of the city’s tallest skyscrapers, the exhibition itself was in the mezzanine level, there was to be a party after that. The whole thing promised to be a big night and for me an excuse to get dressed up and actually have somewhere specific to go. What made it awkward though, was the fact I would be alone not knowing anyone there. This in itself has always been the case and a major disincentive for me to go to such events. More difficult was the fact that I’d become semi-reclusive in my old age, and not used to going out especially at night as I feared the street violence that occurs in the city, especially since I would have to commute by bus and train all dressed up attracting attention. I resolved to not be deterred and sent in my acceptance, as well as payment for the embarrassing single ticket.

On the big night, I was surprised to see a huge turnout, there seemed to be groups of people that knew each other, and everyone there had a partner. I was greeted at the door and asked where my partner was, I stated I was alone. The lady checked out the guestlist for a moment, then she said yes, I see you’ve been assigned to table thirty-one with a telling tone of voice. Thirty-one I thought, this is thirteen, my lucky number in reverse. I was born on the thirteenth you see, lucky moi. I wasted no time in claiming my complimentary drink, and since I was not driving, I decided to dose myself liberally with whatever took my fancy. Everyone was milling around looking at the paintings and other art exhibits on show. It was an impressive sight and a class event attended by what looked to me like some very rich people and very progressive looking young people as well. I felt inferior and terribly out of place, that horrible gremlin inside my head started at me making me think, what the fuck am I doing here?  What can I possibly get out of this other than embarrassing myself?  Better be careful of what I say if I talk to anyone. And so it was I kept myself inconspicuous by walking around looking at the art, being mindful not to stand still for too long lest it became obvious I was alone with nothing to do and no one to socialise with.

The bell rang and the announcement directed us to take our places at our designated tables on the above level as the symposium was about to begin. Having taken my place at table thirty-one, my curiosity was reaching fever pitch to see who I’d be sharing the table with, and who would be sitting either side of me. In no time at all the guests arrived and I could tell straight away that table thirty-one was set aside for the odd ones, thus placed somewhat noticeably to the rear of the room. Great I thought, lovely stuff, a fat ugly woman next to me, some middle-aged man with scruffy hair, a big belly, and wearing a tuxedo that obviously had been rented and saw better days, his shoes were a disgrace. The seat on my right was still vacant and stayed vacant till well after the opening speech was underway. I looked at the place name, it read Stanley Asmodeus, sounds like the fucking devil in disguise I thought to myself.  Wait and see, in the hope of finding someone to talk to sometime during the night. That man with the scruffy hair did not look like someone I wanted to be seen talking with, and neither was the woman. You’re a snotty little snob the nasty little gremlin inside my head reminded me. Fuck off and leave me alone I answered silently moving my lips. Finally, this mystery man arrived ushered to the table as the lights were turned off with full attention commanded on stage where the speakers were. He quietly sat down saying nothing and I could discern a very unusual cologne he was wearing, seriously dark, heavy and alluring. I never smelled anything like it before. There seemed to be a presence about him and I was dying to take a good look at this person sitting next to me, I could not wait for the lights to come on as my skin seemed to be reacting to static electricity. All the talking and projected images going on upfront were of little interest to me, I’m an Artist with a capital A and not a sociologist, and what was offered as food, was equally disappointing. Finally, there was a break and the lights came on and I could get a good look at this man-devil next to me. He had an awesome presence and was immaculately well dressed in a tux that was clearly made bespoke and made him look a little like a vampire count we see in those movies. I’ve seen very black sleek wavy hair before, but his, was something else indeed, something to behold. He also looked like he had a fresh tan, maybe he spent the last few days on a yacht or on some secluded beach I imagined. But he was alone, how could such a strikingly handsome man so well attired be unaccompanied?  Ah, I thought, here is a good conversation starter if I can be diplomatic enough about it.

Talking to this man turned out to be extremely easy, so much so that I got the distinct impression he was more eager to talk to me than I was to talk to him. I was somewhat pleasantly relived because this looked like I would have someone to hang out with for the rest of the event, and maybe he had friends that I could be introduced to. At the very least I could tag along and capitalise from his ability to socialise freely with strangers giving me the chance to stowaway in his wake and mingle in a group. I so feared to end up alone in some corner making that drink in my hand last as long as possible lest I be left standing with my hands in my pockets doing a broomstick impersonation. With the symposium finally over, everyone was once again redirected to the mezzanine level where the art exhibition was, to get the party started. I quickly asked him if he knew anyone and if not, would I be able to keep his company as I felt totally displaced, self-conscious, and very uncomfortable being all alone. He answered that he too was alone, a visitor to this town, knew no one and would be delighted to talk to me if I agreed to look at each work of art exhibited, and discuss its merits. I’d be delighted to do so I replied. Luckily the ugly woman and the scruffy man found good company in each other and went their merry way as they were constantly budding into my conversation with this mysterious man much to my annoyance and interrupting the rapport I was trying to garner.

The noise was by now getting quite loud as everyone was laughing and talking and the drinks were flowing. I noticed that Stanley was not drinking, and had not even touched the food at the table. He was also not smiling even though his tone and demeanour seemed friendly enough. There seemed to be an intent to his presence like he was here to gently and discreetly cut someone’s throat. This man exuded an otherworldly magnetism, and it did not escape my attention to how younger women were leering at him and pointing him out to their girlfriends. Of course, none of those bitches was looking at me, but more so, I was intrigued with the fact that he was more than willing to retain my company and lure me into a more private and quieter environment. As we looked at the art on display intently, he kept asking me prodding questions as if pushing me to make derogatory comments about the works on display that were all abstract paintings, some of them easily questionable and simply begged to be made fun of. But such is the world of modern art, and beauty is in the eye of the beholder. This to my way of thinking begs to question the values of the beholder at times, but that’s another story. We came upon the next display which consisted of a large rectangular canvass painted white with a great big X splashed on with what could have been a wide brush dipped in very fluid paint, thus making a big cross pattern in a splash of dots and streaks, and that was it!

We looked at each other, but I was reticent to make any derogatory remarks so I just smiled wryly trying to appear philosophical. That’s when he let go with a full-on broadside in a calm tone of voice:  What a load of shit this is. To think that there are millions of worthy Artists out there incapable of showing their work and being appreciated for their talents and mastery of their work.  Yeah, you’re looking at one, I instantly and carelessly exclaimed in that unguarded schoolboy like pent-up moment. Stanley finally got me to drop my guard and be honest with my feelings. I must confess, it felt good. It felt like I contributed to the conversation in a meaningful way, but the pangs of guilt for failing to remain neutral were equally felt. At this point, he turned around to face me square on as if to bypass all small talk and asked me a very direct question but not without asking for my permission first. Can I ask you a very personal question?  Sure, fire on, I replied and quickly warning him that I am not gay. He dismissed my warning like it was never said and asked: How would you like to become a world-famous Artist and very rich in the process as well, how would you like that?  I would love it, I’d have to be mad to say no, I replied immediately adding, but that’s not enough for me I want more and then some. I also want a bigger dick, and fat balls like you see on bulldogs, but how?  How can I force this condition on myself?

Have you heard of the saying it’s not what you know that gets you places, but rather who you know, surely you’ve heard this said before, yes?  Indeed I have, I replied, quickly following with, are you an art dealer?  An art dealer as such I a not, but I am the biggest wheeler and dealer of all time in the whole world if I can put it to you this way. Bullcrap! I immediately interjected further adding, if that was true how come you’re here all alone placed on table thirty-one at the back of the room all alone with the losers, and you turned up very late to boot, come on stop playing with me. By now Stanley and I had cemented a rapport I was very comfortable with, and started loosening up with my speech enough to begin using mild vulgarities and activating my inner devil that under normal circumstances in polite company would be curtailed.

My tone of voice betrayed my feelings of frustration, resentment, and aspirations for better things. I apologised to Stanley and explained it is because I can see so many artists getting massive exposure with what I considered to be utter nonsense, yet I was incapable of promoting myself and having my moderately valid work exposed to the world for me to make a name for myself and earn some money.

I knew that already, I won’t take umbrage at how you reacted to my statement Stanley replied, believe me when I tell you, that no one else knows as well as I do, how you feel about your artwork, what you think about the world of art, and how much you would like to be a part of it. Look… I interjected, but I was immediately smacked down back to a listening position as Stanley got friendly serious with me by saying; shut up and listen to me, do yourself the biggest favour ever, and just listen to me and don’t interrupt. I’m going to talk to you for a while. Sure, sure, sorry, go ahead Satan… oops sorry Stan, that one just slipped out of me, my devilish sense of humour and my chronic wordplay affliction. I laughed, adding please forgive me I’m listening. Stan’s eyes at that moment I said Satan, metamorphosed into the meanest most serious look like I never saw in anyone’s face. I felt an unusual sense of fear as that scent he was wearing now wafted stronger and somewhat intoxicating me like a hallucinogenic drug. The noise by now had escalated to that of a full-on party atmosphere, fuelled with free-flowing alcoholic drinks. Do you mind leaving this place and going somewhere quieter so we can talk business? Asked Stan. Sure, where would you like to go, I asked?  Shall we go to hell?  I added sniggering and laughing. Follow me to the lift lobby he replied, and I followed. We entered the lift, and Stan pressed the topmost button many floors up into the sky. I did not fail to notice that he did not use a swipe card for accessing the higher levels that would be out of limits to even the resident cardholders. Hmmm…. Interesting that!  Not a word was spoken for the few minutes it took the lift to reach the very top. The doors opened and Stanley firmly ordered me to follow him. We walked to the fire exit door and went up the stairs to the plant rooms above, to reach the very top of the skyscraper, once more noticing that Stanley was not using a card on the security readers, he was simply pushing the doors open. We now accessed the open space at the very top where the view of the city was just stunning with all the neon lights lit up, and the streets below looked like strings of Christmas lights stretching for miles. The city below spanning into a curved horizon looked like a huge painting in the balmy atmosphere of that cloudless night sky with a blaring full moon.

Stanley, I said, we must have tripped a shitload of security alarms coming up here, soon the security guards will come and we’ll be charged with trespassing. No one knows we’re here, don’t worry about those buffoons, he replied. Why have we come here so close to heaven? I asked in a sarcastic way thinking I was clever and witty. Would you rather I had taken you to the basement closer to hell?  Stanley replied. Touché! I conceded.

I’m going to ask you one more time, Stanley stated sternly!  How would you like to be very rich and very famous?  Yes, I would, I would also like a bigger dick and fatter balls, but how the fuck am I going to achieve that? I asked anxiously. I can do that for you, Stanley replied.

Holy fuck and a handful of salted peanuts I quipped, further asking in an impish mocking tone, and a sideways smile with slit eyes; are you the devil?

To be continued.

If you want to read the rest of this story, you will have to buy my book “I Am Artist  (you can be too)”

https://cj-judd.deviantart.com/
https://cjjuddaustralianartist.com/