The Sleepworker Page 6
Someone who right away seems to be very happy about this budding love between the men is Jonas – he’s practically euphoric about it – to the point it looks like he’s going to come out and ask John and Andy to form a love triangle. But there, you see, is where you’re mistaken. An ardently friendly man, Jonas is simply happy that his two friends love each other. And he never fails to let them know. He’s happy for them, because he considers John and Andy to be his friends, and there’s nothing else to it.
Seeing as how people are turning their backs on them at the openings, you might think things are going to turn out badly. You might think that John and Andy are going to suffer because of the gossip that’s being spread about them. That they’re going to be hurt. Be affected. Bend under the attacks. And then what? Change addresses? Leave the group? Stay holed up at home? Split up? You certainly don’t know them very well. Someone’s criticizing them? They have a good laugh. At first they laugh. Then they think about it. Organize themselves and retaliate.
Andy has an idea. John, he says, you’re appealing to women, you just need to seduce the ones who come to the openings with the misogynistic guys – it’s a way to make them understand that you’re ready to fornicate in retaliation, and you’ll see that they’ll stop making fun of us.
At the openings, John begins to make women laugh – all he has to do is talk to them. It’s pretty simple: when they’re with John, they have a great time. Good old John. And the non-fag men become buddies with him again.
They would rather John be a fag with Andy than the lover of an adulterous woman. How’s that for Christian morality?
In short, Andy and John tell you to fuck off.
Life as a group continues.
This morning, Andy looks at himself in the bathroom mirror, and what does he see? He sees a guy with white skin, a thin body with very little muscle, always exempted from gym class in school, seemingly embarrassed by his body. Sickly-looking at the best of times, otherwise cadaveric. Today, while looking in the mirror, Andy catches a glimpse of a guy who says to himself: Unemployed artist, that’ll soon be behind me. He sees a guy looking at himself in the mirror and says: It’ll all pay off in the end.
On a side note, what is it that will end up paying off? Pay how, pay for what – so many unknowns. But in any case, in Andy’s mind, given his morning mood, things are clear: this adventure will end up paying off.
Like every morning, Andy gets up early. Not unusual for a morning person. He has breakfast, hops into the shower, lathers up, scrubs, brushes, moisturizes. Two minutes later he is ready to face the workday, except there’s one problem: he’s hard. Because he is subject to a persistent stiffy, because he has to get rid of the thoughts making him hard, because they keep coming back and having the effect of further hardening the culprit, how far will he decide to go? He decides to go all the way.
All set for a sporty-erotic sequence, he takes the problem equipment in hand and instantaneously produces a two-voice narrative. Him: My, how hot it is under this uniform! Let’s get comfortable. Me: Oh look, a naked Cuban soldier. Him: Hi there. Me: Hi. Him: Can I do something for you? Me: Uh, well you know, I really like to lick shoes. Him: Great, that’s my fantasy too. Me: Well, now that we’ve been introduced, let’s not waste any time and get straight to the point. Him: Go ahead, lick. Me: One more thing, I like to be talked dirty to while I’m licking. Him: Okay, lick, you dirty son of a bitch. Me: I’m licking like a dirty son of a bitch. The Cuban soldier is totally naked, he’s kept his shoes on, like in one of John’s poems. Him: Oh, my dirty little son of a bitch, go ahead, lick it more, more, more, more, faster, come on. Me: One more moan for a finale, drops of sweat beading on my forehead, we’re almost there, more, more, careful, stop.
Nice work, well done.
Andy can finally call John (voicemail). He leaves a message (are you sleeping?) then he goes back to work in his bedroom.
On the other end of the line, the telephone rings, rings, rings. The blackberry-coloured telephone produces an incalculable number of rings. To count them all wouldn’t serve any purpose. That’s why we’re saying it was an incalculable number. To make a long story short. The telephone rang a first time, sending the call to voicemail. After which the telephone hasn’t stopped reminding, soliciting its owner to listen to its recorded message, something to do with Andy’s first call, don’t you remember, the one from which all of this began. And, in the following minutes, the telephone reminded him, harassing the message’s addressee. Because such is the logic of a telephone: make the user listen to the recorded message at all costs.
Andy’s telephone can multiply calls to John, even while John is sleeping. And while he’s sleeping, his principle is to never talk on the phone. When the time comes and he’s awake, John will respond, but don’t count on him to take the call before.
Solution: wake John up with a large number of rings.
At regular intervals, Andy calls again and leaves a number of repetitive messages (are you sleeping? are you sleeping? are you sleeping? what are you up to?), increasing the recurrence of rings, causing confusion between direct calls and voicemail reminders. Andy’s Xth attempt to get hold of John is successful.
John: Yes?
Andy: John, I have an invitation!
John: A what? For where? What are you talking about?
Andy: John, you know what I’m talking about, I won’t say anything else.
The invitation is for the opening at Museum. Anyone in a position to answer how Andy got hold of it – through what trade, chance or well-seized opportunity – must be very clever. One fine morning, the invitation found its way into his mailbox. And, a few minutes later, into his hands. That’s the whole story. But that’s not the main thing. The main thing is that the invitation is valid. And not only is it valid, but the invitation is for two. Andy shares the worrying message printed on the back with John:
CHIC OR SPORTY CHIC DRESS SUGGESTED
That day, because they didn’t grasp what ‘sporty chic’ meant, John and Andy, in everyday dress – leather, jeans, sneakers with two stripes – arrive at the bottom of a luxury building that houses Museum on the thirty-fourth floor. Equipped with their invitation, they present themselves to the doormen, Bill and Bull.
Gentlemen!, Bill decides after performing an ocular inspection of these two that he doesn’t suspect of being unemployed. In a perfectly synchronous movement, Bull opens the door of the building for our two unemployed artists: Have a good evening, gentlemen.
The door of the building opens into a hallway. The hall leads to an elevator. In the elevator is a male-female couple. The thumb that was keeping the doors open releases its pressure from the doors-open button. The elevator starts to move.
Lowering their eyes as is required during elevator trips, John’s and Andy’s gazes fall upon the man’s sneakers. While John’s and Andy’s are fitted with two white stripes on a black background, his have three, and on top of that they’re silver.
Originally intended for the practice of a sport played with a racket, a net and a ball, Adas (two stripes) or Adidas (three stripes) were quickly hijacked for artistic and mundane purposes. They are, it would seem, perfectly suited for exhibition visits and any standing around that ensues, because in New York New York, a large number of opening-goers swear only by them. So the opening adopts a little sporty side. After indoor sports, gallery sports. Before the elevator episode, John and Andy were unaware that a pair of sneakers could have more than two stripes. Downtown, the Adas are considered the best as far as artists’ shoes go. Uptown, an extra topstitched stripe gives the sneakers the right to sport a three-syllable name. One stripe per syllable, like a glamorous slope. Thus the secret of ‘sporty chic’ was solved: ‘sporty chic’ indicates a chic outfit worn with a pair of sneakers with three stripes called Adidas (it’s written on the tongue).
The elevator comes to a halt. Thirty-fourth floor, chirps a bisexual voice. The door splits into two parts that mechanically disappear on either side. T
he four riders wish each other a good evening and, setting off in two groups, they enter Museum.
We find John and Andy each in possession of a glass full of a frothy liquid. Thus equipped, they decide to do the tour of Museum. Let’s follow them. Something detains them in the hall. Guys carrying trays circle around them. The two friends play the game: they set their glasses down and pick up new ones, they make some friends, time to toast and take pictures before parting ways forever. John and Andy go to visit the exhibition.
The Museum introduces a great exposition of oil paintings on canvas. On the canvases, romantic heroes and other young people belonging to their era lounge about. The artist calls herself Elisabeth. The exhibition is entitled Eternal Life.
Max, Craig, Pierre, Walt, Marc, Rirkrit, Piotr, Julian, Walt, Frida, Liz and Diana, Keith, John, Jonathan, Matthew, Eminem, Patti, Nick, Nick in the East, Nick and Patti, Harry and Tittie, John and Sid, Silver Bosie, Kurt, Blue Kurt, Sleeping Kurt, Jarvis, Jarvis on a Bed, Jarvis and Liam Smoking, the plaques indicate. And there’s still: Madame Bovary, Antoine Doinel, Eugéne Delacroix, Napoleon, Prince Harry, John the Poet, Ludwig II of Bavière, Ludwig with Joseph, Ludwig Caressing the Bust of Marie Antoinette. Etc.
With the help of champagne, the evening finally becomes pleasant. You wouldn’t have thought it at first, but John and Andy seem to be at ease. Andy even manages to look receptive to the jokes that John has long told in vain, usually receiving only criticism from Andy. Which goes to show he’s actually bored to death. He doesn’t feel well, or at ease. He doesn’t know what he’s doing there. He doesn’t know what anyone expects from him, and he almost even wants to run away. If he’d known, he would’ve stayed home. He would have slept for once. He would have gotten somewhere with his work. He would’ve watched TV. He would’ve spent the evening with his mother. I have no idea, but anything besides being bored in this Museum where everyone seems to know each other but he isn’t known by anyone.
Wrong path, he says to himself, I’m right on track to stay unemployed.
And as the night evolves, we see our two friends in a playful, even comical, spirit – our two drunk friends who, completely buzzed on champagne-amphetamines, amuse themselves by finding doppelgängers in the crowd. They play the doppelgänger game with even fewer scruples since they don’t know anyone. Since they don’t have any connections. Since they don’t have a reputation to keep up. Since they don’t give a shit.
It’s crazy how analogies are born under the influence of drugs and alcohol. John points out Max’s doppelgänger. Andy, Billy’s doppelgänger. John recognizes Lou. Andy finds a resemblance between a guy in a yellow suit and Candy. John refers to a tall guy whose skeletal body swims in a suit two sizes too big, and declares, I didn’t know William was here.
Oh John, you exaggerate, replies Andy before bursting into laughter.
John is such an ass.
He’s an ass, but there you have it. They work at finding resemblances, they’re connecting existing faces with their lookalikes, they say, Look, there’s Eleanor, and it really is Eleanor.
For those who weren’t aware, they’re actually at her place, everyone is at Eleanor’s. In this building, Eleanor owns Museum on the thirty-fourth floor, the gallery on the thirty-third, the agency on the thirty-second, the offices on the thirty-first, the studios on the thirtieth. And on it goes until the second lower level (trash, cellars, crematorium, parking garage).
Eleanor. Because they’ve only heard Eleanor spoken of but never seen her, John and Andy have long believed that Eleanor was just a name. A legend who was given a name precisely to say she was a legend (in addition to being a name). Eleanor, woman in black, with a modern elegance, asymmetric dress, tar perfume, petrol-blue eyeshadow, anthracite lipstick, vampire skin. It’s difficult to assign her an age, especially when you don’t really care. John takes care of introductions.
John: John, Andy.
Eleanor: All right, and what do they do in life, this John and Andy who outright reject the dress code, pillage the bar and make fun of people?
John: I am John the Poet.
Eleanor: John the pOet? Nonsense, that sounds stupid, no one would believe it for a second – you’ll never make a name for yourself, you’re already screwed, think about a career change. And otherwise, what does he do with his life?
John: I’m a poet, that’s all. I’m a poet looking for work.
Eleanor: Work for a pOet? He’s looking for work for a pOet? For fuck’s sake, you hear that, that’s the best! Not only do I learn that pOets still exist nowadays, but this one, he comes and says it like that, I’m a pOet, give me work, how dare he, ass hole ass hole ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass
A small group has formed around the trio. Smiles on their lips, glasses in hand, they follow the discussion with great interest.
John: I’m not picky, I’m adaptable, flexible, I can be a poet on demand, available now, ready to go – I would be happy to put my competences in the service of an art gallery.
The small audience has a good laugh. John laughs as well. It’s Eleanor’s turn to speak.
Eleanor: Courageous, in any case, to make pOetry nowadays, I admire it for fuck’s sake fuck’s sake fuck’s sake fuck’s sake fuck’s sake fuck’s sake fuck’s sake fuck’s sake fuck’s sake fuck’s sake fuck’s sake fuck’s sake fuck’s sake
John: In a nutshell, she loves poetry.
Andy: I’m not so sure.
Eleanor: Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck
A minute passes. Filled with a great number of fucks. A waiter taps her on the back, takes a pill bottle from his pocket, dumps two pills in the palm of his hand, slips them down Eleanor’s throat, with a tall glass of water, please.
Eleanor: Aaaaaaaaaaaaahh!
The waiter: Tourette Syndrome – don’t worry, you shouldn’t take the insults to heart, it’s just the verbal manifestation of the sickness, the words come out all by themselves, people take offence when in fact it means nothing.
John: No problem. I didn’t hear anything. Right, Andy?
Andy: Nothing at all, John. I wasn’t even listening.
Andy has spoken. Eleanor fixes upon Andy.
Andy’s turn to talk about his artist’s life.
The scope of Cumbersomes and Surprise Objects, life with Mother, working day and night, the violent death that stalks him, the wearing of black sunglasses and glittery hair – it seemed to be amusing dear Eleanor. She appears intrigued. And while Andy is as usual completely elliptical, quasi-absent, it’s actually John who is speaking on his behalf, and ultimately she’d like to take a look at some of his work, just to see what it’s all about.
If it’s possible to see it, for fuck’s sake.
For fuck’s sake, of course it’s possible.
And now a business card, a meeting scheduled for next week, and Eleanor slips away repeating Andy, Andy . . . Andy who?
Since we last saw Andy, several months have passed, immediately transformed into time spent working. Soon he had spent ten, twelve months working. It took the time it took – ten, twelve months exactly – but on the whole the work was done, the hours required were carried out, enough to meet the criteria for the required legal duration of work.
Andy has been a professional artist for twelve months now. This professionalization goes back to the day Eleanor let him into her gallery. Today Andy is an artist who is well-known, popular, collected. As a result, there is no lack of work. The days could last for seventy-two hours and he’d manage to transform them into working time. Andy produces prolifically.
Andy created the Studio, a production facility for which he hired two people, the kind who are former art
students and/or unemployed artists. Recognizable by their long, or short, or dishevelled, or coloured hair, very messy and very maintained at the same time – proof that an art student and an unemployed artist share the same hairstyle, no matter their aesthetic options.
Out of convenience, they were christened Gerard and Gerard. Why Gerard? In Eleanor’s opinion, it needed to be something easy to remember, something pleasant. If you see what I mean. No? Because it’s cool at the same time. Sexy, cool, with a little artistic note. Still no? Listen, it’s like this, they call both of them Gerard, so if you’re not happy with then you can go fffffffffffffffffffffffffff yourself.
Pill, glass of water. Where were we?
Since Andy first walked into the gallery, Eleanor has spread the idea that Andy is the artist New York New York has been waiting for. Her public relations done, Eleanor organized workshop visits, showing up regularly at the Studio in the company of collectors, critics, journalists, curators, museum directors, industry professionals, company heads. Plus a whole bunch of guys who made some dough where it is possible to do so – for example, not in the arts – guys she introduced to Andy and who left the Studio saying to themselves, What a funny guy that Andy is, to be so bizarre he must be a true artist. Would it be worth it to buy a piece from him?
This period of Andy’s career is called the Golden Period. Andy sells everything he thinks. Andy sells everything he touches. Andy sells everything he signs. Andy sells pieces before they’re produced, on the sole fact that they will be signed by Andy. Andy offers readymade and custom-made art. With Andy, you can have your heart’s desires. Two or three-dimensional pieces, from monumental to infinitesimally small, choose your motif – choose your size, choose Andy. Andy promises to deliver within the record time of one week max. Give yourself the pleasure of having an Andy in your home. Transport and installation are also available.