The Sleepworker Read online

  Stop everything. It’s all crap. I can’t work like this.

  His first private exhibition will take place in three months. It’ll take place in the main gallery of Museum. And what will it be? What will be seen there? Andy hasn’t the least idea. Every time Andy comes up with a new idea for an exhibition, Eleanor responds, That’s good, and right away finds a collector to buy it.

  Conclusion: you’ll have to find something else for the exhibition, dear Andy.

  Exhibit the Cumbersomes? Surprise Objects? No kidding that Eleanor really loves these works, that’s why she’d rather keep them. Wait for Andy’s name to raise their popularity, bring them out again and aha!

  Aha! Andy is workless.

  When all of a sudden, someone rings the doorbell.

  Mother: Andy!

  Andy: Mother?

  Mother: John’s heeere!

  Quick, Andy’s late, he has to finish doing his makeup, brush his teeth, get his things together, choose his glasses and jacket, dress his head with a platinum wig – or maybe a sparkly silver wig – hurry up choose something, let’s say the sparkly wig, or not, or yes, both at the same time, let’s see.

  During this time, seated next to each other on the flowery couch in the living room, John and his mother-in-law attentively follow a television program. Jack is one question away from winning the super jackpot.

  Jack, you’ve chosen answer B, is that your final answer?

  Ah, here’s Andy.

  John and Andy hug Mother and leave. Their departure is accompanied by a gesture that means goodbye. Goodbye, Andy and John.

  The evening begins with screenings of experimental films in the back room of a car wash. The screenings take place in a room that, officially, doesn’t exist. In the old days the car wash was a cinema, but that is all over. It’s the time of car washes, not cinemas. On the other hand, there’s always some way to manage: having been a cinema, it can always be used as one again. Two and a half hours go by. The spectators are invited to leave through a hidden door. In order to not alert the neighbours, it was recommended that they not make any noise while leaving. Which they translated as walking on tiptoe, without saying a word, reserving their commentary for later. After a hundred or so metres of silent walking, tongues start to wag.

  John: You were saying?

  Andy: That was so boring! Why was it so boring?

  John: I don’t know. I slept through the entire thing.

  Andy: John, tell me, why doesn’t anyone make good films?

  John: I don’t know, Andy, what do you call a good film?

  Andy: I don’t know. I call a good film a film that’s not boring.

  And the two friends reach the Workshop for their usual party. A rumour has preceded Andy’s arrival.

  Andy?

  Andy’s here tonight?

  But where is he?

  Where did you see him?

  You’re sure it was him?

  You know what he looks like?

  How did you recognize him?

  There, in the wig, that can only be him.

  Come on, let’s go meet him!

  Barely in the door of the Workshop, Andy is surrounded by four guys. They’re wearing plaid shirts, glasses with chipped frames. Unbelievably, they’re all wearing Das, these sneakers with one stripe that just became popular among the young and very young artists. They’re scruffy, hair styled to look unstyled, but really who are they? They claim to be artists. Very young artists who have seen fit to gather in an artists’ collective.

  Their artists’ collective, we learn over the course of the conversation, is invited to participate in an exhibition whose goal it is to introduce a new generation, to take the pulse of the emerging sensitivity, to mark the points of intersection and divergence, and to participate in its influence on the international scene. In this strong engagement with young creation, it’s a question of making its incessant mobility visible, its constant displacements from one media to another, from one discipline to another, in no certain order.

  Congratulations! Andy declares.

  Change of DJ behind the turntables. The sound is louder, more intense, more brutal. The very young artists formulate their idea of art to a hardcore musical background, and whisper it directly into the hearing canal of their silver-wigged listener. The same one with whom they establish a physical connection by laying one hand on his shoulder. Because of the competing bass, Andy doesn’t hear much, just a few syllables that despite his efforts, he still doesn’t manage to link. To be honest, he can’t understand anything. The DJ raises an arm, leading the dancers to dance with raised arms. Andy looks for a friendly gaze. Andy is looking for a way to extricate himself from this conversation, which, really . . .

  And what about John?

  Where is he? What’s he up to?

  The last time Andy saw him, John was eating and joking around, talking with some new friends he’d just met. They asked him questions. They asked him what he did in life. With a big laugh, he said that he sleeps.

  The very young artists still have a few things to say. They yell out, Andy, what are your options? Do you have any projects? Any news? Any contacts to give us? Would you like to become our friend?

  Andy: Well . . .

  (. . . )

  Sorry, Andy must absolutely go see someone.

  He’s pleased to have met you.

  Keep us up to date.

  Best regards.

  See you later.

  Kisses all around.

  Andy stumbles onto the dance floor, hints at a few rhythmic steps, takes a look around. No young artist in sight. However, in his position, you can’t be too careful. Since he turned pro, he’s in every conversation. Many artists want to talk to him so they can say that they know him or, more annoyingly, that they have plans to exhibit together. Lowering his eyes, Andy discovers that his new Adidases have been smudged. Fucking artists’ collectives.

  William and Bob follow him with their gaze. Jonas films.

  William: I know what we’re going to do. Let’s make a scene. Let’s take advantage of the fact that a lot of people are in the apartment to simulate an unfortunate incident. Trust me, if done right, we can make it believable.

  Bob: All right!

  Seriously, where has John gone off to? Andy visits John’s bedroom-turned-coatroom. John’s not there, or else he’s been reincarnated as a coat. Andy visits the other rooms, Bob’s bedroom, William’s bedroom, discovering you’ll-never-guess-who in the middle of an affair with sorry-I-can’t-really-say. But still no John. Andy’s making himself anxious. Note the almost phosphorescent whiteness of his skin when, back in the Workshop, while passing under a spotlight, the light hits him smack in the face.

  Good God, someone exclaims, it’s a ghost!

  Andy visits the bathroom, no luck, waits his turn for the crapper, because you never know and after all it’s a place John likes to practise. Except not, no John in the crapper, it’s Eddie who slips out. Andy takes over the space. Standing in front of the bowl, Andy takes his dick out and tries to piss. He doesn’t need to go. What does he do now that he’s already there? Instinctively, Andy jerks off. Obviously, this masturbation is doomed to fail because of its questionable motivation, so Andy changes his mind. Fly zipped, he goes back to the room where everyone is dancing their asses off.

  At the edge of the dance floor, William and Bob wave to him. Andy responds by nodding his head.

  Bob: And what if it’s not a wig?

  William: Then his natural hair colour would be sparkly silver.

  Andy can’t accept that this John who loves him and who he loves is capable of leaving the party without telling him. Without at least one word signifying his weariness, his boredom or a sudden wave of fatigue.

  John, why’d you do that? If you love me, why did you leave me all alone?

  Eddie: Do you dance?

  Andy: I used to dance, I don’t dance anymore, remember it was while dancing I had that terrible accident . . .

 
; Eddie: I can’t hear anything! What accident? Come on, no excuses!

  Andy: Yeah, well fine. Let’s dance.

  Eddie makes her bangs move as she dances. She does a dance only she can do: her bangs move first, her body follows the movement. Andy can’t pull that off. He’s just happy to do the Andy. Like a flexible post, stiff neck, twisting his ass.

  William hands his glass over to Bob. They go ahead and have a laugh about the dirty little trick they’ve planned.

  William approaches Andy, who has his back turned to him.

  Andy’s wig has never been touched by anyone. John, for example, is forbidden to do so. He’s always considered Andy’s hair to be on par with religious relics, taboos and pieces in a museum. It falls into the category of things on which he will never lay a hand.

  William burlesquely loses his balance, stumbles onto the dance floor, bumps into one, two, three people, finding his balance one, two, three metres further, his hand resting on Andy’s head.

  The wig shifts back a notch, sliding toward the back of Andy’s head. Enough to clearly distinguish the forehead and balding temple of its owner. Eddie stops dancing, puts her hand over her mouth. She hadn’t seen the little bastard, so to her it’s even worse. For a moment she seems to be holding in a laugh, but a moment later, explodes.

  Nooooooo! She lets out, laughing.

  William stammers.

  Sorry.

  Er.

  It was an accident . . .

  What an idiot!

  Andy puts his wig back in its place, goes into John’s bedroom. Looking for his leather jacket among the pile of the other guests’ jackets, he discovers John snoozing under layers of coats, jackets and blazers.

  John: Andy! What’s going on?

  Andy: What’s going on is that it’s time to go to bed.

  John: You aren’t sleeping here?

  Andy: It’s over. You’ll never see me in this apartment again. The fivesome is over.

  Meanwhile, Eddie has started to dance even more intensely. She’s acting like someone who’s having a great time, but in reality, deep down . . .

  One day soon, the drugs will destroy her.

  4

  When John woke up, he didn’t know where he was. He gazed at the monochrome ceiling, the photos and drawings hung on the walls, the books and newspapers scattered on either side of the nightstand. He became aware of the dust blanketing the floor, asked himself to whom do these balled-up pants belong. A breeze of fresh air passed over his face. Lifting his head, he discovered a slightly ajar window framing a neither blue nor white sky.

  At the end of a long, echoing yawn, he understood he was home. To be more precise, in his own bedroom, in his own bed.

  Once up, John indulged in a yoga session, linked to some meditation. Harmony regained, energy restored, he ate, washed up, chose his clothes carefully. Examined the time displayed on his phone’s screen. And went back to bed.

  John is without a doubt a gifted and promising poet, but first and foremost he is unemployed, unread and unpublished. John also has a problem worth noting: he is incapable of getting up before noon. On top of that, John suffers from a second problem: in the afternoon, his body demands a nap. Still, this second problem wouldn’t be anything without problem number three, which can be linked to problem number one, about which many would argue there is no smoke without fire: John ends up completely wasted every night.

  If you knew what he’d put in his mouth the day before, you wouldn’t expect anything from him the next morning. Morning: he’s almost forgotten to what this word refers. If, by chance, he happens to open his eyes and it’s morning, he tells himself there really is no morning. And goes back to sleep. You won’t hear anything from him before the start of the afternoon.

  If it were up to John, he would only sleep. For that matter, he does practically nothing else. He spends his time drinking, eating and sleeping.

  As a result, he has no time to spend on other things. John no longer reads. John no longer attends readings. John doesn’t set foot in the Centre for Public Poetry. John receives publication proposals from magazines, poetry associations invite him to give readings in exchange for a fee, meal, drinks, lodging for a night, but he doesn’t follow up. Since he went to bed for good, he’s stopped writing. Sometimes in the evening a poem comes into his head, but during the night the poem escapes him, and the next morning there is no more poem in his head. In his head, there’s only a killer migraine.

  John opens his eyes, rubs them with his fist. He moves an arm, breathes, coughs, grunts, scratches his head. He deciphers the time displayed in red characters on the lit-up screen of his blackberry-coloured phone. 2:07 p.m. What is there to do now? John gets up, puts his hands on his waist, yawns, drags his feet over to his kitchenette, makes himself a nice black coffee and drinks it, goes back to lie down on the bed, yawns and yawns again, trying to remember his night.

  That night Andy watched John sleep, kept vigil over his friend and, like every morning, got out of bed bright and early.

  The telephone rings in John’s bedroom.

  Normally, John tells Andy about his night. Today, Andy takes the floor.

  Andy has his exhibition.

  Eleanor is happy to present The Sleeper, an exhibition by Andy and John.

  The Sleeper has already slept in many different places, in a variety of situations not necessarily the most suited to the practice of sleeping. He has still never slept in an art gallery, on opening night. For him, this is a first. So he arrives very motivated. The artist conceived of a bed that is installed in the space by tossing a mattress on the floor. The man is invited to lie down. He lies down. Everyone waits for him to fall asleep. He falls asleep. He is filmed while he sleeps.

  The idea here is to produce a film that begins the moment the man falls asleep and ends when he wakes up. The idea is also for there to be no break between the production of the film and its public presentation. The film is done in one take, which means no cutting, no editing.

  Once the Sleeper is up, filming stops and it’s time to move on directly to the screening of the film.

  The film will be screened at the rate of one showing per day, a single showing. The film’s length will determine the hours the venue is open: the exhibition opens, the screening begins, the film ends, the exhibition closes. The exhibition will last for six weeks, including weekends, closed on Tuesdays. The hours of operation will be announced after opening night.

  Andy chose to entrust the role of the Sleeper to his friend John. John is a poet, he’s currently unemployed, he’s also a heavy sleeper. Andy openly says that if he hadn’t so often had the opportunity to see John sleeping in any and every circumstance – during a party with loud music, at a table in a restaurant, during a telephone conversation, while waiting for the bus, sitting on the toilet, reading or fucking – it wouldn’t have ever occurred to him to make him sleep in an art gallery.

  By asking John to embody the Sleeper, Andy is inventing a job that makes the most of his friend’s expertise: permanent fatigue, a constant desire to sleep, pleasure while sleeping, the quality of his body at rest. It’s delicate work, but it’s still work, a little work likely to provide the benefits generally associated with working: the joy of the professional life, a rediscovered self-esteem, a blossoming social life and an improvement in material living conditions.

  Andy had a text made for John. His heading: I’m not sleeping, I’m working. For the entire duration of the exhibition, it will be available to the public in the form of a double-sided sheet of loose-leaf paper placed at the reception desk.

  Luminous rectangles appear on the floors of buildings. It’s from these rectangles that the presence of buildings can be discerned. It’s from the multiplication of these rectangles that a large city is recognized at night. From a distance, they’re points with vague and blurry outlines. Closer, they’re lit-up boxes where domestic scenes play out with characters and furniture. One person comes home, exhales, closes her door, removes her sh
oes, changes clothes, empties her bag, takes out a newspaper, puts the newspaper on the coffee table, turns on the television, mutes the sound, puts on music, opens the window and smokes.

  Once night falls, it takes two or three minutes for the streets to light up. While waiting, the public domain is dark, potentially dangerous; this period is unpredictable, thoughts turn bad, incidents lurk, crimes prepare themselves. And then the masses of lights appear. The streetlights bring back the day. Streets, avenues and parks once again become light, legible, happy, safe. Pedestrians leave the shadows for colour, cameras are watching, the front of Museum becomes saturated with municipal lighting.

  On this opening night, they are all there, guests of the gallery and anonymous opening-goers. They are dressed for the occasion – simply, with discreet elegance. They put more importance on the materials and the cut than on the colours and patterns. A large number of visitors sport glasses that neither correct their vision nor protect them from the sun. They wear glasses with neutral lenses, for the pleasure of wearing glasses that don’t standardize sight by correcting it to the nearest tenth. Some people have texts tattooed on their necks. These texts are written in multiple languages – the alphabets themselves vary, such that in order to understand all languages and read all alphabets, you only need to compare these texts. It is very difficult to know how the visitors read and see.

  Only five minutes ago the gallery was nearly empty, now all of a sudden everyone is there. The guests came at the same time. All are welcomed by Eleanor. Okay, she’s cursing at them, but at least she’s talking. Good evening, cocksuckers, welcome, shitheads, why don’t you all just go to hell. (She laughs.) Guests and visitors gather around with a glass of something and toot their own horns about topics that more or less deal with the fact that they’ve ended up at Museum on opening night waiting for something to happen. They raise their first glass to their forehead or higher, proclaim to us, and bring the glass to their lips. Then knock it back in one gulp. As of the second glass they are no longer lost in conversation, they go straight to what’s important, and what’s important here is to drink heavily while chatting in a quality artistic environment.