God damn it to Hell! I fell in love with the new gallery assistant!
How is this possible? I had every intention of turning off my “sexy radar” and avoiding another love crisis. Especially after the last gallery assistant made such a show of her capriciousness. But what am I to do? The heart wants what the heart wants and my heart is no different than anyone else’s heart in as much as it wants what it wants too, only a good deal more so. I tried to avoid her but she happens to be the one who picks up the phone when I call the gallery. Which I do with some frequency. For instance, the other day I was very hungry but there was nothing in the fridge so I called the gallery about that. And yesterday I saw an online video of a beaver attacking a man in Russia which made me chuckle. So I called about that.
Although I suppose I could have “emailed” the “link” just as easily. Wow! When I get to thinking about it, that might have been preferable as my description didn’t really do the video justice and might have explained her long silences.
But in any case, who should answer the phone in both instances? Sweet Brigitte with her lilting Prussian monotone. The other day when I called the gallery furious over a perceived social slight her dulcet tones calmed my rage and caused me to rethink twittering an all-caps attack on my tormentors. And when that awful hack of a critic Christian Viveros-Fauné lambasted my most recent show Penises and Vaginas, Sometimes Apart, Often Together at the Hirshhorn Museum, it was her voice that played in my head and kept me from hunting down, killing, and dismembering that diminutive Irishman.
But look at me going on! I promised myself not to ever, ever, ever fall in love with one of the gallery assistants at Maxilillian Bingeweary again. After Elizabeth (the tall one) had me arrested, and Angelique (also tall but French as well) had me double arrested, and Francesca (tall too) hired someone to stab me, and Helga (short and dark, oddly enough) shot me point blank but thankfully missed, I swore off fancy gallerinas in favor of more down-to-earth girls like Joyce, my life model. She was happy to stay in on a Saturday night through Tuesday morning and simply finish an eight ball with me. Joyce didn’t need all the social hobnobbing these gallerinas do.
Still though, Joyce has been missing for several days now — and did I mention that the heart wants what the heart wants? So that leaves me pining for Brigitte.
Brigitte, Brigitte, Brigitte.
The Brigitte who answers the phones or calls me to ask me my bank account number, routing number, and IBAN for a large international deposit. The Brigitte who calls to tell me she booked my flight or to let me know there’s a package at the gallery addressed to me or that all future gallery financial transactions will now be done in Bitcoin. The Brigitte who listens, quietly, perhaps waiting for me to say it:
“Say it!” She thinks “Say it, you mad genius! Tell me you love me!”
I wonder if it would be considered unprofessional for me to propose to paint her vagina. You know, for my upcoming show? It is, after all, what I do. I paint vaginas. So I suppose that gives me some cover. I mean, someone has to pose for those things. I don’t paint them from thin air!
Maybe I could just ask in passing like … “Oh hey Brigitte. Boy! This show at the Ludwig Museum in Cologne is really busting my balls! I have so many paintings to complete where am I going to find all the vaginas to put in them? [pause to think] Wait a second, you have a vagina, right?”
The rest really just writes itself. If I were to ask her and she said no could I still parlay the conversation into some sort of dinner date?
Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out.
Wish me luck!
Subscribe to the Hyperallergic email newsletter!