Half Like a Joke

While doing some house cleaning I came across this short story I wrote for Art South Africa last year. I still think it's quite funny, so I'm posting it here. It first appeared in the May issue of Art South Africa 2008.


“Um,” I say. I’m wearing my glasses so it passes off as something intelligent anyway. I’m chatting to the gallerist at an exhibition opening in the centre of town, Cape Town that is, and I’m riffing on the centers of art power moving to Woodstock: how art is the vanguard of an insipid gentrification, inner city living, that leaves the poor worse off. The editor of Art South Africa sent an article about it to me this morning. The gallerist starts looking around to see who else has arrived. Maybe she’s also started contemplating the cheap rent out there.

I catch sight of some of my friends. They’re the young bucks, upsetting the time-honoured establishment with their contentious work. No one really gets too upset as they know that this is the way art works. They’re sitting on the steps, smoking and drinking the disgusting free wine. They haven’t seen the work yet, to bolster their own cynicism, so I don’t ask about it. I haven’t seen it either. I sit and we talk about our latest work till a line from a half-remembered song comes to mind:
Half like a joke
Making another joke laugh.
Haha.
I decide to look at the work.

I pass a lesbian couple, who I teasingly call Ms Lester and Ms Fabian. They call me Jolene, a funny joke.
“Jolene,” they say. ”Have you met Melanie? She’s a curator from Canada. Ed’s a critic.”
I reach out my hand.
“Ed Howaths.”
“Melanie Sulkis.”
We smile, at a loss as to where to go. Should I know her? Does she know who I am, or is she wondering why they called me Jolene? It’s still a funny joke, so I don’t explain.

I finally browse the art. It’s an unspeakable pile of shit, a one-liner dragged out to fill the space, but I slept with the artist back at Michaelis so I smile and raise my glass at her. She’s hoping I’ll write something nice, and I’m wandering if it’s worth the admin not to. My reverie is broken by a young student. He’s tall and lanky, looks good in skinny jeans and thinks I’m hip, even though I dress like a slob. Maybe it’s because I’m mean. I let him guide me to the bathroom.

“Shit, Eddie. This work is an unspeakable pile of crap.” He’s clever for noticing.
He chops some small lines, with a speed and precision that embarrasses me from someone who was born after we crossed the Rubicon. As I walk out I see someone has scrawled ‘I fuck artists’ above the urinal. I catch the joke so I’m smiling as I open the door. It’s a mistake, as I catch the eye of another writer, in a tweed jacket, with whom I had a huge online fight. I’m not sure if we hate each other or if we have maintained critical distance. Hard to say, so I validate him with a quick peace sign, drop the smile.

Sidling up to one of my past lecturers, I grab another glass of wine. He’s smart, so I tell him that what South African art criticism is really missing is sex and death, until I realize he was on that panel discussion. So I ask if he liked the work. He does and I agree. It really is good stuff. We walk past a large crowd, surrounding the only black artist. White people love this guy, he’s well spoken and good looking, talking to him makes them feel not racist. He loves the attention too, because the white people’s guilt forces them to buy lots of his work. I cast him a knowing grin, but he’s busy and doesn’t see. I feel even more implicated. I head for a smoke break, grab some more wine on my way out.

I’m getting a bit jubilant by this time, so I purposely jostle this guy I studied with. He drops his wine glass onto his sneaker. He mock punches me. I use my kung-fu move to land a soft slap on his face. He retaliates by standing on my toe, so I push him off the veranda. Before he recovers I decide to find a quieter corner. The one I choose, unfortunately, has a lurker in it. I don’t know his name; he’s an older guy and always looks slightly nerdy and slightly more manic. He continually cleans his glasses on his tie.
“What did you think?” he asks. Dammit, conversation initiated. I look for escape. None. I start to tell him about Woodstock, and get far enough in my story to politely ease away. He talks softly but he’s been known to lose his temper, and once threw a wine glass at someone during a fight. I am a little afraid, and keep glancing over my shoulder: I was mean about him in a piece, but I don’t think he’s made the association.

We all plan to head off to a bar, when the wine runs dry. Some people mill around the Canadian, hoping for a better dinner invite. I wander if going home to my cat and late night etv is acceptable yet. I decide my review will be aggressive, but I might just be hungry. I think about Woodstock.

As I leave I pass the gallerist. She really is elegant tonight, black dress, wine glass.
“Sold anything tonight?”
“Of course not,” she laughs. “I haven’t sold anything on opening night since 1964.”
She’s in her thirties so I know she’s lying. But I turn and look back over the crowd anyway. Since 1988 at least.

She’s thinking that it’ll be better in Woodstock, while I foolishly grin at her. I invite her to the bar, and we both know this night is just going to get worse.