Knot

I know it’s trendy to look down on modern art. But what most people don’t know is they’re confusing modern art and contemporary art; they’re two different genres, and about 150 years apart from one another. What I’m looking at now, is contemporary art. And it is worth looking down on. It shows no understanding of its subject matter, it is an insult to the materials it was made with. I’ll never understand contemporary art. Call me a purist, if you must.

“Those poor paints,” comes a man’s voice from next to me.

I glance sideways. He’s tall. Brown hair, short back and sides, fine rimmed glasses. Easy to look at. Much easier than this ‘Rpt:LVA by M. Harmon’ hanging on the wall.

‘I agree,’ I say. ‘I was just thinking that it’s-’

‘An insult to the materials?’ he finishes with a smile like a crescent moon. ‘I was just thinking the same thing.’

He leans forward, hands in pockets, scanning the painting as if searching for meaning. His rolled-up shirt sleeves pull against defined arms. There is a hint of a tattoo just below his elbow, no rings on his fingers. A fine, ornate watch wraps his wrist.

‘I’ll never understand contemporary art,’ he mutters, before straightening up. ‘Modern art, I get that. It was a revolution, not relying on academic instruction, or responding to those before it. This is … I’ll never understand it. I prefer the classics.’

He flashes me another crescent moon smile. A flash of heat prickles up my neck.

‘Do you feel like grabbing a coffee?’ I blurt.

‘I would,’ he says, ‘but I don’t drink coffee.’

‘Oh …’ It suddenly gets very cold in here.

‘I’ve never even tried it,’ he adds. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and he chuckles like a warm fire. ‘But there is a first time for everything, don’t you agree?’

I do. Very much so.

As we sit opposite one another in a corner of the Gallery Café, it’s difficult to stay focussed on the conversation. Not that the conversation is dull, it’s the opposite. But I can’t help but feel this was supposed to happen, and it makes me giddy. More than just chemistry, there is a synchronicity here; what he says I think, and I can feel that what I say he is thinking too. It’s there in that smile, and the twinkle at the corner of his eyes. He is good looking, he is charming, and he is knowledgeable, he speaks about Manet, and Matisse. And O’Keeffe. This is pure serendipity. I feel like I can’t put a word wrong, I’m so comfortable it’s like I’ve known him … well, not my whole life, but certainly longer than an hour. He is so familiar.

‘What do you think?’ he says.

I realise I’ve drifted. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘O’Keeffe’s Red Canna paintings,’ he says. ‘Do you think she knew what she was doing? As in, did she make them look like vulvas on purpose, and denied it for the publicity? Or did she seriously not know?’

‘Bold of you to talk about vulvas on a first date,’ I say with mock severity.

He blushes slightly and stammers out, ‘I’m talking about artworks not … you know?’

‘You don’t think vulvas are a work of art?’

He falls into wary silence.

‘Relax,’ I say. ‘I’m just playing with you. Like O’Keeffe would have.’

He lets out a relieved chuckle. ‘Ah, you’re going with option one, then?’

‘Hundred percent. She knew what she was doing.’

‘I think so too,’ he says, sipping his coffee. ‘That’s what I like about her, a woman in total control. Dominant, detail oriented.’

I arch an eyebrow at this. If only he knew. But I won’t give out all my secrets. Not just yet.

‘Do you want to get out of here?’ I ask, coyly.

‘Uh,’ he leans back nervously. ‘Uh, yeah sure. But did you want to maybe get a cake first?’

‘No, I’ll take my dessert to go,’ I say, running my foot up his leg under the table.

He jolts at my touch. ‘That’s weird. You normally order cake first.’

My stomach hardens into cold stone. ‘What?’

‘It’s just …’ he checks his watch and taps the face of it in thought. ‘You normally … every other time, you order cake first. What did I do wrong? Those poor paints … I don’t drink coffee … O’Keeffe … then there is cake, then we …’

My cheeks stick to my teeth; my throat closes up. Something is wrong. Horribly wrong. Hot shocks zap through my body, but my fingers are cold. Why is he so familiar? Shit. Shit!

‘Then we what?’ I ask, against every impulse that tells me I don’t want to know.

He lets out a dissatisfied sigh.

‘Then we what?’ I repeat.

‘It doesn’t matter, I’ve wasted this loop now.’

‘What are you talking about?’

He is fidgeting away on his watch, barely paying me attention at all.

‘Hey, dickhead!’ I say, and he copies me at the exact same time.

‘How did you do that? Stop that! Who are you?’

Again, he says everything that I say, exactly what I say, and with such boredom. I throw what’s left of my coffee at him, but he’s already slid his chair to one side, and I miss. I’m lost for words. I’m confused, scared. I want to grab him by the throat, but I also want to run away. I don’t know what to do.

‘Sorry, couldn’t help myself,’ he says, not breaking his focus. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pay more attention next time. Anyway, I’ll see you … I’ll see you earlier, I guess. Get it?’

I dumbly shake my head.

‘I’ll see you at the art gallery, which is earlier than now,’ he pauses and rubs his forehead. ‘See if I make a mistake, I go back to the start of the day and try again.’

‘What? Why?’

His crescent moon smile spreads lopsided. His tight sleeves are more of a threat now, the tattoo is warning label. ‘Because you’re perfect,’ he says. ‘So, our first date must be perfect. And I’ll do it as many times as it takes.’

This guy is crazy, unhinged. But it’s better to play into the delusion, try to placate him. Try to talk him down and escape without making a scene.

‘How many times do you think have we done this?’ I ask carefully, side-eying the exit.

He laughs. A much colder laugh. ‘We? You’ve only done it once. But me … oh, more than I can count. Don’t bother trying to run, by the way. When you get up to run, you trip over that old lady’s handbag and smack your head on the coffee machine. Not pretty, lots of blood.’

‘You’re mental,’ I say. ‘Leave before I scream.’

‘Can do.’

He presses a button on his watch …

I know its trendy to look down on modern art. But what most people don’t know is they’re confusing modern art and contemporary art; they’re two different genres, and about 150 years apart from one another. What I’m looking at now, is contemporary art. And it is worth looking down on. It shows no understanding of its subject matter, it is an insult to the materials it was made with. I’ll never understand contemporary art. Call me a purist, if you must.

“Those poor paints,” comes a man’s voice from next to me.