Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Soles

The art exhibition was really lame. (Well, the one yesterday. It's a two-week, student-organized event showcasing the works of 200 artists at over two dozen venues scattered across Montreal). I'm not being bias when I say M. Biologique had one of a handful of pieces I enjoyed. A few didn't follow any sort of rule of proportion; it was like high school art. A robe does not hang off the body like a normal figure but black (although, to be honest, the crudeness of that painting did not suggest any sort of artistic ability to begin with). Some gave off the limiting sense of the canvas with poorly rendered objects squeezed against the edge in a desperate attempt to fit in the entire composition. It was like Amateur's Night at the MET because the skill just wasn't there. No glazing, no scumbling, no sophistication. No emphasis on brushwork nor imagination. Just plenty of boring colour-by-numbers, content-heavy, bullshit. To be fair, one particular painting did catch my eye. It looked like it was drawn from heat sensor images except the colours, psychadelic; the subject, relaxed. Another featured creative use of white space and illusion.

M. Biologique, Maussie, Squeaky J., JuanaMachine and I shmoozed with both savory and unsavory types. Unluckily for me, I kept getting stuck with the talkative ones who've never encountered body language they didn't like. "Oh, interesting," I'd say in a way I'd deem unconvincing. And they'd keep talking. First it was about the Jesus conspiracy. Then it would be about snowboarding and long-winded explanations about commerce class. Then something about getting angry over self-conscious answering machine messages.

"So," I'd try to interrupt. "Didn't you say you had a term paper due ... yesterday? Better finish that off, yeah?"

"I don't feel like it. So where do you live?"

If M. Biologique hadn't played the part of dutiful arm ornament, I don't think they would've ever caught on that they were BORING. Like that Da Vinci Code fanatic who went for my caboose after desperately trying to make eye contact for the good part of an hour or that annoying toothpick muncher who walked us home, yammering on and on to no end, occasionally pausing to ask me whether I knew this person or that from COMS Studies after I had already said no the first three times:

"My height? Also wears an orange jacket. Carries a camera around. Are you sure? You must know Michael. Soft-spoken like this *goes into a whisper*. Wears glasses. Short hair. Walks like this!"

"No."

Anyway, Maussie and Squeaky J. had left by then and we lost JuanaMachine at the convenience store so M. Biologique and I went back to his place where he developed a sudden fixation with my ass. I knew he was going to make a move when he suggested that we saunter down the stairs instead of the elevator. But what do I do instead of spreading? Get overly excited about the "acoustics" of the space.

"Wow! Listen to that railing vibrate! Amazing ..."

"You're crazy, Lily."

Spinsterhood, 1; Lily, zip.

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