All content copyright 2012 Ted Szabo
This is part one of a longer work, "Brick House." While this part does not have erotic content, many of the other chapters do. It is included for the convenience of readers interested in the larger story.
Prefix Notation
"I don't really get it," I mumbled.
The painting consisted of three blue dots formed along a vertical path and a jagged, dripping red slash that ran from the top right corner of the canvas to the lower left. It looked like someone had used a chainsaw to maim the frame and there were deep, serrated gouges along one side and uneven strips of wood ripped off all along the top. Executed in garish, highly saturated hues, the watercolor was one of several similar works that lined the gallery wall, each one sporting a similarly simple geometry bordered by what appeared to be heavily vandalized moulding. The paintings were displayed in an assiduously professional manner, spaced tastefully and illuminated by tiny, extraordinarily bright halogen lamps suspended at the end of curved brass arms.
The gallery was near campus, and the show had attracted a less stuffy crowd than some we had attended, despite the requirement for formal attire. There were a fair number of other students, mostly undergrads, and I recognized a couple of adjunct professors, both with significant others in tow. The event was well-attended, and a collective murmur of conversation melded with the clinking of wine glasses to form a more-or-less continual undertone of background noise.
Kate, a lithe co-ed I had been seeing for several weeks, was on my arm, resplendent in white hose and a dress that sported a long, enticing vent that ran up one side. She enjoyed the periodic gallery show, and I enjoyed her, so I often found myself musing artistic efforts such as ones presently on display. The week before, we'd found ourselves wandering a garden of large basalt sculptures that had been chiseled into the forms of various body parts, and I remembered being mildly amused by a five foot high thumb that stuck straight up, as if beseeching passers-by for a lift. Some sort of mica laminate had been used to form the thumbnail.
"It's a commentary on the intractably contentious nature of the human spirit," Kate said, peering thoughtfully at the same painting that had caught my attention. "Look at the way the frame has been weathered, like the painting itself is the focus of some destructive force." I perked up at this, as it was actually somewhat relatable.
"Right," I said with some confidence, "it's like 'Damien.'"
"What? Damien who?" Kate was wearing her please-don't-be-a-complete-idiot-in-public face, which I was admittedly fairly familiar with.
"You know, classic 70s horror schlock, devil child, nuns hanging themselves." This comment earned me a disparaging sniff from a thin, gray-haired woman who appeared to be prying meaning from a concentric set of orange octagons that had been created with electrician's tape and then torn up using a parallel set of long, razor-sharp implements—or perhaps claws, I thought— that had shredded parts of the underlying canvas.
