What I describe in this little tale would never happen, but I've seen stranger performance art in real life than what's detailed here, so... Anyway, it's ridiculous, and definitely geared for the big boob lovers out there, a reinvention of a scenario brought up in a previous story I wrote. Hope you enjoy!
And oh yeah, there's incest, but one might think this story is centered around exhibitionism. It's a slow burn.
*****
One hundred sixty-eight women, all "artists" (rolling my eyes) or models, had volunteered and arrived for Patrick Hennegy's latest project, what he considered would be his magnum-opus in his contribution to the art world. "I'm retiring after this," he threatened on several occasions. At the age of thirty-eight, I knew that was a load of crap. Artists say stuff like that all the time.
Patrick often used nudes in his work, much like Spencer Tunick or Marina AbramoviΔ, and this latest exhibition, being held at the Sampson and Lillith Museum of Fine Art, was no different. Patrick employed many mediums (poorly, in my opinion), from photography to sculptures, to living displays, sometimes a combination of all three. Unlike Spencer or Marina, I thought Patrick was a talent-less hack. He believed his themes pushed boundaries. I felt his gimmicks were overplayed, and sometimes just straight up exploitation, without any depth or meaning.
For instance, once he had fifty nude women lined up on a football field, twenty-five on either side. They stood on the sidelines, facing the field at evenly spaced markers, while an entire football game was played out. The women never moved unless they were bumped or run down by one of the team's players. This, of course, happened on several occasions, even when the poor players did their best to stay in bounds. This ridiculous excuse for performance art was Hennegy's best work to date. I won't even bother describing his less inspired garbage.
After busting my buns for the past month to ensure the museum's latest event would go off without a hitch, I had Winston Danley, the head of the board, reading me the riot act. It wasn't supposed to be 168 models. We were actually two models short. Next to Winston stood the always angry and irritable artist himself, Patrick Hennegy. I'd been putting up with his antics for almost a month, while he and his crew had been working on the exhibition in the west wing of the museum. It looked more like a haunted house maze than an art project, in my opinion.
Patrick and his crew had put up walls made of particle board throughout the four-thousand-square foot space made available for his exhibition. It wasn't so much a maze, rather than a route planned out for the guests, from beginning to end. However, some areas allowed access that circled back to other areas. One could effectively visit the exhibition as long as they desired, without being pushed out.
Considering it was made of particle board and would be packed with people, I spent the first two weeks of work on the project fighting with the city for a fire-code exemption. I then spent the next two frantically searching for enough women to meet Patrick's demands for this stupid thing.
"Amanda, you promised Mr. Hennegy you had 170 models ready for this event," said Winston. "We have a couple hours until the opening, and only 168 are here. You better fix this!"
Patrick broke in, "Miss Cummings, I simply will not allow this exhibition to open without the required tools."
I fucking hated his snide tone. "Tools," he was saying. What he was referring to was women. Nude women.
I knew becoming the curator and manager of the Samson & Lillith, one of the most prestigious private art museums on the west coast, would be challenging, but I'd successfully managed several smaller museums in the Manhattan area, following school. On my 30th birthday, I got the call from Winston Danley to come here. Had I known I'd be working directly with Patrick Hennegy, I may have passed on the job, regardless of the significant increase in income.
A large part of the job is overseeing and collecting works for the museum, but we also hold six special exhibitions each year. Hennegy's would likely be the biggest event this year, in terms of turnout and publicity. He was currently riding an undeserved wave of fame.
To date, Mr. Danley and the rest of the museum's board have been satisfied with my work, but this was the first time I was facing real criticism. "Winston... Mr. Danley... I cannot help that one of the models got sick. Bedridden, in fact. One of the others just backed out. Refuses to come in. I did have enough models, but this just happ..."
"Backed out?" he barked. "Aren't they all in contract?"
"Yes, but I can't make a sick woman get well, just because she signed a contract. The woman is in the hospital, and apparently, the other girl is willing to break the contract, fines be damned. We can sue her over it, but we can't put a gun to her head."
"Why didn't you think to retain back-ups?" asked Winston, as if he understood at all the struggle I incurred getting these.
When we first announced the project, many women, especially those who considered themselves artists and seeking fame in their own right, were eager to jump at the opportunity to work with Patrick Hennegy. It looked as if it would be no problem securing all the models needed, but without offering any pay for the work (Patrick insisted that paying the women negated the art form), it was difficult to find the last twenty or so volunteers.
We scavenged a few willing women from local art and dance schools, and also by reaching out to community theaters. Classifieds got a few bites, but most girls wanted compensation for their time. By the time we secured the entire 170 volunteers, we were scraping the bottom of the barrel. Frankly, I was shocked anyone would be willing to sign a contract stating they would be financially penalized if they backed out of volunteering, either before or during the event. Supposedly, it was all legit and legal.
It was just two days ago that we signed the last model, and only just in the last hour that when we discovered two of them wouldn't be making it. I felt Winston was being unfair to me, given the circumstances. I began to state that opinion when Rita barged into the office.
Rita Pollock is my secretary/office assistant and has been with the museum longer than I have, working for the previous curator for several years. She's a flirtatious girl with a busty figure like my own, only shorter,and a favorite among the staff and patrons. Now, I won't deny that my face and figure has likely benefited my career. Though my looks may have helped to open doors, it was the quality work that defined me. With Rita, not so much.
Barely adequate at her job, Rita would often sneak out for long breaks, or flirt with the help, and rarely took proper notes. I was sure it was Rita's physical qualities that were responsible for the board members' willingness to forgive her over any performance issues. She's an attractive redhead, with double D's on a small frame. I wasn't very fond of Rita, and she probably felt the same about me, but we tolerated each other.
"You two will have to do it," said Patrick, flatly, sounding bored. "The show must go on."
