“I don’t think I’m feeling very evoked by it,” Caroline replied to Brandon. “How does the color beige do anything specific for anyone?”
One corner of his mouth pulled out in negation.
“I suppose nonobjective art does ask more of the viewer,” Brandon said. “You have to bring an understanding of the history and purpose of art with you to appreciate it. But it’s worth it, if you’re willing to put in the effort.”
Caroline frowned at the implication that she had either not brought the proper knowledge with her to appreciate the art or had not tried hard enough to like it. She wastrying.
“So what did you bring to the art?” she asked, mildly challenging him.
Brandon gulped his beer before answering.
“The color and formlessness of the canvases suggest the concrete wasteland of American suburbia. It’s a critique of the lack of beauty in the visual landscape of the modern suburbanite. But at the same time, the careful arrangement and installation of the works suggests thereisa kind of beauty in the blankness and promise of the corporate desert. It’s a paradox. It leans into the conflict of the presentation,” Brandon answered.
It all sounded very convincing, but Caroline hadn’t gotten even a hint of that from looking at the paintings.
“You thought up all of that right now?” Caroline asked.
Brandon nodded that he had indeed.
Caroline gazed at the canvas again. Unlike the void, it did not look back. Maybe it was because of all the beige.
“How did you figure all that out from just the painting?” she pressed. Maybe she’d missed a brochure on the way in.
Brandon sidled another half step closer. “It’s moreapparent once you’ve really absorbed the context that the artist is working in. I help plan the lecture series with the Tufts faculty—you should start attending, if you’d like to better appreciate these works.” He began fishing in his trouser pocket for a business card.
Caroline wondered whether she was really deficient for not appreciating the painting. Everyone else in the room seemed to be enjoying the art. She hesitated before taking Brandon’s card.
“So, you like this stuff?” she asked, wondering how much it would take her to develop the same appreciation for blank rectangles.
The tall man snorted, not really in a nice way. “It doesn’t matter if welikeit,” he said derisively. “It’s not here to beliked.”
Caroline’s shoulders tightened, and she began to search for a way of extricating herself from the situation. Then she was startled again, this time by the gentle press of Adrian’s fingertips on her lower back as he came to stand next to her.
Brandon’s eyes tracked the movement, and his face hardened as he took Adrian in.
Adrian didn’t say anything. He didn’t introduce himself. Possibly because they were all wearing name tags, but Caroline thought the silence was more hostile than it had been a moment before.
“What do you think?” she asked Adrian.Sweetie, she nearly added.Honey.Because if she’d shown up not knowing anything about nonobjective art, or whatever this was, at least Brandon might come away thinking that she was there with her boyfriend while he was there alone. She didn’t add it, because when she relived this conversation in her head while trying to fall asleep later, she’dremember that she actually was single and alone too, which would make her sad. Also, Adrian would probably have an entire litter of kittens if she called him a pet name.
“I think it’s boring,” Adrian said curtly. His face was implacable.
Brandon laughed. “Another conscientious objector to nonobjective art?”
“No,” Adrian said.
Brandon waited for additional exposition, but Adrian did not seem to feel like explaining his answer further. He sipped his wine instead.
“Are you familiar with Mill’s work?” Brandon probed for weakness.
“Yes,” Adrian said. “I met him a few years ago at the Biennial of the Americas.”
Brandon, scowling, didn’t like that, but he also didn’t back down.
“So, how can you say this is boring?” Brandon pressed. “This is a revolutionary comment on the forms underlying the American visual field.”
Adrian didn’t even blink as he formulated his retort.
“Kazimir Malevich exhibited his black square in 1915,” he began to lecture, his voice cool and precise. “Over a hundred years ago.Thatwas revolutionary. The brutalists were making cities out of simple concrete forms in the fifties. That made a statement about our relationship with the blank form of construction. This? This is so derivative of generations of art that came before it that it degenerates into cliché.”
