"Jack Dann - Art Appreciation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dann Jack)

place to start. There had been a lot of controversy about using the Guggenheim for
the site of the Mona Lisa loan; a lot of critics had thought that it should go
somewhere else, someplace larger, more important. If not the Metropolitan, then at
least the Frick.
But the Guggenheim needed an attention getter to bring its audience back and
make a statement for the contributors. In their fervor to make this coup, the
Guggenheim administrators broke, or perhaps bent, museum rules about acquiring
and exhibiting only modern art. No small amount of emoluments, kickbacks, pleas,
grief, sexual promises, and maneuvers even less desultory had been employed to
lever La Giaconda from the Louvre for a six-month enlistment. It was worth it all for
the prestige and publicity. La Giaconda was something of a cliche, a joke really
Evans had perceived from his assiduous researches, certainly not to be taken as
seriously as might have been the case earlier. Priceless maybe, but a tourist
phenomenon. So La Giaconda had ended up in the Guggenheim and so had Evans,
starting his grand tour of what he liked to think of as his post-Yellow period, but he
hadn’t counted on the Yellow turning Blue so rapidly; he hadn’t counted on La
Giaconda grabbing solitary tourists while guards complained to one another in the
hallway when the gallery was momentarily empty, except for the keenly observant
Evans. That had not been part of the plan.
It was a disconcerting business, that was for sure, and Evans was hardly
positive that he was handling this properly. It probably was not a police matter,
though. His instincts on that seemed reasonable. People had been put away
permanently, he suspected, for far less than the kind of reportage he was resisting.
Out on Fifth Avenue, watching traffic, Evans considered his ever-narrowing
options. Not much movement on a cloudy Tuesday morning; even the remittance
men were sleeping in. He discussed metaphysics with a pretzel vendor, wrote two
letters to an old girlfriend in his head, the first filled with euphemism, the second
desperate and scatological. He looked at a woman walking her poodle, feeling a thin
and desperate lust, and shook his head. Undone by his own mindless need.
“Good, isn’t she?” the pretzel vendor said politely. “You see a lot on these
streets, don’t you?”
“More than I would ever know,” Evans said hopelessly.
“Know what?” the vendor asked. “Know who? As long as you figure that they
were just put there to torment us, you’ve got the right handle on the situation. It has
nothing to do with getting and keeping.”
“But what is getting and keeping?” Evans asked and then, before the
conversation could get out of hand, backed away from the vendor. We’ll talk about
it later,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.” The vendor shrugged. I should just go home,
Evans thought, go back to remittance-man’s heaven, go to my studio condominium
in a reconverted downtown loft, get away from all this before I start to take it
seriously. After all, none of this is my problem. If they want to come by and get
taken away by a demented painting, that’s their business. I’m not involved. I just
happened to be on the premises. The only point is this: They aren’t snatching me.
As long as I’m not being picked up, what’s the difference?
But the argument seemed halting and unconvincing. It seemed to evade the
issues, whatever those issues might be. Another good-looking woman, earphones
clamped, stray notes of baroque streaming from the earphones like pennants, jogged
by, heedless of Evan’s stare. He looked after her with confusion and a longing born
of years of deprivation. She should snatch him up. She should do to him, Evans
thought, what La Giaconda was doing with the tourists. Oh, how he yearned to run