mean, the positioning?”
“Having the woman in the supine prone position, with the man standing over and behind her, holding her collar chain,” Rostovich said. “I staged that. I had nothing to do with where their genitals ended up, however. They did that part without consulting me.”
I stifled a laugh. “So it wasn’ t your plan to have your art opening shut down for public indecency then?”
“No. Though I will admit there are some artists out there who would totally pull a stunt like that on purpose.”
“Such as?”
“ Christo was known to do that sort of thing early in his career, before he got into covering whole buildings with fabric,” he remarked. “Oh, and there was Bob Flanagan, the supermasochist conceptual artist who died of cystic fibrosis. He made a successful and lucrative career out of live explicit bondage acts, even going so far as to staple his genitals to a post during a showing. But that’s really not my style.”
“And yet, look what happened anyway.”
He winced. “If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t have done it. At least, I wouldn’t have brought the models in live. I’d have done a video installation or something. At least then if nature took its course like it did tonight, I could edit it out, or at least have shown it in a tasteful manner. Maybe superimpose some black boxes over the offending parts. That probably would have gone over quite well. I could have found a buyer for it very fast.”
“ Yeah, well, porn sells,” I snorted, regretting it almost instantly when I saw Peter wince again. “But what’s done is done, I suppose.”
“Yes. I feel terrible for Richard, though. He’s going to lose his shirt on the show now, and he can ill afford it. I’ve known Richard for years, and I only agreed to do the show here in Cleveland because he owed me a favor.”
That piqued my curiosity. “So showing in Cleveland is slumming it for you, then?”
He frowned. “I didn’t say that. Look, can I buy you a drink? Or at least see you home safely? I feel as if I’ve ruined your evening.”
On the contrary, you’ve made my day, I thought to myself. But I was happy to let him think he owed me one if it helped get me my scoop. Not to mention have another hour or two in his physical presence. Because even though he’d pissed me off in the beginning, I wanted very much to be near him. I wanted even more for the chance to touch him, and for him to touch me.
He placed a gentle-yet-firm hand on my shoulder, and I felt the world spin around me. “Shall I drive? My car is right here.” He gestured towards an expensive-looking white convertible parked right in front of Ginger. It was an older vehicle, mint condition, with a nameplate I didn’t recognize.
“An Alfa Romeo,” he explained as if reading my thoughts. “Yo u probably don’t see many of those around here.”
“No, you don’t,” I agreed. “But I have my own car, and I prefer to drive myself. Or walk, if you want to go someplace nearby.” I made a point not to mention that the rusty jalopy parked behind his fancy car was mine.
“Someplace nearby,” he repeated, then stroked his chin in thought. I noticed for the first time he had a slight cleft in his chin. I wondered if that feature became more pronounced when he was angry or frustrated, wondered how the tiny indentation would feel underneath my fingertips, maybe even the tip of my tongue. . .
Why on earth was I having these thoughts? I should have been concentrating on one thing and one thing only----getting my story. I had to stop thinking about chin clefts and eyes the color of glaciers and the delicate pattern of pores on his forehead, a forehead that crinkled upwards as he blinked, then raised both eyebrows in an expression of concern.
“Nancy? Are you all right?” Peter’s voice cut into my thoughts. I noticed his accent got slightly thicker, sending images of Russian steppes, heavy snows, and fur-wrapped soldiers fluttering
“Having the woman in the supine prone position, with the man standing over and behind her, holding her collar chain,” Rostovich said. “I staged that. I had nothing to do with where their genitals ended up, however. They did that part without consulting me.”
I stifled a laugh. “So it wasn’ t your plan to have your art opening shut down for public indecency then?”
“No. Though I will admit there are some artists out there who would totally pull a stunt like that on purpose.”
“Such as?”
“ Christo was known to do that sort of thing early in his career, before he got into covering whole buildings with fabric,” he remarked. “Oh, and there was Bob Flanagan, the supermasochist conceptual artist who died of cystic fibrosis. He made a successful and lucrative career out of live explicit bondage acts, even going so far as to staple his genitals to a post during a showing. But that’s really not my style.”
“And yet, look what happened anyway.”
He winced. “If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t have done it. At least, I wouldn’t have brought the models in live. I’d have done a video installation or something. At least then if nature took its course like it did tonight, I could edit it out, or at least have shown it in a tasteful manner. Maybe superimpose some black boxes over the offending parts. That probably would have gone over quite well. I could have found a buyer for it very fast.”
“ Yeah, well, porn sells,” I snorted, regretting it almost instantly when I saw Peter wince again. “But what’s done is done, I suppose.”
“Yes. I feel terrible for Richard, though. He’s going to lose his shirt on the show now, and he can ill afford it. I’ve known Richard for years, and I only agreed to do the show here in Cleveland because he owed me a favor.”
That piqued my curiosity. “So showing in Cleveland is slumming it for you, then?”
He frowned. “I didn’t say that. Look, can I buy you a drink? Or at least see you home safely? I feel as if I’ve ruined your evening.”
On the contrary, you’ve made my day, I thought to myself. But I was happy to let him think he owed me one if it helped get me my scoop. Not to mention have another hour or two in his physical presence. Because even though he’d pissed me off in the beginning, I wanted very much to be near him. I wanted even more for the chance to touch him, and for him to touch me.
He placed a gentle-yet-firm hand on my shoulder, and I felt the world spin around me. “Shall I drive? My car is right here.” He gestured towards an expensive-looking white convertible parked right in front of Ginger. It was an older vehicle, mint condition, with a nameplate I didn’t recognize.
“An Alfa Romeo,” he explained as if reading my thoughts. “Yo u probably don’t see many of those around here.”
“No, you don’t,” I agreed. “But I have my own car, and I prefer to drive myself. Or walk, if you want to go someplace nearby.” I made a point not to mention that the rusty jalopy parked behind his fancy car was mine.
“Someplace nearby,” he repeated, then stroked his chin in thought. I noticed for the first time he had a slight cleft in his chin. I wondered if that feature became more pronounced when he was angry or frustrated, wondered how the tiny indentation would feel underneath my fingertips, maybe even the tip of my tongue. . .
Why on earth was I having these thoughts? I should have been concentrating on one thing and one thing only----getting my story. I had to stop thinking about chin clefts and eyes the color of glaciers and the delicate pattern of pores on his forehead, a forehead that crinkled upwards as he blinked, then raised both eyebrows in an expression of concern.
“Nancy? Are you all right?” Peter’s voice cut into my thoughts. I noticed his accent got slightly thicker, sending images of Russian steppes, heavy snows, and fur-wrapped soldiers fluttering
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