What follows is an excerpt from my new novel, ELORA, a Goddess
which takes place in Manhattan in 1981. The story of innocent corrupted, it is available in both print and e-book editions from Amazon.
When Trish was over the worst of her flu, but not quite back to normal,
she got out of bed in order to take Elora to a vernissage, a private viewing of an exhibition of new paintings at
a gallery in Soho. Flu or no flu, Trish did not want to miss this opening. The
gallery and the artist were too important, and Trish knew that if she did not
make an appearance her name would be struck from the invitation list and she
would never be invited to another such occasion.
In this case, it was generally believed among the cognescenti in the Soho subculture that both the artist and the
gallery were on the brink of something major -- what form that something would
take was as yet unclear. It is impossible to say how such assurances come into
being; whether it is the result of the concentrated and deliberate effort of
the artist himself, along with his friends and someone with power and a vested
interest, in other words the effort of many, or whether it is something of a
cosmic and fateful nature. But the origins of such beliefs as “he is up and
coming” or “he’s hot” or “she’s going places” are as obscure and impossible to
trace as the origins of a joke. Who can tell how such rumors get started and
how they grow into an accepted truth? Is it merely the constant repetition of
one person telling another? Cocktail parties, bars, and other gallery openings
are breeding grounds for that kind of information, but they alone are not
solely responsible. The question is as confounding as it is intriguing: how is it
that certain artists become all the rage while others slip ever more inexorably
into oblivion? It cannot be talent and talent alone which is the deciding
factor, nor is the facile maxim of being in the right place at the right time
an adequate explanation to elucidate this mystery. And in America, where
self-worth and success in anything are measured by popularity and money, where
success has been exalted to a kind of religion, the mystery of who succeeds and
how they succeed, the sheer glamour of success and successful people, has
become a national obsession. But mysteries do not remain mysteries for very
long in America -- they are swiftly dispatched, transformed into puzzles,
problems with logical solutions, formulas that need only be studied, applied
and worked out; hence the never-ending flood of information about success and
successful people. Americans, with their jackpot mentality, love a good Horatio
Alger-type success story -- it inspires them, it brings out the best in the
national character, and it provides an example which, if scrutinized long and
hard enough, will yield up, like hieroglyphics for those who have learned how
to read them, all of the secrets of wisdom necessary to emulate success. And if
success is a pseudo religion, then those who succeed are automatically the
clergy of that religion, the high priests and priestesses, the wizards,
warlocks, and witches. Success endows those fortunate few with an irresistible
magnetism, and before they know it, willy-nilly, they have become the figurehead
of a new cult. But for those who need more than money to make their lives
meaningful, there is always art . . . no, Art
. . . to take the place of the old mysticism, and so the galleries, theatres,
and lecture halls become the new temples for the observance of this new-found
religion. And so it was that in Soho, that refurbished area of chic boutiques
and cast-iron facades where immigrants from the Lower East Side once groaned in
sweatshops and factories now converted into designer lofts where artists
languish in creative torment and existential angst, the faithful were flocking
to the Omphalos Gallery on West Broadway between Prince and Spring Streets,
just south of
Houston. The one-woman exhibition there was called “Motherlode” and it
consisted entirely of paintings in various media of the female reproductive system.
The vernissage was scheduled
for the customary five to seven on a Friday evening, and the obligatory
wine-and-cheese was being served. An oak table was set up with the wheels of
brie, hunks of Havarti, blocks of cheddar, and a bushel basket of baguettes and
several smaller baskets filled with crackers; there were many jugs of wine
lined up, mostly California chablis but also a few of rosé and one of burgundy.
The wine was being served in plastic cups and the cheese, on bread or crackers,
was being eaten off napkins. The gallery was one huge barn-like open space
crammed full of people munching, drinking, and chattering. This particular
gathering of the faithful was outfitted in fashions that ran from one end of
the spectrum to the other: from classic conservative to outlandishly bizarre.
Many of those who were wearing flashy clothes seemed to have dressed as though
under the impression that they and not the paintings were the works of art to
be gazed at and admired.
The people filled the floor, and the paintings took up every bit of
available wall space. The individual canvases themselves were enormous, ranging
in height from six to fifteen feet with none of them smaller than a
double-sized bed sheet. The theme of the show, as mentioned, was birth and the
female reproductive system, every aspect of which, from conception through
delivery, was explored in the most explicit detail. One work, entitled “The
Black Hole,” showed a pair of thighs spread open to the widest possible degree,
with all the layers of the genitalia, the outer and inner labia, revealed and
magnified for microscopic inspection. Another, called “Circle of Birth,” was a
gigantic canvas depicting seven women giving birth simultaneously. Accompanying
this painting, which was executed in kaleidoscopic images, there were seven
smaller pieces, each showing a close-up of the birthing women’s faces, some of
which grimaced with pain while others were serene and radiant with the joy of
motherhood. “Circle of Birth,” together with its satellite paintings, comprised
the centerpiece of the exhibition, a sort of culmination of the theme, and it
was overpoweringly stunning by virtue of both its size and the excellence of
its realistic detail. Although there were some paintings which included men,
mostly portrayed as sexual partners, carriers of the seed, and passive
witnesses to the birth, the show was de- voted entirely to women and this
unique female experience. To Trish Weaver, the exhibit was a comprehensive
statement, a summing up of the agonizing, euphoric, and ultimately solitary
pleasure of giving birth, with men presented appropriately as mere adjuncts.
Most of the people who attended the opening were women -- artists, professionals,
journalists -- and the excitement was running high. Amid this scintillating
constellation, Trish Weaver was a luminary of special brightness, a
recognizable face whose presence bestowed a certain honor and dignity upon the
occasion, as it was well known that her principles were beyond reproach and
that her participation gave the imprimatur of a coalition of many intellectual
and very fastidious feminists. This was acknowledged by the fact that the
artist, a middle-aged Jewess with short black hair shot with streaks of silver,
spoke to her without arrogance or condescension.
