A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall (10 page)

Owen tugged on his chin and asked his reflection what the fuck that was. He looked up, breathed deeply, and ground a paste of grit between his two hands.

Owen rejoined the crowd. The first thing he saw was Brigitte. He knocked on the doorframe because he saw Kurt sniffing something off a plate. Owen figured out what he was walking into just as Kurt offered him a nearby set of keys.

—You said you guys never locked the door.

Everyone burst into laughter. Owen was confused until Hal dipped a key into a small baggie and offered Owen a channel full of cocaine.

He was surprised to see the real version of something that had been, until this point, a Hollywood prop. These people were so cavalier, carving lines with credit cards in a room anyone was welcome to stumble into. The only thing he knew about cocaine was that no one, save maybe drug lords, did it out in the open. Hal snorted the mound on the key's tip. Kurt passed the plate. Owen declined:

—I'm still on antibiotics for my eye.

—This'll make them work faster!

Kurt laughed and then pulled in with the jolt of a snake handler who'd just dodged a strike. When the bitterness registered on his face, he gritted his teeth and his smile dropped. He passed the plate to Brigitte. No keys for her; she nudged a bump into the recessed filter of her Parliament cigarette, snorted, then patted her nose as if she were putting the finishing touches on her makeup.

O
ut of the tower and into the Berlin night, Brigitte braided her arm in Owen's and pulled down with a steady pressure that lifted her ever so slightly from the ground. Hal pushed Kurt's wheelchair over worn grass and tried eagerly to fit his monologue into Kurt's monologue. Pulling even with Owen and Brigitte, he finally got out what he had been trying to say for minutes:

—I had a thought last night of all these people, or maybe one person, a critic, writing a monograph on me or whatever. But the quote was: “He did nothing in his twenties, everything in his thirties, and everyone in his forties.” It's a good line, right?

Kurt looked like he might hit him.

—You cocksucker. Lorie Nussbaum wrote that about me in the Capo Press monograph. The quote was, “He did nothing for a decade, everyone for a year, then changed art forever in mere minutes.” I have the fucking article in my press kit.

Hal lit a cigarette.

—Sorry. That's right. I must have read that article a thousand times.

—Actually there is no article. But that's what I'm talking about. If your balls are big enough, then facts become fiction and fiction becomes fact. All that micro bullshit is for watchmakers and carpenters.

Owen thought of asking where they were going, but was afraid he would open himself up to a whole continental critique of American banality—“Where are we going?” being a species of the “What do you do?” genus. After a few minutes, Brigitte spoke:

—How do you know Kurt?

Kurt wheeled up quickly and answered:

—Owen and I are collaborating on a project.

This was the first time Owen had heard it announced.

—Are you going to make him famous?

—The critics are going to make him famous; I'm just bringing him to their attention. Did you invite any of your friends tonight? We could set him up with someone.

—What if I want him for myself?

Once Brigitte was a few steps ahead, ruffling Hal's hair, Owen asked Kurt which artists he admired.

—Admire? If you admire art, you're buying it. I make shit.

Owen pressed him for a reference.

—I don't know. There are people you rip off or whatever.

Owen decided to be provocative:

—I've seen photos of your work. Is everything you do art?

—Absolutely.

Now Hal turned around, surprised at hearing what sounded like a heartfelt answer. Kurt continued:

—Art is problem solving. And I've got lots of problems.

Hal laughed. Owen asked Kurt to clarify.

—Picture a guy. He has this great idea for a sculpture, but he can't sleep because of a problem: How do I make it look like this guy is
thinking
and not taking a shit? So he paces the planks of his atelier for a few weeks. He notes how his own muscles contract when he sits. He calls in models. He makes them squat. Asks a few to take a shit for contrast. They think he's depraved. He sculpts models, all at various angles of exertion. But in the end, he solves the fucking problem. And it's beautiful. And that man's name is fucking Rodin. There is no doubt that we are looking at a man
thinking
. What's art? That's art.

Hal suggested a new work:

—You should re-enact that story as a performance piece.

Brigitte asked if the story was true.

—Art is telling people what to think. If a work is open to other interpretations, it means you failed as an artist. There are always problems with how something can be seen. Artists end the discussion. Try getting hundreds of homeless people to wear tuxedos and remove the possibility that you're making a fashion statement or some Marxist bullshit economics thing. Try filling the Stedelijk with Ping-Pong balls and have critics recognize it's a comment on flotation and not a birthday party for five-year-olds.

Owen was a little lost:

—You filled what with Ping-Pong balls?

—The Stedelijk. It's a museum in Amsterdam. Twelve million bright orange Ping-Pong balls. I originally wanted to fill the Reichstag, to float off the Christo shroud, but I wasn't Reichstag-big until 2002. And besides, the piece fit with the whole boat concept of the renovation they were planning.

Brigitte had the final word:

—Genius.

J
ust past Mitte, they took an elevator to a bar. Until the
ping
of the top floor, Kurt told a story about convincing a hospital to collect newborns' breath in balloons. These balloons were then used by botanists to grow constellations of baby's breath,
Gypsophila
, from the baby's breath. Unfortunately all the flowers died within a week.

—And that's when I learned the first rule of being a professional artist: Always have something to sell.

Owen scanned the elevator to see if anyone else was grimacing. Brigitte and Hal were texting, and the other patrons looked cowed, already forming the story of the one night they hung out with Kurt Wagener.

The steel doors opened to a riot. The crowd, mostly models jumping up and down to electro and guys with pursed lips fist-pumping, cleared a path for Kurt and his entourage. They passed from the main room to the back bar with the pomp of Dalí in 1920s Paris. Those with their backs turned sloshed drinks and spun in flushes of anger before realizing it was Kurt Wagener who had ridden up their heels. Kurt gathered apologies as if they were roses tossed at a curtain call. Then, at the back bar, a group of suits erupted in cheers when they saw Kurt and Hal.

I've lost the crowd that would applaud my entrance, Owen thought.

Hal explained Kurt's celebrity among celebrities:

—Kurt's a member here . . . so to speak.

Hal jerked his head toward the bar. Owen didn't follow until the bartender stepped aside: above the bar was a large-format photograph of Kurt, naked in his wheelchair, leaning forward with a grin and spilling down the pleather seat on the brink of tumescence. Berlin was no Paris, Owen realized, and this was no longer the 1920s.

Hal spoke before Owen could react:

—It's the best portrait I've taken.

Brigitte explicated the significance Owen missed:

—Kurt explores the distinction between body and body part.

Hal explained further:

—It's called
Pedicabo
, which means “I'll fuck you” or something, in Greek.

Owen let Hal's translation stand; philology was the least of his concerns, now that he was looking at a full-frontal picture of his host. But the Latin came out anyway:

—
Pedicabo et irrumabo te?

—Ha! You do know shit. You've got to meet Stevie. She's the one who named it. It's a brilliant name, right?

The bartender vouched:

—The owners want to change the name from 66 to the Pedicabo Bar.

—You took me to a bar with your nude, wall-sized portrait?

Again, everyone was watching Owen. He tried to find the Dionysian mood that always eluded him when he needed it most:

—That's the stupidest thing I've ever seen.

Kurt chose to take the remark as a compliment and shook Owen's hand.

The bartender poured shots of green Chartreuse for the group. Owen was starting to see himself from a great remove. It happened to him whenever he was in this sort of environment. Thankfully, his words and demeanor were someone else's—someone fun and revolting, Hephaestus in a Dionysus mask.

—Where am I?

Brigitte didn't appear to catch the question; she just leaned closer.

A young man with a wild Nietzschean mustache, bright red and flying from his lip like a barn on fire, stood at Owen's shoulder, waiting to be introduced.

—Jera, this is Owen.

Jera looked Owen in the eye and nodded once as if he were firmly shaking Owen's hand. Something in Jera invited Owen to widen his stance until their gaze was level.

—Did you order him from a catalog? Does he know what he is getting himself into?

Jera spoke to Hal in German, presuming Owen wouldn't understand. And Owen, for his part, opened his mouth a little wider, hoping Jera and Hal would assume he hadn't understood.

—Kurt wants to use him for something. But he keeps surprising us, so who the fuck knows what's going to happen!

Hal laughed. Jera didn't.

The music was its own punch line. The crunch and warble buried any hope of conversation. Jera shouted over the music:

—Have you ever heard of Jörg Immendorff? He's the guy at the end of the bar in the black shirt with the five o'clock shadow. He's the Gertrude Stein of the circle you've wandered into—of course, you have to imagine Gertrude Stein orchestrating cocaine-fueled orgies.

—That guy? You're talking about the one with the four-pronged cane?

—Why? People with canes can't have orgies? How about people in wheelchairs? Speaking of which, can we change rooms? I can take a lot, but that photograph fucking creeps me out. Kurt's never had a hard-on he didn't use.

Jera motioned to the bartender, and they were admitted to a private room of green leather couches and mercury-backed mirrors. They had traded Kurt's nude portrait for a wall of Helmut Newtons. There were no speakers back here, so they could actually hear each other.

—The police broke in on him last year with nine prostitutes and a Versace ashtray full of cocaine.

—They must have taken the ashtray along with the coke, because now he just snorts off plates.

—What?

—I mean, it's no big deal. It's not like Kurt's the first person I've seen do coke.

—I was talking about Immendorff.

—How many years do they give you in Germany for that kind of thing?

—We'll see. The trial is in a few months. He'll be fine, though. He's friends with Gerhard Schröder. I'm guessing the worst that happens is he loses his professorship, but that would be kind of cold at this point. He's not well.

—Did Kurt and Hal study with Immendorff?

—They were at Städelschule. I was at Leipzig. Kurt and these other guys live his lifestyle—seven days a week instead of Immendorff's two—but have none of the man's talent. There are so many young artists in Berlin willing to sacrifice everything for their art, but so few who are willing to learn how to see, much less draw. Somewhere along the way they forgot that it's easier to suffer for something than to fight for it.

—But you're here.

—This is research.

—That's convenient.

—I paint large wooden panels. I'm not crazy about comparison, but people say I paint in the same vein as Bruegel or Bosch. I see a bit of George Grosz, but the work's really its own thing. Here.

Jera undid the elastic strap of a sketchbook and opened to a ribboned page. Owen looked at finely hatched lines and minuscule dapples of shadow. It must have taken Jera a week just to get the gleam of the bottles.

—How do you make the lines so small?

Jera unpalmed a maroon drafting pen.

—It's a rapidograph.

Owen unscrewed the cap, revealing a needle-thin point.

—That drawing is amazing.

—It's just a study. But it's close, I'll give you that. Look at this.

Jera showed Owen a partially finished drawing of the interior of the
Wasserturm
. Owen recognized it at once:

—I just moved in there tonight.

Jera pursed his lips, pressure building as if he might detonate some plosive sound.

—How long have you been in Berlin?

—Just over a month.

—And Kurt took you on as a roommate in the
Wasserturm
?

—He wants to collaborate on a piece for Art Basel.

Jera lifted his eyebrows and screwed his head:

—That's great. I'm happy for you. Really.

Kurt and Brigitte returned from the bathroom, but were intercepted by Immendorff just as they entered the back room.

One of Brigitte's friends approached Owen. She introduced herself as Saskia with a succinctness that suggested that she didn't have a last name because she would never need one.

She appraised Owen as she would a statue. Smoke rolled out of her mouth in thick clouds. Words followed exhalation, cold, high, and cirrus thin:

—You should find new friends. Or go somewhere else.

He fell through the wisps.

—Why?

Saskia exhaled as a response.

—Seriously. Where should I go?

—New York, Paris, London. There are many places.

—But here I am.

—You don't belong here.

—What?

—You don't belong here.

Owen asked for a cigarette. Saskia offered her pack and then offered him her lipstick-stained cigarette to light it with. In his experience, women who wore lipstick that red touched his arm and laughed at anything, hoping another guy would notice.