“We have ranged from the notion of art as imagination realized to the materials of which it is physically constructed.
“So that it must seem to you-hopefully, it does seem to you-that we have taken this subject, aesthetics, in some logical order, showing you that which is aesthetic, or what we would term artistic success, as well as that which is not and which therefore, by the same standard of judgment, is a failure.
“Using computerized examples of partial and total failure, thereby depersonalizing such characterization, we have seen the underlying character of art revealed for what it is from the objective standpoint, which is-much to the delight of the computer people-information.
“We live in the so called information age, ladies and gentlemen, so called because there’s so damn much of it around.
“SO that the world, our world is, In macrocosm, confronted by the same problem which has beleaguered art-man’s compulsion, man’s inner need to seek it out, to create it, to understand it since time immemorial-in the face of this floodtide of information which, moment by moment, inundates and permeates us.
“How sad that we cannot all, like Michelangelo, perceive the statue hidden within the block of marble.
“No, to us, most of us, I dare say all of us these days, the world is one large, unyielding mass of uniform, uniform.,. give me the word.”
“Garbage!”
“Crap!”
“Scrap!”
“Junk!”
“Thank you. I think we all get the idea.
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it’s true; never has there been so much bad stuff around as there is today.
“Artlessness, Pseudo-art. Pre-art, which will never live up to its own potential, this last the saddest of all, perhaps. And beyond that environments, segments of our society, whole societies in our world, in which the aesthetic has vanished, is lost, art and the possibility of art extinct as the dinosaur.
“Wrong compilations of information, compilations of wrong Information, meaning that which precludes the exercise of the imagination in the creative mode.
“Consider simpler ages and times-the art of the caveman, of ancient Egypt, of Greece, of Rome, of the Aztec and the Maya.
“There, there! is art, is undoubted art, is art to be contemplated, wondered at, thought about, absorbed, remembered.
“Where Is art, where is the artistic community to be found nowadays? “Remember the Realists? Remember the Impressionists? The Surrealists? “Where is the school of artistic thought to be found today, ladies and gentlemen? “Who are its founders, its gurus, its practitioners, both pure and heretical? “What is its name, for crissakes?”
“You have no answer to that, nor do I, because there is none! “If art Is Information, and we live in the information age, then one could logically conclude, could one not, that art is everywhere.
“But in light of what has just been said, one could as well be drawn to quite the opposite conclusion, which is that art is nowhere to be found, outside of museums, the message being that true art is a thing of the past.
“SO then, what do we have? Art is everywhere and art is nowhere. Which is my theme tonight.
“Let us examine four terms.
“We have-let me put them up as we go here-ornamental, beneath which we put functional, and beside these, aesthetic-that word again-and below it, ugly, by which is intended not necessarily the traditional term but rather that which does in fact offend the eye.
“Our methodology here will be to combine either or both these first two features with first the aesthetic, then the ugly, and thereby move from the discussion of what the aesthetic is to that of where it can be found in the contemporary world.
“So, taking the first of our combinations, we see very quickly that…”
Jessica cannot believe it, cannot believe that the man she sees down there lecturing, his audience banging on his every word, is the same, the same… animal who last week did what he did with her, with her and Steve, who is, who is-right over there, dammit, his attention as rapt as that of the most ardent art geek in the crowd.
Her mind drifts back, the scene before her eyes, Armand in his tweedy sportcoat with the suede patch elbows and insert from lapel to right breast gesticulating with the chalk, fades from her vision.
She was riding Armand’s prick, Steve-Mister Galaxy himself-sucking her ass hole now, preparatory to insertion, which was very efficiently effected.
So that now, Steve was top man.
It was Steve’s big prick reaming her ass hole now, while Armand lay on the bottom, helpless but aroused, unable to move but being acted upon with ultimate lascivous result clearly in the offing.
As Steve rode and rode, muscles no doubt strutted and bulging, form following function as he drove the three of them higher and higher up the rainbow.
Onward and upward! Excelsior!
And she could see Armand looking over her shoulder, even as he sucked one tit while fondling both breasts, could see him looking-at Steve.
So that there was a communication between them at work here-Armand and Steve, that is.
Central to the action, it was as though she were not really there, as if her presence were somehow arbitrary, if only in the sense that it could be any girl, any woman here, given certain minimum standards-in other words, the criteria which had given him Irene, had given Irene fame and fortune- were in full force, but in a context which could do her no conceivable good.
It could be argued, she knew, that out there, in the real world were millions of women who would give all they had to be in bed with Armand Fortuna-and another several millions, perhaps even more, who would be have been similarly ecstatic to have hit the sheets with Mister Galaxy.
But, as fate would have it, it fell to her, whose plans and intentions, whose goals and desires lay utterly elsewhere, to be the hour of the hour.
She was of no more significance to them than would have been the track, had they been running a footrace, or the pool in which they would try to out swim each other.
She was, in short, apiece of athletic equipment.
And how she resented, how she still resents Armand!
Because he has betrayed her, has treated her in a manner in which, perhaps, she deserves to be treated; but how could he possibly know?
Unless-could it be?
Because face it, the man is an intellectual giant, no question.
So that it is entirely possible, is it not, that he was, has been on to her right along, seeing very well what she is after, and using her as, on a much grander scale, she intended to use him.
Except that, right then, there was no humor to Armand, but rather a determination to win, to prove to Steve that he, Armand, was the better man where it counts.
Not good, this, she told herself. Onto her or not, what was happening was bound to leave him depleted or, if not depleted, then unavailable to her for another week-most of which he would undoubtedly use recovering, if the marathon fuckathon was to run its course.
But there was nothing she could do about it, any of it.
She had to stick with the program-especially now.
The time to walk out, dignity intact, future obscurity assured, was before she in fact walked the other way.
Useless now, stupid and harmful, it would be, were she to decide, mid-stream, that she had had enough.
So that yes, she had no choice but to let the two men fuck themselves to death, with her as mutual fuckee.
What would they do next? she wondered.
Repetition? Maybe. But surely a mind as fertile as Armand’s could come up with something more interesting.
At least, she told herself, among the’ three of them, hers was the least demanding task.
All she had to do, really, was to ride out the storm.
What would Armand think of her?
Again, that made no difference, not any more.
What’s done is done and can’t be undone-one of Armand’s favorite sayings, and certainly never more true than in her case.
So she simply made the best of it, letting go in her mind; allowing the triple stimulation to take its course, letting herself drift, letting herself be carried along up the rainbow by the bumpy, grinding ride, by the distension and distortion of her innards.
As the two big cocks went about their work, which was of neither pleasure nor procreation, but of competition, of manly, male, macho oneupmanship, the issue hot and heavy and very much-undecided at this point.
And it was actually quite easy for Jessica, in the event.
She had merely to let it happen, and happen it did, fore and aft-and within herself as well.
Because she came when they did, vaginal convulsions and anal twinges adding to the exquisite pleasure of the moment.
And fore and aft, they repeated the pumping out ceremony, their generous jism oozing, being squeezed out of both her nether orifices.
And this time, after the last spasm of their shared climax bad passed through them all, they lay there, collapsed in a heap, the two turgid intruders slowly detumescing within her, Armand’s dropping out of her pussy, then Steve’s becoming sufficiently flaccid that the peristaltic action of Jessica’s bowels expelled him, turd-like.
And he dragged himself up off her, did Steve, did the mighty Mister Galaxy.
And he was slow to get up off the bed.
So that Jessica rolled off Armand on the opposite side, going to get up, but Armand reached out a hand, stopping her.
“Better idea,” he said.
And Steve, who had been on his way to the bathroom, stopped, turned, looked at him, expectant.
Armand lay on the bed, eyes closed, pronouncing, “Way it works is that the first one of us up gets to fuck Jessica. Second man has to clean ‘er up the hard way before he fucks her.
“Naturally, any time you wanna concede-”
“In your ear, old man!” Steve says, grinning. “And you are on, pal! “Lookin’ forward to havin’ you clean ‘er up before your pathetic attempt at round three.”
SO that Jessica lay there on the bed, double load oozing slowly out of her, whatever had been left inside her, and onto the sheet beneath her, trying not to think about what would happen after she got fucked by one or the other the third time.
Too revolting to think about, that, she told herself; and yet, think about it she did, wanting it to be Steve.
SO that Armand would be humiliated, therefore vulnerable, malleable, with her controlling him with a combination of contempt and sympathy, stick and carrot to get him to “do” her, to portray her a hundred times over, as he did with the nonentity Irene.
The men were In the bathroom, side by side, washing off their pricks, draped Into the basin of the sink.
She did it to herself this time, she told herself; she is off In unfamiliar territory, off on a tangent in the wonderful world of macho bullshit.
What the hell did these guys have to prove, either of them, for heaven’s sake? she asked herself, truly mystified.
The one a wealthy, famous and successful painter, the other Mister Galaxy, the living symbol of manhood itself, according to Armand, according, probably, to Steve himself, and here they are, enmeshed in some sophomoric fucking contest.
Who the fuck needs this? she asked herself, but she knew the answer only too well.
She did, did and does.
Because what else has she got going for herself?
An indifferent talent, academically gifted, of wealthy parentage, she could no doubt land some so-so job in an ad agency when she gets her master’s.
Which relates to fame and fortune how?
Which only relates to a relatively well paying position of reasonable responsibility and business suits, to be worn every day except for holidays, weekends-those she wasn’t traveling and didn’t have to work-and vacations.’
While some nothing, some know nothing bitch from out of the gutter gets ten big ones an hour or’ whatever, her face on the cover of the fashion magazines, over and over again, her face and body on the Inside, in both articles and ads, appearances on talk shows, welcomed In the best social circles-forget it, okay?
No way. No way does she take a hike on Armand Fortuna.
Because it’s simply ‘norworth it.
They came back out of the bathroom, the men, the over-grown boys.
They got on the bed on either side of her, each helping himself to a breast, the plan being, obviously, to inspire themselves using her to the point that they could raise a hard on, staking their claim In the prescribed manner and, upon successful completion of the mission, vacating the target area for sanitary operations courtesy of the Loser, who would then have the choice of either mounting up or surrendering.
In the event, Armand managed to raise an erection first, a thing Jessica could have predicted, this being a case of mind over matter.
So that Armand lucked her as Steve looked on morosely.
At this point, Armand was working away, the action more mechanical than enthusiastic.
Nevertheless, he acquitted himself well, popping his nuts, coming again and again before pulling out, Jessica remaining in position afterward, legs raised and spread, bent at the knees.
To her amazement, Jessica saw Steve, now at the ready, however belatedly, getting onto the bed.
“First things first,” Armand reminded him.
And sure enough, there was Steve, right down on her, his tongue probing her cream-filled depths, eating her pussy thoroughly as Armand watched, grinning.
And only after he had well and truly cleaned her out did Steve mount Jessica, riding her up, up, up the ladder of his sexual pleasure until he too climaxed, his motion as well become a dispassionate, determined horizontal dance.
He pulled out as Armand came out of the bathroom and, to the amazement of both Steve and Jessica, Armand practically dove onto the bed, onto her snatch, eating her as though they were alone and he just beginning his evening.
He ate her and with her Steve’s sauce, and him with a beard and moustache!
And whatever the imagery of his mind might have been, it worked; because he was up and he was hard as he mounted her.
And he rode her, a triumphal gallop of the hips, pistoning in and out of her, riding higher and higher, until he came.
“Your turn,” he told Steve.
And Steve could only shake his head and say, “You win, old buddy.”
He wins? Jessica asked herself. Just what is it that he won?
She saw no prize, no trophy, nor did they have a monetary bet going.
And yet, Armand’s triumph was an unmistakable fact.
He was practically strutting as he marched into the bathroom, this time running the shower, his cock still rigid, huge and stiff, going down only very slowly.
And Steve offered Jessica a hand off the bed and led her into the large, glassed-in, tiled shower enclosure, joining Armand.
So that they showered together, the thrill of wet, soap-slickened skin rubbing against its like prevalent as they scrubbed themselves thoroughly.
Afterward, they dried off together and Steve put on a terrycloth robe as Armand and Jessica dressed in silence.
Armand and Jessica went into the subway, still not speaking, out on the street, taking separate subway trains, Armand’s only gallantry being to see her safely onto hers before catching his own.
So it went.
And Jessica understood, understands, none of it.
She cannot fathom the meaning of Armand’s scene, in the larger sense.
So brilliant here, so academically charming and witty, his talent beyond dispute, his reputation in the art world secure, secure as it must be now days as an isolated, individual phenomenon of genius.
Because he’s right about there being no major movements with which artists can identify in today’s world.
Which makes it all the more important, if she is to succeed in that world, that she attach herself to his star, which is in the perpetual ascendant.
Because she will not use him as a springboard to a modeling career, la Irene.
Nor will she become a soap opera villainess, in the manner of Darlene.
Rather, she will stake her claim in Armand’s own back yard, in the world of art.
So that a linkage with him will be a statement concerning her own abilities, will cause the critics, as critics are in the habit’ of doing when properly inspired, to see that which is not there.
Things like talent, insight, empathy-whatever.
Whatever, she tells herself, so long as she becomes famous, so long as her canvasses command ridiculous prices, perhaps even those which accrue to Armand Fortuna’s works.
Accrued, she corrects herself.
Because Armand has no paintings, owns not one of his own works, has retained none of them.
A few have been given to museums, most notable being the huge ‘Irene I’, but to view Armand Fortuna’s works, one must buy the coffee table books of his three exhibitions.
Because his works are, for the most part, privately owned.
And this private ownership is unlikely to change much, at least in Armand’s-and Jessica’s-lifetime.
Which means that the market in Armand for-tunas has been effectively wiped clean. The bazaar stands empty.
But then, she reminds herself, so does his studio. “… which is, in essence, bad information. “Having neither function nor aesthetic appeal, we see a whole body of art-art so-called, we should say, since that which lacks aesthetic appeal and yet is not functional is hardly art, except in the mind of the one who created it.
“But perhaps I am preaching snobbery here.
“After all, who is the arbiter of taste, empowered to say that this is aesthetic, but that is not? “And can it be that good intentions, besides being that with which the road to hell is paved, are sufficient to constitute art? “Can we not, by adding qualifiers to our original definition of art, in essence qualify whatever we please? “Can we not go from bad imagination to bad but real elements to terrible composition to create art which is to most of us unacceptable? “I appeal to your sense of democracy and fair play, ladies and gentlemen! “Rebel, ye student masses! Reject the C, the D, the E! What do they know, your teachers, right? “Relax, folks! Just kidding. Really.
“Because, if all there was to aesthetics, if all there was to art were the what of it and the where of it, then that argument would have validity; but, as we shall see next week, that is far from the whole story.
“Hint. Why? Why art? What causes man to create, to imagine, to compose, to inform? “Think about it. Those of you with the time or the inclination, research it and see how my findings compare with your sources.
“Why art? “Does that question excite you as much as it does me? “Until next week, then, same time, same auditorium, goodnight.”
The applause mingles with the shuffling of feet and Jessica surprises herself by simply sitting where she is, making no move to approach the podium, where Armand is stuffing his briefcase with his notes.
After last week, does he expect her to come to him as though nothing happened? she wonders.
And what of Steve, sitting where he is, like herself?
And Jessica decides that she will leave it up to Steve.
If. If Steve goes down to the podium and lingers there, if he moves off with Armand, then she will have to abandon the field,’ will have to contact him some other time.
She will have to call him up- And she realizes that she doesn’t even have his telephone.
There’s one in his apartment in the loft, she knows; she has seen it, beside the noisy little refrigerator; but he is too famous, too famous and too rich to have a listed number.
So that, if she is to get at him at all, it must be now-or next week.
And she is unwilling to have his last memory of her be that of her stepping glumly, silently onto a train in the subway after some crazy fuck session with Steve and himself, a kind of ball game with naked bodies in which she was the ball.
You owe me, you bastard she beams at him with powerful thought waves.
To her relief, Steve merely waves at Armand and leaves, following the last of the crowd out of the upper doors.
So that she has no competition for Armand’s attention.
And he apparently is expecting her company, because he stands there, watching her progress as she makes her way down the stairs to him.
“Shook ‘em up a little tonight, didn’t I?” he chuckles.
“Yes, Armand, you’re very good at that.”
Arid her tone of voice tells him that that was not a compliment.
“So. With all that talk about means and media, Armand, have you gone out and bought yourself some brushes or anything?”
“Did I ever tell you the story about that?”
“No, you didn’t,”
“When I was finishing the Darlene series, I had used up most of my paint, had worn out all my brushes.
“So I let the pallette and the technique of the last three paintings be dictated by the materials on hand. The results were, to say the least, spectacular, a surprise and a revelation to me.
“The gallery got the canvasses, the garbage man the empty paint tubes and frazzled brushes, the soap opera got Darlene after the exhibition and I got a clean slate out of the deal.
“My seventh lecture will cover the whole experience, beginning to end. The creative process and the role of accident.”
Not what she wanted to hear at all, so she says nothing as they approach his building.