“What’s the question?” Armand asks, doing his best imitation of Hulk Hogan rah-rahing his fans, leaning forward, one hand cupped to his ear.
“Why art?” the audience shouts back, in sufficient numbers to cause reverberation.
“Why art?” Armand repeats. “What is there within man which drives him to produce, for sheer aesthetics, that which he and the rest of us could very well do without? “Or is the drive to create within the artist-after-the-fact the same as that which compels a Thomas Edison or a Henry Ford? “For answer, we have a figure who bridges both considerations-Leonardo da Vinci.
“With Leonardo, we see the common denominator-the artist and scientist, combined into one.
“So that the answer would appear to be-and I contend that in fact it is-yes.
Yes, these two drives, which are particular applications of imagination are one and the same, indivisible and with liberty and justice for all! “What then is the nature of what we may term- because that’s exactly what it is-creative imagination? “Creative imagination, ladies and gentlemen, is-” pausing to write on the board the word INQUIRY.
“Inquiry!” Armand shouts. “If. If art is a presentation of information, then, then! we have our answer to the question, ‘Why art?’ “Why art? Because, in the words of our nation’s favorite sleaze tabloid, inquiring minds want to know.
“That’s right, ladies and gentlemen-” leaning forward, transfixing those in the front rows with his sweeping gaze as he taps his forehead repeatedly with his finger, “I want to know! “I want to know if reality will confirm itself to me, in some fashion, by presenting my data back to me in the form I have envisioned and with the function I have envisioned for it, given my selection and manipulation of it, given the means and the media I have chosen for its presentation to the world and thereby to myself.
“Let us, therefore, enunciate a principle.
“If art is information, then its creation is inquiry! “And yes, I would mind writing that down.
“If you think it’s true, it’s worth remembering.
“If you disagree, then what’s the point of recollecting it? “Fear not, however; the book is in the works.
“To get on with life here, what do we have? “We have, I think, established insight, or at least an insight, into the conscious motivation of the artist, the inventor, the researcher-the housewife improving her cookie recipe.
“And the feedback, the by-product of the product? Aesthetic. An aesthetic.
“A mood, a thrill, an appreciation of the effect, the result of the information.
“Let me write down this chain reaction, the chain reaction of the reality interface of the successful work of art.”
And he writes,
IMAGINATION – INQUIRY – PRODUCTION – RESULT
“I submit to you, ladies and gentlemen, that the end product of the creative process is not the tangible product-the semi-final item in the process in the gospel according to Armand Fortuna-but the demonstrable effect, the affect, if you will- engendered by the function of that which has been produced.
“Not the airplane but flight itself was the true culmination of the Wright brothers’ efforts.
“Not the can opener or the opened can but the action of opening itself is the aesthetic of having invented the can opener.
“There you go, ladies and gentlemen, if you come away with nothing else from tonight’s lecture, you will remember having heard for the very first time the words aesthetic and can opener used in the same sentence.”
Armand pauses for the polite laughter and smattering of applause, and Jessica asks herself, how can it be?
How can it be that the rutting boar hog of two weeks ago and this cultured genius are one and the same? Almost, after last week’s lecture, she was tempted to ask him this very question.
In bed with him in his loft apartment, unable to work up her own libido because of the recollection of last weeks gross bestiality-a bestiality accompanied by a cold determination on Armand’s part to succeed, to prevail in his contest with Mister Galaxy.
Fire and ice, is Armand, surprising her. She would have thought him all fire.
She would have found in him the simple genius, the absent-minded professor, living in a world of his own, floating through this reality in a bubble, a macrocosm of his own thoughts.
But no, she discovered someone quite different from this preconception, found a man very much of this world, this reality, this time and place- much more a man of the world than she is a woman of the same, for all her supposedly clear and cynical powers of observation.
Fire and ice, he is, as she discovered in bed last week, as he fucked her while she lay there not responding to him, doing that at which women are so good, “having a mood”.
And that didn’t work, either.
She was having a mood, he a piece of ass.
She didn’t want to be an active sex partner? Hey, no problem, babe!
Because he will simply use her as an object, as a piece of appropriately shaped meat for purposes of masturbation, his eyes closed, his viewscreen vivid with who knows what images-images, she recalls recalling at the time, made all the more vivid by his belief-and hers-that imagination is comprised entirely of elements of reality.
And Armand, if he is nothing else, is surely the master of selecting those elements to create a masterpiece, whether a painting to hang on a wall, or a drama to be played out in the mind, featuring, naturally, Armand Fortuna.
Yes, he is fire and ice, as she thought that she was, until he reduced her to a warm puddle.
Still, she thought she saw an opening last week.
As the lecture series progresses, surely the book is not keeping pace, she told herself.
Where are his notes?
She suspects that they are those stacks of paper she sees in his open roll-top desk, jammed into a corner of the tiny alcove which precedes his bedroom.
Where is his word processor, his typewriter?
They are nowhere to be found here.
So that there, there! is her opening, her possibility of contribution to him, to his greatness and thereby her own.
He doesn’t wish to paint? So be it!
She will become his amanuensis, his editor and confidante in that creative process, one which must surely be more onerous and less familiar to him than brush and canvas.
Because if the written word is to be the means, ink and paper the medium, he must depend upon others.
For his proper mtier, she reasons, he needs nobody other than himself; but a book is a horse of a different color.
Yes, a book is an artifact with whose mechanics he is unfamiliar.
His art books are not really his; his only contribution to them was to give permission for the reproduction of his works-during that brief period between creation and sale that they were, physically and legally, his-and to sign copies on request.
So that he knows nothing of the authoring trade.
Not that he has some publisher looking over his shoulder with suggestions and deadlines.
Still, she knows Armand’s ego well enough that he will want to see his words of wisdom in print and looking like something worthy of himself.
Maybe, maybe she could get to where she wants to go that way, she tells herself.
Wouldn’t that be something, now! ‘Beyond Art and Passion,’ an inquiry into the nature of aesthetics, by Armand Fortuna, as told to none other than Jessica Famham.
Granted, the world of books is much less flashy than the world of art; still, she knows she could thus gain an “in” with the right people, the right crowd of the semi-cultured and the pseudo- intellectual.
And who knows?
She might become an author as well as an artist in her own right.
‘My Life with Armand Forturta,’ she thinks; that has quite a nice ring to it, does it not?
So that she did begin to warm up, to respond, not so much to Armand Fortuna’s obviously masturbatory attentions toward her, but to the idea of this alternative channel, this other, perhaps even better way to get where she is going.
Because face it; the extended, massive, multi-canvas depiction of woman in her many moods was done to death by Armand in the two Irene series.
Even the allegorical representation of woman, of the sensual, dark, evil side of her was fairly well exhausted in the Darlene series.
So what more does Armand have to say on canvas, really, concerning her, either as herself or as the representative of her sex in general?
So that the critics could very well decide that Armand Fortuna has reached a stage of redundancy in his life.
Or, more accurately, that redundancy has lost its charm, since what could be more redundant, even exquisitely well done, than multiple paintings of the same subject, however fascinating she might be, in and of herself or as Armand chooses to depict her?
But the book, now, that is a sure-fire success-if properly done, of course.
Because the book will shine, will glow with the reflected glory of three smashingly successful exhibitions to rave critical and popular acclaim, as well as the continuing popularity of the three pictorial tomes commemorating them.
So that the book can’t miss-nor can anyone connected with it.
And she thinks of another reason he could find her useful.
What about the book’s distribution?
And she experiences a wave of apprehension that the university will see fit to publish the book for sale-at the university book store itself, or at best those around campus.
But she, she! can and will see to it that that doesn’t happen.
She will fire up Armand with the desire to spread his words nation-wide, internationally, even. She will appeal to his vanity to see to it that the book is a best-seller, that it sells better than the hottest fiction, better than the most well done non- fiction.
She could do that for him, for herself, for them as a team.
And she remembers herself, last week, feet bicycling awkwardly in the air above and on either side of Armand’s humping, bumping body as he plowed away, his rampant ramrod pistoning juicily in and out of her now sucking, responsive pussy as both of them became hotter and hotter, each about to get off on a private fantasy, Armand’s an ego trip of the ultra- lascivious, hers that of the super-ambitious.
Tonight, she tells herself, snapping back to the present, to the momentarily incongruous vision of Armand, fully clothed in sport coat and tie, gesticulating, emphasizing, being both witty and pedantic, driving home his points, imparting new insights, new perspective to his entranced audience.
Not, Jessica reminds herself, not that she is not a true believer as well, but that she must keep her faith in its proper context.
Which is not that of personal enlightenment but of personal gain-a tool and a device, her understanding of and belief in what Armand is propounding, tempered by the use she intends to make of it.
“I didn’t see Steve in the audience tonight,”
Jessica says, pointing out this act of infidelity~ “No, you didn’t. He’s doing some guest posing out west. Part of a big membership drive for the Buck’s franchises.
“We talk daily, matter of fact. He always calls me from the road.”
Telling her, in no uncertain terms, that her allegation of abandonment could not be more untrue, that they are the best of friends and perhaps even something more.
“Well, good that he recovered from our night together.
Reminding him that they have been, could be again, a threesome, a trio, if necessary a mnage trois.
“Wore his ass into the fuckirtg ground that night, didn’t I?” he asks, grinning wickedly. “Mister Galaxy! Eat cher fucking heart out!”
She smiles, trying to ignore the tawdriness of his unique habitat.
How the hell can he stand to live like this?
No wonder he spends so much of his time at the gym, she tells herself; it’s certain nobody would want to pass any more waking hours here than they absolutely had to.
Armand tosses his briefcase onto the cluttered plane of the open roll-top desk, en passant.
“How’s the book coming?” she asks.
“What book?”
“The one to come out of the lecture series.”
“Oh. That’s just.an idea. Well, an idea and a commitment to the university. I don’t have to start working on it until after I finish the lectures.”
“Have to? What a strange way of putting it. It’s not as though someone assigned it to you, after all.”
“I assigned it to me,” he tells her, as they undress.
And in his tone she reads the compulsion, the obsession-and her opening. “If you need any help-” she begins. And he laughs, cutting her off. “I’m sorry,” he says, “it’s just, just-never mind.”
She looks at him for a moment, puzzled, before comprehension strikes.
“Oh! You thought, you thought I meant-don’t be ridiculous! “I meant if you need any help with getting stuff typed, edited, revised-that kind of thing.
“It wouldn’t be all that unusual, you know. Many authors use the services of graduate students in fields related to their expertise for that sort of thing.
“And I’d be happy to do it for free.”
“Well, that’s very generous of you, I’m sure, and I really do appreciate the offer; however, I have the services of staff and faculty at the university for that sort of thing, and I’ll be conferring throughout with your dean, matter of fact.”
“Yes, but that’s not very convenient, I don’t imagine.”
“You’re absolutely right, Jessica; it threatens to be a pain in the ass, having to go back and forth to campus and all.”
“Plus,” she adds, “it’s going to mean considerable delay in publication. I should think you’d be most anxious to-”
“No, no, no. I really don’t care about that. The important thing is that I get it all down on paper eventually.”
“I see. Still, as you say, it’s not going to be all that convenient for you.
Maybe I could serve as a sort of runner for you, back and forth.”
“Yes,” he sighs, lying back naked in the bed with her, “but then, how would I confer?”
“By telephone?”
“Now, there’s a thought,” he says, but goes at once to sucking a tit, fondling a breast, obviously not interested in continuing the conversation.
Low priority, she thinks, stroking the back of his head absently. Something that never entered her mind. Not only is he not anxious to publish for the sake of publication, of fame and fortune, but he has no real need of her services.
Some typist in the faculty offices is going to have more to do with the great work than is she.
“I can’t wait to see you in print,” she murmurs.
And he stops sucking her breast, stops squeezing it to look up at her and ask, “Why are you so interested in the book?”
“Well, I’m certain that it will be an amplification of the lectures, won’t it?”
“If you call headnotes and footnotes, bibliography and index amplification, then yes, I suppose it will; but you see, that’s the part I don’t look forward to, the part I look to the dean and his resources to handle.
“He’s going to get an ‘in collaboration with’ out of it.”
“And a royalty share too, I suppose.”
“Well, the university is; that is, I’m taking a big cut on that part, sort of a gift to them. Like I say, basically, I just want to see my notes in order, in the academic sense, all properly illustrated.
“The computer people got a big kick out of the part I let them play in the whole affair, on that score.
“But, forget about it. Got nothing to do with you and me.”
I see that, she thinks, as he resumes his attentions to her breasts. She sees as well that her and the book on the same planet is a dead issue.
Because there is simply no way that he is going to let her have the most miniscule piece of the action.
And she was to be everything from his muse to his secretary?
Forget it! Dead issue.
And yet, here she is, physically speaking the closest person in the world to this dynamo of creativity.
Who is creating nothing, nada, zip.
Who is resting on his laurels, even as, at the moment, he rests on her body, on her breasts.
Who is wallowing in his fame and fortune, even as he now wallows in her flesh.
Who is tasting, enjoying to the fullest his existence, even as he tastes her pussy, even as he plunges his tongue into her juicy depths.
Who is interacting with the world, even as he is strumming her joy buzzer with his tongue, titillating it, stimulating it.
And she responds, her hopes become once more vague, formless, but still alive, their very nebulousness giving her cause for renewed determination, as she tells herself, Okay, it’s back to Plan A.
He must paint!
He must paint in a manner somehow related to her, the process of his renewed creativity in some very real fashion directly, intimately, actively involving her.
The book is low priority time-wise? So much the better!
That way, it will not interfere with his output when the lightning, the true lightning, the lightning of his painterly creativity strikes; when she causes it to strike.
All she has to do is hang in there. Meaning here.
If she can do that, if she can stay as close to him as she is, then surely, she can see to it that she is-involved.
Besides, the “My Life with” book idea isn’t half bad.
Let Armand give away his profits. Let the ass holes at the university limit the edition instead of making it the best seller she would have.
If push comes to shove, if she can’t make it any other way, then yes, hell yes, she’ll put in enough time with Armand to have something to write about and yes, even to talk about.
Oprah, here I come!
That’s right, Armand, she tells him in her mind, thaat’s right, as he warms to his task, as he makes a meal of her cunt and she lets herself go with the flow, lets her body respond to his avid attentions, lets herself feel primitive, primal, primordial, a big brained beast, that brain devoted exclusively to the apprehension of the lascivious sensations which permeate her body, which surge through it again and again like sexual electricity.
Because it doesn’t have to be Armand.
Armand is arbitrary to her sexual needs.
He is well built, well hung, generally virile enough, but so what?
Many others are as well-younger others, for that matter, Mister Galaxy.
Yes, that’s right, folks, she and Mister Galaxy have made it, have made it over and over, have made it straight and kinky-that will make a particularly juicy episode in her book, she reminds herself- coming out of her animalistic mode just long enough to make that note to herself for future reference.
So that she is walking out of this far from empty handed.
She will succeed, if not beyond her wildest dreams, then certainly in accordance with them.
Fame and fortune come in many flavors, after all, and she’s not all that particular.
Notoriety, if accompanied by wealth, is certainly even, acceptable; if she can’t live with Armand, then at least she can live with that.
So yes, hell yes, why not?
Why not let herself go, surrendering to Armand who-does-not-have-to-be-Armand?
Because it is to her own sensations, to the sensuous, voluptuous, erotic awareness of herself, as delineated by Armand’s ever-working tongue to which she gives in, in which she reposes full confidence.
She is what she is and not otherwise, and what she is is more than satisfactory to herself, is more than deserving of the sexual attentions lavished upon it by reality, by the world through its arbitrary, temporary representative of the moment.
Who does not have to be Armand, does not have to be a genius, does not have to be in any way outstanding or even special.
Who is merely required to be adequate.
And now, Armand is pulling his face back.
And now, Armand is sticking his cock in.
And Jessica closes her eyes, the cynical part of her mind finding it amusing to picture Armand’s reaction if only he knew what she really thought of him right now.
He would probably so hurt, so insulted that his cock would go instantly limp.
Which, she reminds herself, would not be worth it.
Because raising herself up, up, up the rainbow of her pleasure is more important, far more important, than putting him down.
So yes, let him have his fun-his eyes closed fun, she appends looking at him, seeing that his orbs are in fact shut, shut tightly, in fact, brows knit, concentrating on whatever vision is taking place on the viewscreen of his mind.
Yes and yes and yes! she tells herself, using him as he is using her.
Yes to the floodtide of lascivious sensation which even now sweeps over her, inundating, permeating her with its tingling intensity.
Yes to the future, to the health and beauty and youth which enables her to enjoy it.
And yes to herself, to her own greamess, to her fame and fortune which, dammit, this fucking bastard is going to help her attain, like it or not, intend it or not.
So that now, they hover at the summit, at the peak of their capacity to contain the pleasure which continues to generate itself within them both, with every thrust of his mighty marauder, with every contraction of her snapping pussy.
And now, they are coming and coming, her pussy milking him of wad after wad of his thick, hot, copious jism, her voluntary contractions now replaced by the automatic reflexes of her series of multiple orgasms.
Thus do they ascend together to separate sexual paradises, thus do they zoom and soar independently of one another-only to merge physically as they descend slowly back to earth, where Armand pulls his monster out of her at once and strides into the bathroom, not looking back at her.