SEPTEMBER 15, 2021

800 Word Story ~ Pop Art

For this month’s 800 Word Story, Bill and I each wrote another solo piece. The first ones we did were back in May.

This prompt was a tough one for me; my story went sideways at one point. I started it months ago and just completed it yesterday. It’s in keeping with my perverse mind at the moment, and wordplay is a big factor.

I’m also very curious to see how Bill interpreted this prompt. You can read his story, “Meanings” on his site.

Below is mine called: Pop Art

Prompt: You could make a living doing that kind of thing. I suppose I could, but I had never thought about it until then.

Pop Art

I credit my success as an artist to my upbringing. My parents were a traditional couple. My father worked in an office, and Mom stayed home and took care of everything. With the allowance he gave her, she paid for food, clothing, and my art classes.

Like many men of his generation, my father transitioned seamlessly from his mother to his wife, always the centre of attention. A drink was served to him when he came home from work. Dinner appeared when he sat down at the table, and his shirts were ironed just so, down to the starched collars.

And it was lipstick on the collar of a freshly pressed shirt that changed everything. My father said it must’ve been Mom’s when she questioned him about it. Wrong answer. Mom wore only one shade, and it wasn’t red. Pink was her favourite colour for almost everything, something my father should’ve known. She put up with the affair until she couldn’t any longer.

The night he told me about Mom is etched in my memory, not just for the awful news, but for the callous way he delivered it to me.

“Your mother killed herself, swallowed a bottle of pills.”

I was twenty.

+++

After Mom’s funeral, my father asked me to move back in with him. With his fling apparently over, he couldn’t bear the thought of being alone. “You’re my son,” he said, and then reluctantly followed it with “ … and I need you.” At the time, I was living with a roommate. Mom had encouraged me to become more independent, less conventional. “One day, you’re going to make me proud, Adam. You could make a living doing that kind of thing.”

I suppose I could, but I had never thought about it until then. My father considered what I did frivolous; he was fine when I initially moved out. Now, he was offering me rent-free lodging for a year if I’d do his cooking, cleaning, and laundry.

“It’ll save you money for your art,” he said, enclosing the word art in air quotes.

As much as I despised him, I moved back, filled with the guilt of leaving Mom behind. After several months of feeling sorry for myself, I set out to make her proud.

+++

I pitched the concept of my art show to a local gallery owner named Rebecca. Though controversial, she agreed to my creative vision. She also admitted landscapes and photography weren’t much of a draw anymore, and she’d had to convert part of her gallery for custom framing to make ends meet. Getting the word out about my exhibit was self-preservation for her and valuable promotion for me.

Months passed as I locked myself in the basement, avoiding contact with my father whenever possible. One evening, he showed up in the kitchen as I was preparing my dinner. We never ate together.

“What’ve you been doing all this time?” he said.

“Working on a show for Rebecca Gallery.”

He screwed up his face. “On McKenzie?”

“Yes.”

“That’s no gallery, just a shit-hole in the wall.” He snorted like he’d made a clever joke.

I bit my tongue.

+++

The show caused an uproar after its opening and was an immediate sellout. Tickets will remain unavailable for months.

One reviewer wrote: “Art World’s Latest Provocateur”

Adam Green’s first solo exhibition, Parental Units, is the artist’s perspective on the two major influencers of his life. A tribute to his mother and a condemnation of his father, the exhibit starts with his mother’s unit, the bigger of two rooms. Only a maximum of six visitors are allowed in at once. Using sculpture, written passages, and interactive media, Green portrays his mother as a loving, intelligent woman. On one wall is a life-sized mural of her in a pink chiffon dress. On the opposite side, he’s mounted a stunning display of figurines and flowers carved from tubes of pink lipstick. I wanted to stay longer in the airy space, but a growing lineup cut my visit short.

Green’s father’s unit is limited to one person at a time, but you wouldn’t want to linger. The room is pitch black upon entry until two rows of space heaters suddenly turn on. They create a glowing pathway on the floor. Sweat clings to my body as my eyes acclimatize to the light. Soon, another sense kicks in—smell. It triggers my gag reflex and forces me to cover my nose and mouth. Across the room sits the only installation I can see—a spacious glass cube with an open top. It’s half filled with something solid and moist. I cringe when I get close enough to read the exhibit label: Waste of a Human, aka Adam Green’s father.

I leave the gallery in desperate need of a shower.