The Jabberwocky

Nobody remembers him anymore,
 but his name was Robert, and he
 ran the gallery in town.  The place
 everybody wanted to show at.

I had just graduated from RISD, 
and I was dating this girl--named Sunyaki.

Now, it’s true that Sunyaki is a
 made-up word, or at least, as
 far as I know it is, but it’s also
 true that the girl I fell in love with
during my senior year at school 
was named Sunyaki and she’s the
 one I eventually named a gallery 
after and she wasn’t Asian, she 
was from Columbus, Ohio and
 her Dad was Russian and she
 used to say that technically because
 Russia is in Asia, she was Asian, 
and she was always getting into fights
 about it with people, and I didn’t care
 about any of that because she was a
 Tasmanian devil in the bedroom--all
 of that is true.

Okay?

Okay.

Maybe she had a real name like Jennifer
 or Cordelia or Astrid, but I never asked 
so who knows?  When you’re younger,
 you just...accept things.

You don’t ask a lot of questions, which is
stupid, because that’s exactly when you 
 should be asking questions.

I ask questions all the time now, and why?
  What good is it going to do me? I’m not 
old, but I already know too much, so--

And if you’re wondering why I don’t just 
tell people where I got the name of my 
gallery from, well--

I guess it’s because it’s none of their 
business, right?

Plus, it’s embarrassing to name a
 gallery after a Russian girl you dated 
when the whole relationship only lasted--

Okay, we’re not talking about that.

Let’s--

I want to talk about--

Okay, so, this guy--Robert--he 
ran the biggest gallery in town, and 
there I am, little artist, newly graduated,
 living in this apartment on the east 
side of town with my girlfriend and 
this other couple--guy and a girl--
not that that matters, but--

Well, we were all broke.

Not that that matters either, but--

Jesus, who can tell what matters 
and what doesn’t, am I right?

Well, one day, the girl comes
 home, the girl from the other 
couple, I think her name was 
Lucretia, or something ridiculous, 
granted my name is Kadence 
but my real name is--never mind. 
 You don’t need to know what 
my real name is, I’m never even 
going to see you people again 
after tonight.

Lucretia tells me that the guy,
 Robert, which, by the way, is 
not his real name--Is this getting 
convoluted?  Tough. You’re an 
audience. Keep up. Do the work. 
Art is confusing. Lean into it.

All you really need to know and 
remember is--

Robert-Whose-Name-Is-Not-Robert--
who runs the biggest gallery in town, 
and who everybody respects and 
admires--is a real jerk.

That’s what Lucretia says anyway.

So I asked her ‘Why?  Why is he a jerk?’

And she said he offered her 
friend--another girl--a show if 
she would, uh, well--

You can guess, I’m sure.

So, the four of us--the girl, her 
boyfriend, I think his name was
 Litterbox, and my girlfriend,  
Sunyaki, and I--we’re all sitting
 around the living room, groaning 
at how disgusting these guys are--
these guys in control of everything--
even the boy in the room agreed--
because he was one of those male 
feminists who loved to shout over 
women while they talk all about how
 important women are--and then we
 got high and ate pizza or had a fourway
 or something and went to bed.

How we doing so far?  Good.

Great.

I don’t care, but whatever.

So, a month later, I’m with one of 
my former professors at this party
 he invited me to--probably because
 he wanted to bed me, they all wanted 
to fucking bed me, I was a hot piece 
back then, and I had a tongue ring 
before anybody else did, it was--

Never mind.

I’m at this party and I notice a guy 
standing in the corner of the room
 all by himself.

I ask who it is and my professor tells 
me it’s Robert, the gallery owner, and
 Oh my god you don’t know Robert?  
How can you not know Robert? 
You have to know Robert.

Well, I just didn’t know Robert.

But I go over and introduce myself. 
 I say I’m a young artist. Just graduated. 
 Here with my professor.

He says, Is your professor trying to screw you?

I say, Yes, yes, he is.

And then I say, and I swear, even all these
 years later, I don’t know what possessed
 me, but then I say--

But I’d rather be screwing you.

Now, a couple of things before we go
 any further--

At the time, I would have identified 
myself as bisexual, and I would still 
identify myself as bisexual, even though 
I haven’t been with a man since I 
screwed Robert that night.

One night.

We left the party.

We went back to his place.

I didn’t say goodbye to my professor.

I didn’t call Sunyaki.

I went back to his place with him and 
we were up all night and it was fantastic
 and as soon as it was over, I said--

So when do you want to see my work?

Now as I tell you that story, I hear 
how it sounds.

I know it sounds like I was bartering
 sex for opportunity, but here’s what 
you have to understand--

I knew a few things about myself 
back then.

I knew that my work was just fine,
 but not great, but that it would get better,
 but that by the time it did get better, I 
was probably going to be too far behind 
everyone else to ever get anywhere.

So, my only solution was to get in the 
door then--at that moment--get a show,
 get called ‘promising,’ and then I could
 milk that until I figured out exactly who the 
hell I was.

And I knew the only way to make that
 happen was to get in with someone
 like Robert--a dispenser of opportunity.

And I should mention--he was handsome.

I found him to be handsome.

And I’m telling you that so you don’t 
think that it was some great sacrifice 
I made sleeping with him.

He was attractive.

I was attracted to him.

I enjoyed the sex.

It was consensual and blissfully short.

I finished.

He finished.

And they all lived happily ever after.

Robert was older than me--by about
 twelve years--but I kind of liked that.  

I liked it enough to sleep with him,
 and remember, I only did it once, 
and that, uh, well--

He looked at my work.

He looked at it and he liked it, and
 I got a show.

And I got called ‘promising’ and things
 just sort of...took off from there.

My work did get better--much better--
and pretty soon I was something of a 
local star.  And my friendship with Robert 
certainly helped things along. He was
 always ready to exhibit a show of mine, 
regardless of how I felt about it.

He believed in me--unconditionally.

So you want to know why I stopped
 making art?

Well, it goes something like this:

Robert moved to Toronto and he
 said I could have the gallery.  
 His gallery.  

The only thing was--it’s not all that 
prudent to own a gallery and be an artist.
  I mean, I’m not saying it’s never done, 
but it’s not done all that often. They’re 
apples and oranges, right?  You can’t 
be the butcher and the pig.

Oh, and also, that was when I found
 out that the entire local art community
 was saying that I fucked my way to
 the top.  Marta really said it a lot, but 
no surprise there, right? That’s when
 the two of us really started fucking 
hating each other.

People had always suspected that Robert
 and I had a thing going on, but it wasn’t 
until my old girlfriend Sunyaki wrote a
 little story about me for the New Yorker
 that things really solidified.

When I broke Sunyaki’s heart, she 
gave up sculpting--that was her 
medium of choice--and she became
 a writer.  A pretty good one. And she
 changed her name--to something
 I can’t tell you, because you would
 immediately know who she is and 
my ass doesn’t feel like getting 
sued today.

When her story--’She Never Comes Home’--
about a poor sculptor whose girlfriend
 dumps her for the owner of an art gallery
 just so she can acquire fame and fortune
 was published--

By the way, there was no fame beyond 
 local fame and very little fortune.

--But when that story came out in the
 New Yorker, it was probably read more
 here then it was in Manhattan.

People are always looking for a reason
 to dismiss one’s accomplishments, and 
 Sunyaki gave all my enemies exactly 
what they were looking for, and you 
know, what I wanted to say was--

Fucking Robert wasn’t fucking my way
 to the top.  Fucking Andy Warhol 
would have been me fucking my way 
to the top.  I fucked my way to a
 comfortable middle.

But I didn’t say that.

I just let Robert sell me the gallery
 at a very, very discounted price.

He felt bad about everything that 
had happened, and he moved away,
 and I turned that gallery into something
 five times bigger and more important
 than it had ever been when he was
 there, partly because I only accepted 
the best of the local best.  I tried 
desperately to win back the community, 
and I did--mostly.

Not because people got past the gossip, 
but because people have short memories.

And I renamed the gallery Sunyaki to
 really shove it up that bitch’s ass.

But then, you know, I got older.

And, you know, you tell yourself all
 kinds of things about how you’re 
going to be when you get older, and
 then you just get old, and you think--

Oh, well, I didn’t know it was going 
to be like this!

If I had known it was going to be like
 I this I never would have said--

And then you start doing all the stuff 
you said you wouldn’t do.

Plastic surgery.

Extravagant spending.

Fucking artists not half as good as
 you were even when you were half
 as good.

Or so you think.

Thought.

And--

Well.

Beware the Jabberywocky, my children.

And the Jabberwocky is…

The Jabberwocky is…