"To one visitor in the early 1960s he said: "I like to sit and think and write my thoughts. The few people who have seen my work find it too deep for them." He then pointed to a pair of trousers hanging on the wall by a nail, "I crocheted these out of string," he said. "It took me a long while because I didn't have a pattern. I had to keep trying them on."
-From the obituary of Earl Russell in the Daily Telegraph, December 18, 1987
Bobby was ready to leave when they walked in the door. He hated these museum trips. More specifically, he hated these museum trips without John, although truth be told this was the first. John had never expected him to make the trips more exciting, waiting for some joke or prankster amusement. Then again, John was sarcastic enough for the both of them; with John Bobby didn't feel the need to be anybody really, just him.
And John was always willing to sneak off and just hang out, whether that meant leaving the museum and wandering around the city streets or critiquing pieces- John had an eye for art, and an opinion. Bobby had caught him on more than one occasion sketching when he thought Bobby thought he was doing his homework, had walked in on him using charcoal in a sketch pad John was always quick to hide, had noticed that John would painstakingly erase all drawings and doodles from the margins of his notes, even if Bobby didn't ask to borrow them. Hence the water color pencils Bobby had quietly given to him on Christmas, slipped along side the 'Pitch Black' DVD. John hadn't acknowledged the box really, just gave him a weird look, started to say something, cut himself off, then slipped it into a desk drawer. A few weeks later, while John was showering Bobby had peeked inside (just to check), saw that the box was open and some of the pencils were starting to wear down.
Bobby made sure to stray off early on, feinting as if he were going to use the restroom. He could always say he got lost and found himself wandering through the mummy section. Correction- not the mummy section, but the study of the artwork done on ancient Egyptian tombs. It reminded Bobby of a cemetery on display. 'Yeah whatever,' John would have said. 'Call it the fucking mummy section.'
He let himself wander through the halls within halls, until he wasn't sure which was the proper side of the velvet rope he should be on. That was kind of nice. John would roll his eyes at his attempt at breaking rules but screw John. Hypothetically speaking. "Bobby?" He turned and Warren was looking at him, on the other side of the rope. "You're not supposed to be over there. What are you doing?" Booby ducked under the rope.
"Nothing. Got lost."
"Oh. Wanted to make sure you weren't you know, impregnating anything or vandalizing valuable pieces of crap."
"Now Warren, where's your respect for the world of art? I expected more out of you."
"When someone sneezes on a piece of canvas, that's not art. That's a really big, really thick, really porous Kleenex."
"Listen to the idiot savant."
"That's for people like Rain Man, genius."
"Huh." Bobby smiled and let Warren lead the way back to the group. It was time to start thinking very hard on how he was lost and not on the wrong side of the velvet rope at all. Or even that the velvet rope was on the wrong side of him. Crap. This was why it sucked to have telepathic teachers. Plus, they got to listen in on all his trashy thoughts, like how Warren's ass was really nice or how lately Bobby spent the time before sleep wishing John was still around and imagining that he was back in the small space of time where he had had someone's bed to fall asleep in, someone to wrap his arms around. Christ, he sounded like a girl.
"Bobby? Did you get lost?"
"Yeah sorry. All the halls look the same. Well, I mean other than the changing art work but after a while even that kind of blurs together. I mean; I'll make sure to stay with the group." Jean smiled and turned back to lecturing. Hopefully that was an 'ok Bobby has had too much sugar again' smile and not one of those 'nice try Drake, and what's this about picturing me naked in class on Thursday?' ones. Bobby looked around the group, observing- Remy was watching a teenage girl who was a few pictures down with her school; Marie was more or less listening; Piotr looked anxious, ready to start creating his own pieces to add to the collection; Kitty and Jubilee were talking quietly back in forth (Bobby heard the term 'his ass is a definite eight' before he decided to concentrate elsewhere) and Warren had on one of those 'I've been here way too many times because my grandparents built this museum' looks. His grandparents probably had. Bobby went back to paying attention.
They ate lunch outside, their hands stamped green so they could go back inside and split into groups, exploring. Bobby guessed this was the good thing about a telepathic teacher- you were given the freedom to wander off 'cause they could pinpoint where you were, although this hadn't been good for him and John on more than one occasion. Bobby picked a fallen leaf of lettuce off his lap and threw it to the pigeons. "Don't encourage them," said Warren as they watched four flock to the bite of food and fight.
"Rats with wings," remarked Remy, his observation obstructed by his mouth full of pork-fried rice. Bobby bit back down into his double cheeseburger.
"It's so gross- they look nasty and breed like rabbits," said Marie. She picked her way through Bobby's French fries, dipping each into a mound of salt and pepper.
"Like Russians," cracked Remy and was rewarded with a firm punch on the shoulder from Piotr. "Christ, mon ami. It was a joke," he said pouty, rubbing hard at his shoulder. Bobby shoved the last bit of the burger in his mouth and swallowed hard. He coughed and rubbed his throat, feeling it go down slowly.
"Are you ok?" asked Piotr.
"Yeah, fine." Bobby balled up the greasy McDonalds wrapper and tossed it in the garbage. "Getting ice cream." He got up and Warren followed.
"You sure you're alright?" Bobby shrugged.
"Fine." Warren shrugged and Bobby bought a jumbo ice cream cone. He unwrapped it and shoved the top in his mouth, biting off a large chunk. Immediately he began to whimper. "Brain freeze." Warren began to slowly eat his own cone, looking smug as hell. Bobby glared, swallowed and took another bite.
"I thought you said you had a brain freeze." Bobby nodded, chewed and swallowed. "Then...but... forget it." They walked back to the group slowly. "How can you even get brain freezes, with the ice thing and everything? I mean, shouldn't you enjoy that and when you freeze your body doesn't you know..."
"My organs don't freeze. It's like my skin or something. I don't know. I mean, I don't get cold or frost bite even in the middle of winter. Brain freezes aren't cause of the cold; it's got something to do with nerves I think. Dr. Gray is still trying to figure things out. She's established that pretty much my body temp just adjusts, like in snakes and stuff but organs still work cause I still burn through energy. Hence the need for a cookie every time I refill the ice cube tray at dinner." Warren shrugged and they sat back down.
"You ready to go back in?" asked Piotr. They all agreed or shrugged and stood.
"You know Warren," said Bobby as he stood at the Rosenquist painting, letting his eyes slowly fade in and out of focus as John had taught him to do to absorb the whole picture then smaller pieces, "there's a circle of hell reserved for people who keep humming Duran-Duran." He was rewarded for his observation by being hit on the arm. Hard.
"It's stuck in my head. Blame Kitty. I'm just the messenger."
"Well now it's stuck in mine." Warren shrugged. Bobby had once thought socialites were concerned with what other people thought of them. But evidently, he had slowly realized, the people who counted did not include 15-year-old Bostonian closeted bisexual mutants who were ready to strangle them for being an ass and humming crappy white-leather-jacket 80s music. And Bobby knew he represented a small community but even communities of one deserved some respect and consideration, damn it.
He wandered away from the room of Rosenquist and out onto a large deck. The first thing he saw was swirls of color, which separated into chandeliers looking like birthing starfish and alien daffodils, hanging from metal scaffolds, some lit from the inside with small colored lights so they resembled blooming stars, swirling and moving in and out of themselves. "Guys? You might want to come out here."
"Holy shit," said Remy quietly, coming out to stand behind him. Bobby was reluctant to remove, despite the hot breath he could feel on his neck and the weight against his back, like dominoes, as everyone slowly came outside. He was afraid if he moved, or breathed too much, he would cause a wind strong enough to knock down the hanging glass or plastic or whatever it was. And besides the fact he probably wouldn't be allowed to step outside the Mansion again if that happened and that the giant pieces would probably kill someone as they crashed to the ground or at least spray projectiles that would blind or mutilate or seriously cause some bleeding as they hurled into the group (well except for Piotr because he could just go organic steel on their bits-of-art-filled asses), he was worried he'd ruin something so beautiful. It was Piotr who did it as he added his weight to the rear of the five, and Bobby stumbled forward.
Amazingly, nothing fell or even swayed, as he landed in an awkward 'about to run' position. The group split and began to wander around the terrace, ignoring the sounds of the city and staring up at the art stretched on cables above their heads. Bobby finally blinked and looked away, closing his mouth with a little embarrassment as he remembered that he was with other people. "Awe-inspiring, isn't it?" A woman stepped onto the deck. They nodded, dazed. "Dale Chihuly. He's a glass blower."
"He's a fucking genius," remarked Warren, although Bobby was pretty sure he was the only one who heard it. Warren tended to refrain from cursing loudly in public which was Bobby guessed, a positive from growing up rich and yuppie. Unless Warren was preppy but really, the only thing that mattered was that Warren had grown up rich. And well mannered.
"How does he do this?" asked Marie, in one motion referring to the small pond where blobs of glass seals bobbed, the chandeliers and the standing, erupting other pieces.
"He works with a team of glass blowers to form the pieces and uses twine, wires, cables, all sorts of things to anchor them and create the art." She smiled. "You're lucky- it gets packaged up in two days, when the exhibit closes."
"But this is so, cool. Why would they send it off?" asked Bobby, looking around him again quickly.
"Some of the pieces are going to be used in an exhibit in Venice, and I'm sure it's hassle for the museum to display glass out in the open; it's very easy for something to happen. Enjoy it," she said and stepped back inside. They walked around for another few moments, the spell of the art broken by the realization that this could be their last viewing up. Bobby tried to soak in the colors and cuts in the glass, absorb all the shapes. John would have loved this. Some of the pieces looked like crystallized, softened fire.
They walked around the rest of the museum quietly, blinking from the change in light, nothing quite catching their eyes like the bright lights and colors, returning inside one by one. "Makes me wish I could fly in the daylight, so I could see them from above," said Warren quietly to Bobby as they looked at some Kupka paintings, the slowly drifted down to Chagall.
"Wish John could have seen it."
"He would have liked it?" Warren sounded incredulous.
"Yeah, why?"
"I just, everyone said... that John was..."
"What?"
"Just, I wouldn't have thought he would be into this."
"Christ, how would you have liked it if everyone just assumed shit about you?" Bobby knew he sounded defensive and probably a little too loud and hysterical to continue the notion that he and John had only friendship between them.
"Bobby, I'm from a wealthy family and went to prep school- most people assume that immediately after birth the doctors surgically inserted a silver spoon up my ass in hopes in would fuse to my spine or something." Bobby didn't answer, but glared angrily at the 'Paris Through the Window', his eyes starting to go out of focus from the angles and the colors. "Jeez Bobby, I didn't think, I mean, I didn't know John- I only know what other people say. I didn't mean to offend you."
"Sorry too." They slowly walked into the next room, looking at the Klee installation. "It just pisses me off that everyone thinks that John was an idiot or whatever because he wasn't a people person."
"No one's said that. It's been more of a like, 'resident bad boy' or something. Like, I just I don't associate art with fire."
"John just didn't really give a shit."
"Oh." They wandered into the next room, a grouping of post-modern sculptures, and didn't say anything for a time. "Wish I could pull that off."
"That?" Warren looked shocked as he pointed to a representation of some phallic symbol inverting.
"No! Definitely not a good party quirk. Probably should see a doctor about that one. I meant, not caring what other people think. I just, I think sometimes maybe if John had been the one with a people-sense-of-humor no one would give a shit if I left either."
"Nobody said they didn't give a shit. And Bobby, you and John are two different people." Bobby shrugged.
"It's just- John got me. He didn't expect me to be laughing all the time, or always conniving or goofing off."
"I don't."
"I know." Warren touched Bobby's shoulder, a gesture of respect, of friendship. "Just be nice to have everything figured out."
"When you do, let me know."
"Well, according to the books, I'd have to a, be a suicidal alcoholic post-college writer with women troubles dumped by another girlfriend, or b, in some convent in Tibet, sweeping floors."
"Tibet was absorbed by China, Bobby."
"Really? When?"
"Fifty years ago, I think."
"Damn. That sucks."
They moved onto another room and Warren laughed, pointed out a statue of a man standing in the corner, his hands clasped behind his back. "'Martin, Stand in the Corner and be Ashamed of Yourself.'" They laughed again. "That's great."
"Now Warren, you're not appreciating the aesthetic value of the piece. What does it say about the artist? About ourselves? About the world as a whole?"
"Someone got caught breaking a window?" Bobby laughed.
"Hand in cookie jar."
"Jacking off in class."
"Wow, wait a minute-"
"A kid in my eighth grade history class- it was a female teacher too. We found out later she was a lesbian which only fueled the, uh, happy stains."
"Crap."
"Yeah." They smiled, Bobby chewing on the left side of his bottom lip (his dopey grin face, as John had called it) and went back to wandering through the room. Everyone back to the front of the museum. It's time to go- you have five minutes to get in front of the gift shop. We have to return the bus by six and there will be traffic.
"You'd think we could just take the jet or something, or fly the bus telepathically but no. Just plain old yellow school buses. Even Hover Boards would be cool. Well, Hover Boards are always cool." Warren nodded and started to leave the room. Bobby caught up.
"What do boarding schools use for transportation?"
"Vans. Buses with TVs. They don't really do transportation though, because you realize after a while that, uh, most people's ancestor's were there when the Declaration of Independence was signed or whatever."
"Sounds nice." Warren shrugged. They waited in front of the gift shop, watching Marie and Piotr compare purchases and Remy finger his pack of cigarettes. Bobby decided to go back in one more time; maybe he could find something he missed the first three trips around that wasn't blatantly expensive. He found himself in a small corner, which looked almost accidental, as if the bookshelves shifted on their own because Monet and Renoir wanted to be able to see each other. He smiled at the thought and a title jumped out at him- 'Chihuly: A Life in Glass'. He reached up and pulled out the book, flipping through the pictures of Chihuly's work and the places it had been displayed. Checking the price he bought it, still absorbing the pictures on line, pulling it out of the bag to look at more.
"Bought yourself something?" asked Warren as they sat on the bus (Bobby got window).
"For John. Thought the Krimpets were starting to look lonely all by themselves." Warren nodded and handed over his own gift, for Bobby. He took it out of the bag and looked at it- "The Art of Tibet".
"For enlightenment." Bobby smiled and punched Warren on the shoulder. He rubbed it, and they rode home.
Note: I pretty much designed my own ideal museum for this piece. All artists and work mentioned do exist if you wish to look them up.