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Because my trip overlapped with the Cologne art fair, I hung out in that city for a few days, looking at art, alone and with others, drinking beer, alone and with others, and watching artists drunk and sober behave badly. Each morning I ate muesli in a hotel breakfast hall that had ly been the chapel of a monastery, whose colored stained glass filtered the rays of sunlight streaming into the room and made me feel vaguely blessed, and also like I was a tropical fish in an overly warm tank, the light coming through the colored glass heavy, like water, as I moved from the buffet to one of the long wooden tables where monks had once eaten.

One evening I went to a talk organized by the curators of the art fair, to be given by the German artist Michael Krebber. Go ahead and look him up. If something Krebber said got a chuckle from an audience member bold enough to break the silence, he shot that person a murderous look. Krebber presented bad Self shot girls leipzig photos of his paintings, projected on a large screen, photos that were taken in poor light, cropped randomly, with the paintings at angles so you could barely see them.

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All the paintings in that show were made in the same tiny broom closet. In the dark.

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And some were made with both hands, left and right, although I am right-handed. His question.

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Because clearly not everyone can fail and be hailed a success. I felt neutral about the question. I was amused that it was a distinctly feminist question, even if the question asker was a man. Although I later heard that the man who asked it had cribbed the question from the woman sitting next to him, who had whispered it rhetorically during the lecture. Maybe the men should be constantly offended on our behalves, as part of their reparation. I want to learn things and make art and look at art.

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Toke my little puffs of joy, which I locate regularly here and there. We all waited, as Krebber absorbed the question; his face turned the angry shade of uncooked liver.

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He looked primed to punch somebody. I try. I more than try. The art students in the audience stared up at him, impressed, or maybe horrified, and either way, taking notes. He could have been joking but if you laughed he might leap on you and throw blows.

"i personally know the author of this story you’re reading."

He might have been carrying a gun. There was no way to tell: whether he was armed, and whether he was joking. You have to be American. A famous German critic interviewed Warhol a few years after that, and the critic acted like he was interviewing a regular and reasonable and straightforward person.

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Because she thinks of herself as an art-world type, a hanger-on. Who would do that voluntarily? Art is about taste, a sense of humor, and most writers lack both. I met this author through some friends. I read one of her books.

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You make it up as you go along. In other words, part-time whores. The barmaid is a seller of drinks, commodities, and also herself apparently for sale. This is speculation, based on the presence of a bowl of oranges next to her wrist.

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The beer in the painting, though, is somewhat real, in the sense that it has a known interior content that can be pd the same in the painting as out of it. Bass beer, with its love-red triangle. I like Bass beer but it gives me a headache. The woman Manet painted was based on a model named Suzon. But, and sorry to confuse you, the woman in the painting is not that model. If you asked Manet what the woman in his painting is thinking, what she is feeling, as she leans over the bar, exposing a reflection of her verso half in the tilted mirror hanging behind her, Manet, if he was honest, would shrug.

He had no specialized insight. He would be speculating, no less and no more than I would, as I stand before that painting in a museum, as I have done. And Rachel Kushner probably understands less about me than you will, after you read this. It was April and, as the expression goes, unseasonably warm. I was wearing a fluttery black dress with dime-store canvas slippers and the combination made me feel youthfully feminine, though I am forty-five.

This artist I took a walk with is ten years younger than I am. We are both married to other people. There is no sexual tension between us, but sometimes other tensions can hold the center between two people, and those tensions live under an umbrella called friendship. This artist and I, in a sense, what we have in common is me. He wants to know everything about me. When he is with me, he gives the impression he is focused on me, as if the most secret features of my psyche were of profound importance to him and even objectively important.

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That night, as we walked, he asked about my younger sister. What is her relationship like with her husband?

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Were the two of you competitive as children? Is she jealous of your success? This kind of inquiry is irresistible. Because I feel so heard. And at the same time, this friend is asking questions about whether I feel heard.

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Not until now! Not until this very moment have I ever been heard!


So he creates and then widens what becomes a sudden but perhaps age-old need to be listened to, in asking whether I feel listened to. Suddenly he is the only one in the world who is listening to me, and the questions he asks all lead to the same place: the rudimentary traumas that make me who I am. He led me, in this way, to tell him about the worst things that ever happened to me, in childhood, the particular scenarios by which I was robbed of my innocence. But that is a lot of weight for you to bear alone.

No one has corroborated your story. You are the sole repository.

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That must be lonely for you, and stressful. I was sure he was right. I had never told my parents what happened to me.

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I had told a Lacanian analyst. In fact I had told this same Lacanian analyst scores of times, maybe hundreds, what had happened to me. Why had I made no progress? As my artist friend and I walked, the analyst, as if he were right there with us, an invisible presence on the dark streets of Cologne at night, began to seem useless and feckless.

His validity leaked away. What happened that night was that the analyst became merely a person, and not a force of projection by which I could traverse my fantasy, which is to say, be cured. The reason I had begun seeing the analyst was a dream that I have had repeatedly for most of my adult life.

I told my friend, that night in Cologne, about this recurring dream, technically a nightmare. I was in a house or some other structure that I could not secure, and my efforts to make the house or warehouse—sometimes it was a car— safe and secure failed, and then someone came, always a man, to harm me. This dream is my. Seems sophisticated for a lizard, but not for a girl or woman.

Does everyone have this dream?

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I wonder what the Mayor of Leipzig is doing right now. Terrorizing other people in other cities. Or walking in a park with a wife and children. Or eating soup alone. The next day I went to a museum that a German man in the breakfast room, the former chapel, recommended. I paid the full entrance fee at the museum and went up a steep concrete stairwell whose dim lighting created a sense of magisterial gloom. At the top of the stairs was a statue of a woman holding a baby, the woman was obviously Mary and the baby Jesus, and she was offering him, not her breast as you might expect, but a juicy red grape from a bunch she cradled in her alabaster hand.

His little mouth was open to accept the fruit she held to his lips. That it was about death.

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