I hold my glass of sherry against my waist.

“Don’t let art historians fool you,” says the director.

“You ought to come out to the ranch,” says the historian.

“No, my husband’s waiting for me at the hotel.”

“You’re married? You still look like a little girl. But make him wait.” Hand on my arm.

“Go to hell.”

He mutters and wanders off.

Introducing Gwendola

She sits in the hall. She looks like she’s exploring one hand with the other. When you walk by her, you say hi, but you don’t ask questions.

Portrait

Her nose looks powdered, but the rest of her face is shiny.

The Gallery Director Shows Surprise

The gallery director shows surprise.

“I’m Catherine Shuger,” I say.

“You’re Catherine Shuger?”

I dreamed that Gillette and I went to the gallery at the same time.

The gallery director walked through me to get to Gillette.

“Ah, you must be Catherine Shuger.”

“No,” Gillette pouted. “That’s Catherine Shuger.”

The gallery director turned but could not find her way back through me.

That Time Ern Saw Something

That time Ern saw something Gillette had done. In this book on modern art. We thumbed through it.

“She’s good, ain’t she?”

I don’t tell him I know her.

“I think she’s very good,” he repeated.

They didn’t have her picture, just her work.

“I think this one’s better.” I pointed to another.

“Oh, she’s a hellavuh lot better than that.”

What do catbirds do?

“Are you in here?”

I find me.

“Why’d you let them put this in there? That’s your worst piece. Make you seem light.”

Ambition, or Hearing the Bitch

“I don’t just have some minor dream,” says Gillette.

“What do you mean?”

She punches at her canvas with her brush.

“I want them to call me the best,” she sighs. “Well, at least of my generation. I’d like to at least be the best of my generation.” She laughs. “Is that ambition enough for you?

When she says ambition, you can hear the bitch.

Dear Amanda Mariner Wordlaw,

Didn’t think I knew your maiden name, did you, kid?

You were a real fucker not to come with us. But there you are on your sunny island anyway. I was thinking yesterday about that bullshit you told me about showing off—about my wanting the show—about my doing what I do to show off. But that really applies to you, dear. We were a show for you—when we got to be boring, when my attempts weren’t imaginative enough, when we got to be a movie you’d seen too much of, and when you thought you really had to do some serious participating in our real life—when you thought we’d really catch you—you took to your heels, so to speak.

But I can see you now, sitting in that peacock chair, scribbling your shit—or down at the beach looking for some new beauty to pick! And send me my notebook, girl—I know you’ve had your hands on that!

By the way, I’ve met your Lantis and your Panda. What a nice little girl! Speaking of someone worth being loved! And your man! I spent a whole evening with the two of them, and they were eager (anxious?) to know that you were safe and sound. You really don’t know what beauty is at all, do you? You think it’s something you can eat. (If you’ve had your hands on my book, you know what I mean.) Once you called me a weird bitch—well, you’d better join our ranks, kiddo!