Continued from Part 4…

“My apologies, miss–Tyla. I thought that I had met all the guests. It’s a real pleasure. Your uncle is a great patron of the gallery.”

“Since you’re handsome, I’ll accept your apology. And you can stop brown-nosing. We both know my uncle is a jerk.”

I was utterly speechless. I had never met a woman so sure of herself or her power over men. Of course, she was right about Topper. The man was on a personal vendetta to replace me as director. I don’t know if it was her strength of character, or the lilac scent of her perfume, but my pulse was racing like a techno opera.

“You’re cute when you blush,” she said, placing her hand in the crook of my arm and nuzzling up against my shoulder.

I quickly stepped to the right. “Please, Tyla. This opening is my life.”

“Really?” she retorted. “You must have an exciting life.” She wetted her lips with her tongue to accentuate the sarcasm of her last statement. I will never recover from this woman, I thought to myself.

She nuzzled close to me once again. “Let’s go,” she whispered, managing to brush her lips against my ear. I was standing with my back to the corner and had no way to escape.

“Listen, I’m very flattered, miss–um, Tyla. But I simply can’t!”

“They won’t even miss you. We both know that. Do you live for them, or do you live for yourself?”

Damn, she’s good. What had I made of my personal life over the last few years? A failed marriage and not much else.

“All right. All right, let’s go. But only for an hour,” I said exasperated. My exhaustion had been temporarily replaced by sexual adrenaline but I knew it would return.

“Whatever you say, Herr Director.”

We slipped out to the street and into my Volvo-Benz Gridmaster GX. I was no longer fighting her and she laughed out loud as she pulled down her blouse, ran her hands over me, and generally kept me from flying the hover craft in a safe manner. At her request we soared down to the lower-class traffic grid and purchased some eroto pills from a shady beverage cart that was missing one propulsion unit and was listing badly.

To be continued…

Continued from Part 3…

I tried to look bright-eyed and enthusiastic as one-by-one the sleek black craft settled silently on to the VIP terrace and the board of directors and their exotic escorts emerged. Like Spectra’s piece, they too were from the four corners of the world, and I laboriously managed to recall greetings and compliments in six different tongues. I was bone weary in body and spirit but would not have the luxury of sleep for many hours.

The night got easier as the hours wore on, mainly because the guests generously partook of the free food and drink. I avoided the latter and drank coffee instead. I fumbled through the presentation speech, laughed at the appropriate times, and generally kissed ass until my lips were sore. Considering the circumstances I was surviving quite well.

I knew that I was in the clear when the ribbon was finally cut and the guests surged into the new wing. In some cases the artists attempted to show reality, using contemporary clothing and body art on the subjects. In others they made statements, making figures transparent instead of solid or adding heavenly glows or fiery rings around what the press was quickly dubbing “free stands”. In one particularly vulgar case the body was little more than a faint outline but the highly detailed (and unfortunately functioning) vital organs showed through. Some were seductive, others contemplative, still others tragic. Some were slightly animated, flowing and beckoning the viewer to engage in a dialogue the morphs could never complete.

I had to admit that despite my biases towards the VR body of work they were all fascinating; however, I was far too exhausted to enjoy them and worked on making myself invisible. I stood in the far corner and finally allowed myself to indulge in a scotch on the rocks.

Not used to being studied myself, it took several moments for me to identify the peculiar feeling of eyes on me. I finally located my audience in the opposite corner of the gallery.

I did not remember having met the young woman earlier in the evening. She was young, perhaps early twenties, delicate and supple. She seemed amused by the intensity of my gaze and I idiotically blushed. Her movements were graceful and effortless as she made her way over to me through the maze of shimmering forms.

I hated what I was about to say, but a director’s work is never done I suppose. “Miss, the gallery is closed.”

“No shit,” she replied. “I’m Mr. Topper’s niece, Tyla. And you can drop the ‘miss’ stuff.”

To be continued…

Continued from Part 2…

I tactfully waited until he exited the VR chamber.

“Excellent piece, isn’t it?” I asked coyly, as if he were a stranger to me.

“Better than reality,” he replied.

Maybe he is arrogant after all, I thought to myself.

“Do you really believe that?” I asked.

The artist’s eyes became fevered. “How could it not be? Everywhere you look people continue their empty lives, being false to one another and to themselves. That woman…,” he said, taking a deep breath and gesturing towards the VR chamber, “…that woman is the feminine spirit of the universe, the four quarters of the moon. She is truth. You, me, all of this…it’s nothing.”

“But I thought art imitates life?” I asked, playing along.

“Hardly. Life attempts to imitate art. And it never achieves it.”

“That is your subjective opinion, Mr. Spectra. Others would disagree with you, even other artists.”

“They are mistaken. I speak the truth. The truth is absolute, not one man’s reality.”

I changed my opinion once again. Not only was Spectra arrogant, he was a pompous ass.

“But, Mr. Spectra, if you could but prove it–“

He turned his shaggy black locks so that his emerald green eyes met my own firmly. His eyes were mysterious and bright, and I was strongly reminded of the woman’s eyes in “The Four Corners of the World.”

“Now that is an excellent idea! Brilliant!” he exclaimed, gripping my shoulders with glee. A moment later he was sprinting down the exhibit hall playfully running his hands through the floating holograms.

Then he was gone.

(break)

Over the following months I did not often think of Michael Spectra. The gallery was christening a new wing and I was occupied with preparing for a visit from the board of directors. The rumors were that Spectra was buried in a new project, and that was fine with me. The last thing I needed during this hectic period was another bizarre encounter with that odd man.

The new wing was to contain free-standing holomorphs. Unlike the VR exhibits, free-standing holomorphs could be enjoyed without a pair of VR goggles or a harness. Secretly, I was partial to the VR experience. There was something intensely intimate conveyed between the artist and the viewer as one hung suspended in a gyro harness in a darkened, solitary chamber (although unlike Spectra I would not describe the experience as better than reality, despite the fact that the timeless woman from his masterpiece haunts me nightly). In any case, it showed good political acumen to support the new wing and its creations.

To be continued…