artenol0416_sm_flipbook

‘I read about it on the net: one of the
powder piles is cyanide. They all look the
same. Cute and courageous I think. Like
Russian roulette,’ the girl was well informed.
extending her stump toward me. I looked in her face
with understanding as she continued, “In class, the
students and I discussed ethics and the role of art
in life, and then this exhibition popped up. Much
was written about it, especially its moral and ethical
values in a world choking on consumerism. At
a teachers’ council meeting we discussed the trip’s
educational value and pedagogical fit!”
Children, still crowding the entrance, watched with
horror as the teacher stooped and dragged the boy to
the side. While the teacher was rescuing her student,
her skirt rode up, showing her dark underwear,
which attracted my harried attention even more than
the rest of the scene.
“Stop ogling her backside, let’s go,” said Gnilovsky.
The young couple that was with us stayed
to sample the poisonous powders, but we entered
the next room. It was quite small. A hole in the floor
opened onto a metal staircase.
“I’ve visited this museum often. This staircase was
never here!” I said in surprise.
I was about to step inside when I spotted a strange
creature heading toward us. It was a man in the
depths of old age, thin and frail.
“Young ones, kindly help me!” rasped the old man.
“Please,” I offered him my elbow.
“I worked my whole life, I had women, money,
cars, I spared nothing. But as you can see, it all was
in vain. I came here to die. Please help me. I’ve been
wandering around this cursed exhibition for two
hours and I can’t die! You’ve got to help me. Come
with me.”
He spoke so slowly, I really did want to kill him.
Gnilovsky had nonetheless managed to preserve
some semblance of humanity and took the old man’s
hand. At the speed of a tortoise, he took us to an object
that looked like a tanning bed.
“It’s a sarcophagus. Kindly read me the instructions,
young man. But loudly if you will!”
The instructions stated that the sarcophagus would
disrupt the heart’s rhythmic pattern with electrical
impulses, producing immediate cardiac arrest. It was
the work of a young woman, a Japanese artist from
Nagasaki. It won first prize in the competition “Art
and Medicine.”
“Just the thing!” warranted the old man.
“But we’re not murderers.”
“I’ve got to die!” said the old man, filled with iron
determination. “You, what, don’t love art?”
“In this old man’s demand I see the future of
civilization! The nightmare of immortality!” hissed
Gnilovsky. We sat the old man down in a chair next to
the sarcophagus and, after promising to return, ran to
the stairs.
In two small rooms documentaries were playing
about torture.
For a moment, I remembered a brief episode from
my childhood, when my parents and I went on a
short trip to a medieval castle. My father often quoted
the tour guidebook sarcastically: “A tour of the castle,
and in particular the Museum of Torture, will be great
fun for your children and will get them interested in
history.”
“But paintings have always depicted Christ on the
cross, martyrs with their eyes torn out and demons
in hell. So art hasn’t changed since that time,” said
Gnilovsky.
“I’ve had enough for today.”
But that was not the end. In the next room, floored
with rough planks, an installation of torture devices
awaited us. On a small, low table were brochures with
political slogans. Then came a room showcasing the
Chapman brothers, British artists whose work concerned
concentration camps.
Straight at us, almost knocking me down,
leaped the same blond who crawled under the arrows
with us. Her clothes were ripped, her hair a mess, her
eyes rolling. The black snake of a microphone was
suddenly thrust over my shoulder.
“Are you a college student? Do you work? What
can you tell us about the future of feminism?”
The girl pushed the reporter away and threw herself
on me, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
”Where’s your friend?” Gnilovsky asked grimly.
”I don’t know, he got scared. He stayed outside.”
She nodded her head toward the door, and only
then did I see the sign: “Women Only.”
“They’re raping people in there, understand. I
was raped! They threatened me with a knife. I was
terrified. I work at a savings bank. Eight-to-six, every
day. I’m very interested in modern art. I read everything
I can, trying to understand. I respect art. I’m no
cynic, no prude, I go to all the exhibitions, but it’s the
first time something like this happened to me! I want
to sue the organizers. At least get some money for
59