Propped up on the chest of drawers in my room

is a small painting.  It’s called Untitled 14.  I bought

it at an opening in Chelsea at the Rubenstein Gallery.

I go to openings all the time.  I drink free

wine, talk with the artists, and imagine an alternative life

in which I am rich enough to become a collector.

The artist I saw that night was a woman on

the verge of fame, which meant that her works were

unaffordable, or affordable only to the wealthy.  I thought the

paintings were magnificent. I had a hard time explaining why.


Paraphrases from the novel The Apartment by Greg Baxter.