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.