Free I Am Having So Much Fun Without You by Courtney Maum Page A

something timely, you know? Something that has meaning. Something that doesn’t have anything to do with all of this.” I swept myhand out to encompass the key paintings in the room.
    â€œBut politics ?” Julien protested. “That’s not really your thing.”
    â€œWell, it certainly was my thing before—”
    â€œOr it’s not your clients’ thing. You’ve got a fan base now,” he continued. “Collectors. Or, collectors of a certain sort. People like your work. It’s nostalgic. It looks good next to curtains.”
    â€œCurtains,” I said, darkening. “You’re serious.”
    Equally miffed, he went into the storage room and returned with two cups of instant coffee and some sugar packets. I was feeling disrespected. I took two packets instead of my regular one. “Listen,” he continued, setting down the java, “you know I believe in you. But even the Damien Hirsts of the world understand that there is money in being consistent. His preserved sharks, his rotting cow heads, it’s all coming from the same place of provocation and power. But he’s not sentimental. You are. And you can’t go from being sentimental and apolitical to being politically involved.”
    â€œSo you’re saying I can’t do art with an opinion?”
    â€œArt with an agenda, no.” He drank his coffee in one shot. “Or rather, I’m saying you can’t sell art with an agenda here. That’s not what I rep you for. That’s not why I took you. And that’s not why most of the paintings in this show have sold.”
    â€œBut this is who I am , Julien; the key paintings were a lark.”
    â€œThey’re a gift horse, Rich! You could do endless versions of them: former offices you’ve worked in, places you’ve vacationed, rooms in your childhood home. You’ve stumbled on a brand.”
    â€œI need to do this now ,” I said, lowering my voice. “I want to feel like I’m a part of something. I’d like to be respected.”
    â€œKnowing that every painting here is going to sell doesn’t make you feel that?”
    I let my gaze drift down the hallway where The Blue Bear was hanging, massive and alone. Anne lied when she said shedidn’t care if I tried to sell it, and I knew that, and I included it in the show anyway. And it had sold.
    â€œI don’t know,” I mumbled. “I just want Anne to like it.”
    And there it was. Despite the genre of work that The Blue Bear represents, Anne had been proud of it because it reflected a real sentiment. A vulnerability. A stated fear. Up until the other key paintings, I’d taken on real topics, maybe not a war per se, but I had opinions on world issues that stemmed beyond the domestic questions that plagued my mind of late: Is there anything more dispiriting than boneless chicken under plastic? Was Camille going to turn into the kind of child who uses eye rolls instead of words? Would my wife forgive me? Beneath my posturing around the Iraq conflict and my quest to find a smart idea, part of me just wanted Anne to respect my work again.
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    That night, Anne and I had a dinner party at the house of friends who had recently moved from Paris to Versailles. This was happening more and more now, the exodus of creative people in their thirties to suburbs they’d made vicious fun of ten years prior. The last time we’d been to Synneve and Thierry’s, he’d dropped the word wainscoting into the conversation. Thierry might be a faithful husband, but he’s started to think about decorative paneling in his spare time. By our midthirties, we’re all fucked.
    We’d gotten a babysitter for Camille, a once-in-a-blue-moon occurrence that had us both in noticeably improved moods. The prospect of an entire night to be enjoyed with people who were over four feet tall coupled with the uninterrupted