With the Afghani foreman calling me every twenty minutes, and the interior designer texting me night and day to complain about lacking materials and the slow speed of the handiwork, I have no time to read Stella’s latest emails in my inbox, so I print them out and leave them on the coffee table, resolving to read them at the next possible moment. I spend the entire day drafting a fitting description of the Promessa, between phone calls from the designers, the plumbers, the Baltimore Muslim, who wishes to double her fee, the Zahedan anorexic, the various caterers, electricians, lighting technicians and some aspiring local artists. But also from Tarofi, who now calls at least twice a day, to reassure me repeatedly that I ‘really had nothing to fear any longer’.
The I-CON secretary calls once again from the I-CON, to enquire whether I had any goddamn idea what ‘responsibility’ meant. ‘We’ve already mentioned you to AVANTI, you know. Dr Christenhuber has got credit with these people. Credit and credibility. Credit and credence. Credit and confidence. And you’ve got to live up to that. He’s not going to squander it just because of some artworld punk.’
I hastily copy and paste a patchwork of texts off the web, including a careful selection of excerpts from the Aglutinador, two major museum spaces in London, and a Deleuzian art collective in Istanbul, not to mention the National Geographic and the Al-Houda Islamic website. By way of local references, I devise a university professor, an established art critic, a dissident intellectual and a statement from Cyrus Rahati, while as international backing, I draw up letters of support from Tarofi and Camille Paglia. Stella once mentioned she knew Camille well and that they regularly went deep-sea fishing together, somewhere off Cape Cod. After a moment’s hesitation, I include the column in the Lufthansa Gazette, along with a profile which appeared in the Singapore Times, Photoshopping it to replace the Aglutinador’s logo with the Promessa’s.
You may think the Promessa collective will produce pretentious, adolescent toss. But you can’t deny their position is bold and tackles big themes. Their work is juicy rather than dry. It may be crap, it may be derivative, but it doesn’t fall into a neat division of concept versus craft. The Promessa collective laughs at the idea that craft has an inherent moral integrity by mastering a number of traditional arts and crafts – drawing and engraving, the diorama and wood carving – without claiming to be doing anything so crass as ‘expressing themselves’. It was western modernism that exploited tribal art, tearing it out of context to make it the vessel of primitivism. Making their own pastiche primitivism show and mutating it into an image of capitalism – I think Marx’s theory of commodity fetishism is in here somewhere – the Promessa founders are going to have a lot of people’s hackles rising. Mine included. But then, western exhibitions decontextualise and make a travesty of ethnographic art anyway. Surely it is this that creates kitsch. The Promessa is just the messenger. This is the kind of thing the artworld ought to be showing – it would create a row not about the tedious issue of Third World art good or bad, but about colonialism, capitalism, racism, the responsibilities of art and the evil of banality. At the very least, the Promessa is akin to a superior bullshit artist.
The official Promessa vernissage is drawing to a close. I’ve just finished my opening address and lean back against the wall near the entrance, taking in the scenery. The curators, editors, critics, clerics, bureaucrats and local artists are standing around in small groups among the folding tables generously stocked with Parsi Cola, Fanta, concentrated orange juice and alcohol-free beer, the visitors stepping daintily back and forth as they chew on the catered meat pastries, to avoid the falling crumbs. A predictable number of women at the opening, and a surprising number of men, have undergone nose-jobs, leaving them with petite nasal slopes pointing skyward.
A handful of visitors are still perusing the Promessa manifesto in English, which is the first thing you see as you emerge from the meandering entrance corridor, inscribed in gold paint across the brute concrete background of an entire wall. Most of the other walls are bare, offering little more than their varying shades of dusky white or concrete gray, while the horizontal strips of designer neon contrast meaningfully with the tribal pillows and the miniatures.
The terrarium, though missing out on rodents, is already alive with geckos, iguanas, lizards, chameleons and a hummingbird, along with several lories and lorikeets. Carefully placed throughout the gallery are the polypropylene lamps, acrylic tables, chandeliers, various breeds of seating arrangements.
Gracing one wall are the SAC paintings, which have turned out precisely as I’d hoped. A wedding dress rental agency bathed in neon, a shop window filled with soccer paraphernalia, a butcher’s shop with lamb’s heads piled up like tangerines, a mural announcing WE SHALL MAKE AMERICA SO ANGRY IT SHALL CHOKE ON ITS RAGE, a dentist’s waiting room, the Bol Bol Burger branch in Elahie – all in the simple yet pensive, hopeful yet melancholy brushstroke suggesting the true subaltern. In the opposite corner of the room, by the entrance, the militia’s contribution looks even more convincing in its grainy naivety flickering across a Sony plasma screen.
I had no choice but to call off the readings altogether, for Stella refused to reconsider, the Baltimore Muslim had now tripled her fee, and the crime novelist, having realized that Tarofi was somehow involved, announced he’d cooperate only if allowed a three-and-a-half-hour recital of dissident poetry.
I had contacted Ideal Standard in Lausanne just in time to change the exhibition title, and ‘Violence of Discourse, Discourse of Violence: Mapping the Post-Epistemic Dismemberment of Sheharazade’ became ‘If You’re Going Through Hell, Keep Going’, which, as the designers agreed, offered a comfortable common ground between the transvestite and the bassijis and generally ‘worked well’ for a gallery opening.
My opening address was politely polemic and vaguely confrontational, leading through a carefully packaged constellation of points and themes which, I argued, underlay any contemporary discussion of international art and culture. Ranging from Palestine to the laughable European media landscape and its tragic misconceptions of contemporary African art, to the issue of resistance in the age of mechanical reproduction and on to the challenges of ‘mapping the urban memoria’ of Tehran, ending with a string of delightful family anecdotes on the Promessa opening back in May 1963. Rock Hudson, Georgian gypsy songs, Maoists, Leninists, Trotskyists, Stalinists, ‘Third Way’ Communists, Social Democrats.
I was, however, disappointed to learn that the creator of the ‘Sleep of a Thousand Destinies (Minus One)’ piece had emigrated to Tokyo. According to the artist’s tutor at the Academy, he was hoping to find work on a construction site, but was currently selling counterfeit telephone cards behind Harajuku station and was living under a bench in Yogi Park. I considered a webcam consultation with the émigré, entitled ‘Cada artista que se va es un fragmento que se pierde’ but decided against it, mainly for lack of time, and opting instead for something more theatrical and effective.
Following my carefully impertinent curatorial address, I was joined in the spotlight by an Afghani laborer in his mauve uniform who had taken part in the Promessa renovations from the very beginning. I lay my arm around his shoulder and put on a supportive smile. ‘And so how are we tonight, young fellow?’ The crowd moved a little closer around the two of us. ‘How about a word for our guests?’
‘Good evening, honorable ladies and gentlemen.’ The melodious Afghani accent became even more endearing as the worker trembled with stage fright, and the audience broke out in a good-natured, breezy chuckle. ‘As a matter of fact, I actually have three things I wish to tell you. First of all. Don’t cry, work! Second –’
He was interrupted by laughter. ‘Second,’ he continued, pointing to himself, ‘ceci n’est pas un antifasciste!’ and was met once again with appreciative giggles and a lively rush of clapping and whistling. Some of the audience was already familiar with the manifesto, already whispering the last point. ‘Third. Las instituciones son una mierda.’
Up
on which I took a step back, away from the Afghani, looking him up and down slowly, taking on an affected, theatrical posture I’d carefully practiced in front of my bathroom mirror the night before. ‘Something is bothering you, my friend. I can tell.’
The Afghani sighed and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Can I tell you something? After telling you what I have to say, I believe I shall have to resign immediately.’
He looked at the crowd, turning his back to me. The lights were dimmed as dry ice started lapping at our feet, oozing from a portable device installed just behind us. I threw my hands in the air, in mock despair. ‘Oh no!’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘You will give up this post? I thought you were happy here. You have a secure income here.’
‘You are about to understand. You will understand the moment I tell you about all this crap that’s been going on. Believe me, your first word of advice will be: “Resign!”’
‘Well, we’ll see about that.’
‘Sir! You’re always on my mind! I believe I’m actually in love with you. And so I need things that remind me of you. That is the only thing that calms me down, and so I steal things from you all the time. Things that are lying around. I mean, not just things that are lying around, but money as well.’
‘That’s a sweet way of putting it. So you’re stealing money from me? Could it be that you simply want it for yourself?’
‘What? The money?’ The Afghani trembled with shock and dismay. The spectators slowly warmed to the stiff, clumsy playacting unfolding before them, sniggering and whispering to each other.
‘Yes. Precisely. I mean, fine, but normally, people in your situation steal personal belongings. I mean, you’re not trying to tell me that when you steal credit cards or cash, the stuff reminds you of me?’
‘Yes I am. That way, you’re always with me.’ He placed one hand on his heart.
‘Stop these stupid excuses. You stole from me.’ I started shaking with fury. ‘You have robbed me!’
‘But only because I wanted to be with you always.’
‘Why does misery always have to beat a path to my door? Why is this so? I pulled out a small handgun from my pocket, placed it against the Afghani’s brow and pulled the trigger. At the sound of the gun going off, the Afghani slumped to the floor, and three Afghanis in mauve uniforms stepped in with chiffons and pails of water. They soaked up the sticky red rivulets criss-crossing the marble floor, barely visible through the thick dry ice, laying their colleague on a long sheet of transparent plastic and dragging him away by his rubber workboots. The audience, unsure of what had just happened, settled for being visibly disappointed by the abrupt ending to the script and began to disperse.
When I was later asked for the title of this inaugurational gesture – a question I’d been eagerly expecting – I said I was still hesitating between ‘Double Negative’ and ‘The Day Our Enemies Praise Us We Shall Mourn’. The dialogue was actually stolen, tel quel, from an avant-garde Berlin playwright named Pollesch, but no one at the Promessa would have known him, let alone recognized the text, and it wouldn’t make much difference if they had.
A group of young artists in running shoes and Armani shirts have now gathered around the editor of Ordak, debating Mehrangiz’s recent work.
‘It’s quite good in some ways. The compositions are very clever, for example. Powerfully vulnerable, in a way.’
‘If you see it in the dark, wearing extra-dark Ray Bans, I hear it’s fine.’
‘She’s moving to New York or something. They’re all leaving. It’s typical. Soon as you have a name, off you go. No responsibility, no nothing.’
‘Exactly. There’s no responsibility, no shame, no nothing.’ someone echoes.
‘But that’s the same everywhere. Western art is just as apolitical. It’s globalization. Why get pissed off about something when you can just get up and go somewhere else?’
‘Exactly. Globalization makes you apolitical. Because basically mobility makes you apolitical.’ I spot two teenage girls from the Zirzamin Debating Club trying to peer over people’s shoulders as they listen in on the conversation. Nearby is a small flock of mullahs, including Tarofi, once again surrounded by his many sons, wearing his Kojak sunglasses and a dark-brown camel-fur cape over a second cape of light-blue transparent tunic.
I walk over to vigorously shake Tarofi’s hand, and he looks delighted to see me, croaking excitedly, very good nice. I offer him a small list of platitudes expressing submissive, boundless gratitude and am introduced to three more clergymen, khoshbakhtam khoshbakhtam, after which I clutch Tarofi by the sleeve and pull him away from his colleagues.
‘So how is your gender research going?’
Tarofi looks slightly pale and keeps tensing his jaw, a glistening layer of sweat on his forehead, his vaguely Iberian features not as virile as usual. He leans over and mumbles something into my ear. ‘My dear, we need to go over something, I’m worried about you.’ But I’m not in the mood for last-minute reassessments or second thoughts of any kind, and take to berating the Afghanis for making a mess of the bloodstains. ‘It’s all over the place. Get a proper mop, for God’s sake. A mop. You know what a mop is?’
I watch them stow away the tables, mop the floor once again and rearrange the furniture, then take a cab home, having just enough time to shower and change into the Zahedan three-piece before driving back for the second opening.
From the bathroom window, I glance over to the apartment in block 43D, empty once again, ever since the day of the unexpected Polaroid tea ceremony. I look myself over in the mirror, shower for the third time that day, then seek out my saffron-yellow shirt and choose a pair of fly-shaped pink sunglasses, then change my mind and wear my Porsche Veron 1 instead. I mould my hair – usually dark red, or a murky auburn according to the season, now almost orange in the bright sunlight flowing in through the bathroom window – into a Ceasar’s, shape my eyebrows into two clean arches with a tweezer, apply two different skin creams to two particular parts of my face, hands and feet and, after a moment’s hesitation, decide not to shave, but dab some Ladjevardi aftershave on my neck and wrists.
I walk over to the TV and spend several minutes staring absent-mindedly at Larry King interviewing Tarik Aziz, before switching to Balkan Bang and a wide-angle shot of a chubby peroxide blonde masturbating with a carrot in a muddy wheelbarrow, squinting in the sunlight, clenching a long stalk of wheat between her teeth. I wonder whether it might be appropriate to arrive at the opening an hour late, the guests noticing my casual entrance, smiling and nonchalant, so serene and satisfied with the way things are going generally. Then again, I have yet to adjust the equalizer on the sound system, pay off the traffic cops on Palestine Street, and prepare the opium pipe for the back garden. Cyrus, meanwhile, is to introduce me to a dealer, so I can offer a line or two to a select handful of guests. A line with Neil Diamond, though in some ways hardly worth the money, might well be the only chance I have against Zsa Zsa and Rock Hudson, with his imitation gold Rolex, or the Bulsaras with their Kir Royales and honey-roasted peanuts.
I stand up to call a cab, and it is only now that I notice the message panel of my answering machine, blinking impatiently. The first message is from Zsa Zsa, saying that, at the end of the day, she ‘could not, would not, and indeed should not’ come to the opening, it was too emotional, ‘simply too much, tout court. I don’t know what to tell you, my dear.’ Her voice is hoarse and slightly shaky. I can hear her pausing to light a cigarette, and picture her wagging her ivory walking cane from side to side as she exhales the smoke from her Gauloise. ‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea. Sorry. I just think it would be a bad idea somehow.’
At this moment I distinctly hear a voice in the background but cannot make out what it’s saying. ‘And I do love you, my dear,’ she adds. ‘Never forget that.’
Though relieved by Zsa Zsa’s decision, I’m slightly annoyed nonetheless, not only by the murmuring in the background but by something in the tone of h
er voice which I cannot quite put my finger on. The following two messages are both from the I-CON, reprimanding me for not including their overhead costs in my budget, insisting that Dr Christenhuber had ‘never heard of any Camille Paglia’ and demanding to know whether ‘this woman’ was some kind of fabrication, ‘some cheap rip-off, I just hope for your sake that she isn’t.’
In her second message, the I-CON secretary says the chairman of AVANTI had expressed grave doubts regarding the Promessa and was threatening to call off the project, indeed Dr Christenhuber had been ‘considering it all day’. Just as I delete the messages my phone rings. ‘Tarofi here. Hope I’m not bothering you.’
‘Not in the slightest.’ I switch off the TV and check my watch. ‘What’s new?’
‘Well, listen. It’s not nice to be the bringer of bad news. Especially if it’s opening night and everything. But, well.’ He pauses. ‘Hail not a messenger of crime or comfort, for the message alone is worthy of judgement. Your beloved Kalegondeh, right?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Wrong, darling. It’s Rumi. But anyway. Listen. I thought you should know that Stella will be in Tehran later on tonight. Just thought you might want to know.’ I only now remember Stella’s emails lying on the coffee table, still unread.
‘You know what? I guessed as much.’ I walk over to the printouts, fold them twice and slip them into my jacket.
‘Perhaps you should be careful.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Just as long as you know she’ll be here. And I also wanted you to know for a fact that I’m very happy with you and that I want you to keep going. Very nice good,’ he chortles. ‘I’m just worried. It seems there have been some complications here and there.’
I thank him for calling, throwing in three or four platitudes of gratitude and devotion, as I check my hair, which is getting a touch too long for a Ceasar’s. I consider combing it into a classic side parting, but decide against it.
Musing over my newfound friendship with what was once a roving clerical henchman, I remember a particularly heartrending propaganda slogan on the walls of the Zirzamin bassiji headquarters – THE DAY OUR ENEMIES PRAISE US WE SHALL MOURN – realizing I’d long stopped considering Tarofi an enemy or even a threatening presence of any kind. Tarofi has actually taken to me, rather enthusiastically at that, and I wonder whether this has any relation to – or bearing on – Stella’s intentions with regard to me.
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