Gluttony
for Roy and Chris
Although bulimic and small, Catherine was rapacious in her need for control. Her office was furnished with an immense desk and the largest monitor she could find. She packed her own lunch, and everyday it sat beside her keyboard until noon, a tub of yoghurt and a small container of diet ice cream. She ate as little as she felt she safely could and trained herself to think of other things.
All of the artists gave her obeisance and they had to. They fed her out of their own self-esteem, admitting that they could not have survived without her. Whatever they achieved had to be seen, in part, as the result of her efforts. They could not celebrate the sale of a painting or a favorable review without giving her credit. Management, as she understood it, did not merely manage; it made things possible.
Catherine needed to see every artist in the studio complex often. Beside her desk she had chairs on which they could sit. She did not like them to stand. The chairs were somewhat lower than her own, and the artists felt like children as they talked to her. She would judge them all the time.
Catherine held herself high. She believed that the artists in the complex would not survive without her efforts. There was an older woman, Constanza, who made decorative vases from multi-colored clay. Out back were kilns. Catherine had raised money for the kilns and was thanked in Constanza’s brochure promoting her work. An exhibit in Chelsea had been arranged by Catherine. Constanza was now quite famous, and Catherine knew that she herself was responsible for that. So did the critics who called her for information about Constanza rather than call Constanza herself. Catherine negotiated prices for Constanza’s work, and Constanza thanked her.
Catherine’s son, Absalom, graduated from a small college where he had majored in theology because his mother, who attended church regularly, had said he should, believing that he was fit to be a priest. But he was much too shy for such responsibilities, and so she made him her assistant, a job that did not require him to appear in public unless she said he must. She convinced her board of directors that Absalom was her right arm as it were, and they did not care as long as the complex made money. Absalom’s principal jobs were cleaning the hallways late at night and keeping the books. When Catherine planned to say something unpleasant to one of the artists — as when she had to expel one for failing to pay his rent — she would tell Absalom to join her so that there would be a witness in case the artist grew angry and made trouble.
Absalom was without ambition. He had given that to her. She told him what he should do and why it should be done. She connected three of the studios in such a way that they formed an apartment for him. People who saw them together and did not know who they were thought that they must be lovers — a May/September romance — and were happy to see that. The young man was smitten, they thought, and, like all young men in such relationships, had little desire or ambition for himself. His one desire was to please his lover.
But it was not love. The peaceful Absalom had lost all desire for a companion as well as for that painful ambition that drives the rest of us to succeed. He had never had more than a glimmer of the inner lives of other people and their wants. He did as he was told and was content. Things seemed to be as they always had been. He had been consumed from childhood by his mother’s needs.
Catherine had no ability as an artist nor did she feel a need for that. She had done her college thesis on Max Ernst and thought herself an expert on his style. Many years ago, she had collected essays on Ernst from experts. Most were college instructors or museum curators, and all were well known in their respective fields. They were more alert to fashions in the art world than she, and she knew that, but after all, it was she who made the book possible. She thought of them as stars in a constellation she had made herself.
Catherine wrote the introduction, depending wholly on the opinions of others, and contributed to the cost of publishing the book by a major house, where the editors were much interested in Ernst but were certain that this particular book would not sell enough to cover its costs, as proved to be the case. Catherine bought half the print run and gave copies to visitors to the studio complex whom she wished to impress. They and the artists and everyone else knew that she was no expert on Ernst or anything in art. But she managed the complex well, and they learned to need her. In short, she had made herself essential to a world to which she did not belong.
Catherine did not realize that many people knew and talked about this. As management, she was protected from the beliefs of others; they would only tell her what they thought she wanted to hear. The artists needed her to do the work that otherwise might interfere with their own. They knew what Catherine had to consume, and so they gave her praise. In turn, she gave them security and a place to work.
What the artists did not realize, or did not want to admit, was that she drained them of more than they chose to give. When they most depended on her, as, for example, when sales were slow and they could not pay the full month’s rent, she would ratchet up her demands for obeisance. She would say nothing directly, but they immediately understood that they must spend more time with her and talk about her contributions to art.
for Roy and Chris
Although bulimic and small, Catherine was rapacious in her need for control. Her office was furnished with an immense desk and the largest monitor she could find. She packed her own lunch, and everyday it sat beside her keyboard until noon, a tub of yoghurt and a small container of diet ice cream. She ate as little as she felt she safely could and trained herself to think of other things.
All of the artists gave her obeisance and they had to. They fed her out of their own self-esteem, admitting that they could not have survived without her. Whatever they achieved had to be seen, in part, as the result of her efforts. They could not celebrate the sale of a painting or a favorable review without giving her credit. Management, as she understood it, did not merely manage; it made things possible.
Catherine needed to see every artist in the studio complex often. Beside her desk she had chairs on which they could sit. She did not like them to stand. The chairs were somewhat lower than her own, and the artists felt like children as they talked to her. She would judge them all the time.
Catherine held herself high. She believed that the artists in the complex would not survive without her efforts. There was an older woman, Constanza, who made decorative vases from multi-colored clay. Out back were kilns. Catherine had raised money for the kilns and was thanked in Constanza’s brochure promoting her work. An exhibit in Chelsea had been arranged by Catherine. Constanza was now quite famous, and Catherine knew that she herself was responsible for that. So did the critics who called her for information about Constanza rather than call Constanza herself. Catherine negotiated prices for Constanza’s work, and Constanza thanked her.
Catherine’s son, Absalom, graduated from a small college where he had majored in theology because his mother, who attended church regularly, had said he should, believing that he was fit to be a priest. But he was much too shy for such responsibilities, and so she made him her assistant, a job that did not require him to appear in public unless she said he must. She convinced her board of directors that Absalom was her right arm as it were, and they did not care as long as the complex made money. Absalom’s principal jobs were cleaning the hallways late at night and keeping the books. When Catherine planned to say something unpleasant to one of the artists — as when she had to expel one for failing to pay his rent — she would tell Absalom to join her so that there would be a witness in case the artist grew angry and made trouble.
Absalom was without ambition. He had given that to her. She told him what he should do and why it should be done. She connected three of the studios in such a way that they formed an apartment for him. People who saw them together and did not know who they were thought that they must be lovers — a May/September romance — and were happy to see that. The young man was smitten, they thought, and, like all young men in such relationships, had little desire or ambition for himself. His one desire was to please his lover.
But it was not love. The peaceful Absalom had lost all desire for a companion as well as for that painful ambition that drives the rest of us to succeed. He had never had more than a glimmer of the inner lives of other people and their wants. He did as he was told and was content. Things seemed to be as they always had been. He had been consumed from childhood by his mother’s needs.
Catherine had no ability as an artist nor did she feel a need for that. She had done her college thesis on Max Ernst and thought herself an expert on his style. Many years ago, she had collected essays on Ernst from experts. Most were college instructors or museum curators, and all were well known in their respective fields. They were more alert to fashions in the art world than she, and she knew that, but after all, it was she who made the book possible. She thought of them as stars in a constellation she had made herself.
Catherine wrote the introduction, depending wholly on the opinions of others, and contributed to the cost of publishing the book by a major house, where the editors were much interested in Ernst but were certain that this particular book would not sell enough to cover its costs, as proved to be the case. Catherine bought half the print run and gave copies to visitors to the studio complex whom she wished to impress. They and the artists and everyone else knew that she was no expert on Ernst or anything in art. But she managed the complex well, and they learned to need her. In short, she had made herself essential to a world to which she did not belong.
Catherine did not realize that many people knew and talked about this. As management, she was protected from the beliefs of others; they would only tell her what they thought she wanted to hear. The artists needed her to do the work that otherwise might interfere with their own. They knew what Catherine had to consume, and so they gave her praise. In turn, she gave them security and a place to work.
What the artists did not realize, or did not want to admit, was that she drained them of more than they chose to give. When they most depended on her, as, for example, when sales were slow and they could not pay the full month’s rent, she would ratchet up her demands for obeisance. She would say nothing directly, but they immediately understood that they must spend more time with her and talk about her contributions to art.