Page 28 - The Gluckman Occasional Number Three

turkey leg ignorantly cooked in a microwave oven. Owing to the
hospital’s rudimentary resources, his access to materials was severely
limited, forcing a discipline and economy of means upon his
technique not only crucial to his development as a surface design
sculptor, but which continue to be of great use to him in his present
straitened circumstances.”
The shuffling of sensibly-shod feet cued her to accelerate the
presentation. It had been more than an hour since the bathroom
break, and the contretemps with the previous artist had combined
with late afternoon traffic to put the tour about twenty minutes
behind schedule.
“Genuine Lebec pieces are graced with bold creases and his
signature hospital-corner tuck. Selma Sohl, in the catalogue to her
landmark exhibition, Apathy and Atrophy in Urban Folk Art, wrote that
‘Lebec’s manipulation of revelation and concealment bring the
implicated viewer into an intimate confrontation with the deeper
meanings residing just below the surface of quotidian forms. Alone in
choice of medium, he continues to push the boundaries between
industrial and domestic, trivial and cosmic, found object and lost
subject. We are all culturally enriched by his intellectual poverty.’ You
should note that although several Lebec pieces were in that show, he
does not make works of art for sale. He will, however, on a good day,
demonstrate his technique on one or two personal objects for
appreciative connoisseurs; those individuals, per terms of this tour,
are entirely on their own to negotiate with the artist on the price of
such purchases. Thus, although Touresthetics cannot guarantee the
value of any art obtained on this tour, it does behoove us all to
maintain at least the appearance of interest while we are inside as a
courtesy to tour members seeking to establish a profounder
relationship with the artist.”
She knocked on the door; the doorbell button had been painted
over. Not many seconds passed before the door opened: Alfonse
Lebec had been keeping the group under surveillance through a
peephole. He was a pale, bent and scrawny young man, attired in
what the tour members now recognized as the uniform of creativity:
a torn dirty T-shirt and faded fraying jeans. His eyes, never still, ran
quickly over the features and appurtenances of the people gathered
on his porch.