Page 37 - Just Deserts

Excessories

afraid I haven’t done an exhibition since the ‘Buried in Glory’ show
three years ago, but perhaps you have heard about my monograph,
‘Toward a New Aesthetic of Body Mutilation.’ It’s not quite ready for
submission, still waiting for a few reference works from Europe to
arrive, quite frustrating but one must satisfy a peer review. I can,
however, give you a synoptic view of the subject which your readers
will find highly entertaining.”
The journalist shook his head.
“Ah, no, sir. That’s not why I’m here. As I tried to explain on the
telephone, the art world is not my beat. I write articles on social
issues, and on occasion that task requires me to do research in fields
outside my usual areas of competence. That is why I asked for this
interview, to get the benefit of your expertise in primitive art.”
Tuccifili sneered, an unpleasant torsion of fleshy nose and
bearded mouth.
“Primitive, indeed! The artifacts of non-Western cultures are
considerably more sophisticated than anything you are likely to
contemplate in your daily life. You want primitive? You want crude?
Go out into the street and look in a shop window, turn on the
television, listen to the radio. There you will find primitive art, Mr.
Swerdlow, not in this collection.”
Swerdlow adopted an apologetic tone. “Sorry, sir. I don’t
know the jargon in your profession. But you were recommended as
the best person in the city to give me an opinion on a very curious
object which has come into my hands.”
“Oh?” The curator squinted at the package Swerdlow held. “You
want my evaluation of some souvenir you purchased at a shop in the
transit lounge of an airport in a third-world country? It is, of course,
my responsibility here at the museum to provide a modicum of
public service—that is, to take the bread out of the mouths of art
appraisers in the guise of dispensing wisdom. But I have a regular day
and time for that. Come back next Tuesday at ten o’clock in the
morning and get in line with the rest of the remorseful buyers.”
Tuccifili made a dismissive gesture with one paw and turned
back to his untidy tower of manuscripts and correspondence. But
Edwin Swerdlow was on the trail of a story, and his doggedness

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