"Heck yeah!" I answered back. (I actually texted "Beck yeah!" because autocorrect changes every word I type to gibberish, which is a story for another day. So no, NOT Beck yeah, autoINcorrect! /Digression.)
I texted Matt again, asking if the show was age-appropriate for Mark. He confirmed that it was, and told me to say hello to Lucky Cat. I had no idea what that meant, but I assured him we would.
Mark was not nearly as thrilled as I was about our plans. He groaned when I told him about the show.
"I wanna play basketball with Tyler," he whined.
"Tomorrow," I answered. "Today, we get culture!"
"I don't even like art," Mark huffed.
"That's why we're going," I told him. "To broaden your horizons. Go in with an open mind--you might even like it."
"I'm not gonna like it," Mark muttered, and I knew we were both in for a long afternoon.
I picked up our tickets and squeezed Mark's hand excitedly as we entered the show.
"This is gonna be fun!" I said.
My enthusiasm lasted all of two seconds--the amount of time it took Mark to visually scan a tower of concrete blocks and sneer, "I could make that!"
I squeezed his hand again, but in warning this time. "The artists are all sitting next to their work," I told him through gritted teeth. "They worked hard--please keep your comments positive."
"I just said I can do that," Mark complained.
"Awesome," I told him. "See, the work is already inspiring you!"
Mark grumbled down the row, barely stopping at any of the booths. I took my time, enjoying it, especially the photography. I thought the work was cool, which was more than Mark thought. He didn't show any interest until he came to a giant lit-up sculpture, which I could see him reaching for.
"Cool, huh?" I said cheerfully (and loudly), moving his hand away from the sculpture. Then, in a much quieter tone, I warned Mark not to touch any of the art unless invited to do so by the artist.
"I wasn't even touching it," he grumbled, then turned and tripped over a wire, almost toppling the whole piece. My heart skipped three beats, then I chased after him.
Mark was already moving into the next row. He was staring at a work of mixed media that used boards, canvas and purses splashed with paint.
"I can do--" Mark started, and I smiled, walking him away again.
We went down another row. Mark was in a bigger hurry than I, trying to end this as quickly as possible, I think. But I walked slowly, taking in all the pieces.
As we strolled, we passed a giant photo of a topless woman. There were other photos in the booth, but Mark didn't see any of them. He just kept walking, staring straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to the photo. It was huge, so I couldn't imagine how he missed it, but he never said a word about it.
A sculpture in the next row caught his eye--a display of sports sneakers. But he moved on quickly when he realized it was all the same shoe, and not even a good brand.
"See, art can be anything," I pointed out. "Even shoes."
"Or naked women," he snapped back.
I looked at him.
"Yeah, I saw it!" he said. "You think that's appropriate art for a little kid--naked women?"
I immediately burst into giggles at his righteous indignation.
"It's just a body," I told him. "Stop being such a prude."
He snorted and kept walking. Right past a photo of another semi-nude woman. He glared right at me and my bad mothering skills.
Next up was a black canvas. Actually, two canvases painted black and joined together at an angle. Mark opened his mouth, but I beat him to it.
"Yeah, I can do that, too," I whispered. "I never realized I'm so artistic!"
And that was the turning point. Mark didn't even bother feigning interest after that. He let out a running commentary of snide remarks under his breath.
I continued to play my part, too, pointing out all the positive artistic aspects. Mark listened politely, then finally shut me up by pointing to a poster of a car whose angry driver was holding his hand out the window, flipping us off.
"Really, Mom?" he asked. "The middle finger is art?"
I sighed. He had me there. The whole trip seemed more hopeless with each row--not only was Mark having a miserable time, he was also killing any joy I might find.
I was floundering. There had to be something Mark liked. And then, around the next corner, I saw it--a giant cat! He must've been seven feet tall, an enormous sculpture, but all I could see over the wall was his head. I pointed toward the statue and said, "There's Lucky Cat!"
I was thrilled to find something Mark might actually like. I was less thrilled when I turned the corner to see the rest of Lucky Cat--and realized he was engaging in an act of...well, let's just say he was having a good time all by himself.
I immediately panicked. "Turn around, Mark!" I said, hoping Mark didn't realize what Lucky Cat was really doing. "Let's take a photo for Matthew!"
And that's how Mark finally won. I put him out of his misery and left. But not before we passed one more nude photo, this one of a man, who, unlike the women, was fully nude.
"It's just a body," I reminded Mark, who simply shook his head in disgust at me.
"Well, that wasn't so bad, was it?" I said, as we left the building.
"Not so bad?!?" Mark shouted. "I saw one, two, THREE naked people!" he said, counting them out on his fingers.
"So what?" I said, still trying to save the afternoon. "They're just--"
"Bodies, I know," he said. "Naked bodies. Seriously, is that really appropriate?"
"So besides the naked people, what was your favorite work?" I asked, trying to change the subject.
But Mark was done with my optimism. He shot me down, saying, "The guy flipping me off in his car. That was my favorite artwork, a guy giving me the finger. Are you happy? Can we go home now?"
"Yes," I said, falling victim to another bout of giggles. I ushered him to the car, all the while praying he did not re-enact his favorite art work during our drive home.
And vowing to find a more suitable companion to accompany me to the next art show.
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