firmly shaking Owenâs hand. Something in Jera invited Owen to widen his stance until their gaze was level.
âDid you order him from a catalog? Does he know what he is getting himself into?
Jera spoke to Hal in German, presuming Owen wouldnât understand. And Owen, for his part, opened his mouth a little wider, hoping Jera and Hal would assume he hadnât understood.
âKurt wants to use him for something. But he keeps surprising us, so who the fuck knows whatâs going to happen!
Hal laughed. Jera didnât.
The music was its own punch line. The crunch and warble buried any hope of conversation. Jera shouted over the music:
âHave you ever heard of Jörg Immendorff? Heâs the guy at the end of the bar in the black shirt with the five oâclock shadow. Heâs the Gertrude Stein of the circle youâve wandered intoâof course, you have to imagine Gertrude Stein orchestrating cocaine-fueled orgies.
âThat guy? Youâre talking about the one with the four-pronged cane?
âWhy? People with canes canât have orgies? How about people in wheelchairs? Speaking of which, can we change rooms? I can take a lot, but that photograph fucking creeps me out. Kurtâs never had a hard-on he didnât use.
Jera motioned to the bartender, and they were admitted to a private room of green leather couches and mercury-backed mirrors. They had traded Kurtâs nude portrait for a wall of Helmut Newtons. There were no speakers back here, so they could actually hear each other.
âThe police broke in on him last year with nine prostitutes and a Versace ashtray full of cocaine.
âThey must have taken the ashtray along with the coke, because now he just snorts off plates.
âWhat?
âI mean, itâs no big deal. Itâs not like Kurtâs the first person Iâve seen do coke.
âI was talking about Immendorff.
âHow many years do they give you in Germany for that kind of thing?
âWeâll see. The trial is in a few months. Heâll be fine, though. Heâs friends with Gerhard Schröder. Iâm guessing the worst that happens is he loses his professorship, but that would be kind of cold at this point. Heâs not well.
âDid Kurt and Hal study with Immendorff?
âThey were at Städelschule. I was at Leipzig. Kurt and these other guys live his lifestyleâseven days a week instead of Immendorffâs twoâbut have none of the manâs talent. There are so many young artists in Berlin willing to sacrifice everything for their art, but so few who are willing to learn how to see, much less draw. Somewhere along the way they forgot that itâs easier to suffer for something than to fight for it.
âBut youâre here.
âThis is research.
âThatâs convenient.
âI paint large wooden panels. Iâm not crazy about comparison, but people say I paint in the same vein as Bruegel or Bosch. I see a bit of George Grosz, but the workâs really its own thing. Here.
Jera undid the elastic strap of a sketchbook and opened to a ribboned page. Owen looked at finely hatched lines and minuscule dapples of shadow. It must have taken Jera a week just to get the gleam of the bottles.
âHow do you make the lines so small?
Jera unpalmed a maroon drafting pen.
âItâs a rapidograph.
Owen unscrewed the cap, revealing a needle-thin point.
âThat drawing is amazing.
âItâs just a study. But itâs close, Iâll give you that. Look at this.
Jera showed Owen a partially finished drawing of the interior of the Wasserturm . Owen recognized it at once:
âI just moved in there tonight.
Jera pursed his lips, pressure building as if he might detonate some plosive sound.
âHow long have you been in Berlin?
âJust over a month.
âAnd Kurt took you on as a roommate in the Wasserturm ?
âHe wants to collaborate on a piece for Art Basel.
Jera lifted
âDid you order him from a catalog? Does he know what he is getting himself into?
Jera spoke to Hal in German, presuming Owen wouldnât understand. And Owen, for his part, opened his mouth a little wider, hoping Jera and Hal would assume he hadnât understood.
âKurt wants to use him for something. But he keeps surprising us, so who the fuck knows whatâs going to happen!
Hal laughed. Jera didnât.
The music was its own punch line. The crunch and warble buried any hope of conversation. Jera shouted over the music:
âHave you ever heard of Jörg Immendorff? Heâs the guy at the end of the bar in the black shirt with the five oâclock shadow. Heâs the Gertrude Stein of the circle youâve wandered intoâof course, you have to imagine Gertrude Stein orchestrating cocaine-fueled orgies.
âThat guy? Youâre talking about the one with the four-pronged cane?
âWhy? People with canes canât have orgies? How about people in wheelchairs? Speaking of which, can we change rooms? I can take a lot, but that photograph fucking creeps me out. Kurtâs never had a hard-on he didnât use.
Jera motioned to the bartender, and they were admitted to a private room of green leather couches and mercury-backed mirrors. They had traded Kurtâs nude portrait for a wall of Helmut Newtons. There were no speakers back here, so they could actually hear each other.
âThe police broke in on him last year with nine prostitutes and a Versace ashtray full of cocaine.
âThey must have taken the ashtray along with the coke, because now he just snorts off plates.
âWhat?
âI mean, itâs no big deal. Itâs not like Kurtâs the first person Iâve seen do coke.
âI was talking about Immendorff.
âHow many years do they give you in Germany for that kind of thing?
âWeâll see. The trial is in a few months. Heâll be fine, though. Heâs friends with Gerhard Schröder. Iâm guessing the worst that happens is he loses his professorship, but that would be kind of cold at this point. Heâs not well.
âDid Kurt and Hal study with Immendorff?
âThey were at Städelschule. I was at Leipzig. Kurt and these other guys live his lifestyleâseven days a week instead of Immendorffâs twoâbut have none of the manâs talent. There are so many young artists in Berlin willing to sacrifice everything for their art, but so few who are willing to learn how to see, much less draw. Somewhere along the way they forgot that itâs easier to suffer for something than to fight for it.
âBut youâre here.
âThis is research.
âThatâs convenient.
âI paint large wooden panels. Iâm not crazy about comparison, but people say I paint in the same vein as Bruegel or Bosch. I see a bit of George Grosz, but the workâs really its own thing. Here.
Jera undid the elastic strap of a sketchbook and opened to a ribboned page. Owen looked at finely hatched lines and minuscule dapples of shadow. It must have taken Jera a week just to get the gleam of the bottles.
âHow do you make the lines so small?
Jera unpalmed a maroon drafting pen.
âItâs a rapidograph.
Owen unscrewed the cap, revealing a needle-thin point.
âThat drawing is amazing.
âItâs just a study. But itâs close, Iâll give you that. Look at this.
Jera showed Owen a partially finished drawing of the interior of the Wasserturm . Owen recognized it at once:
âI just moved in there tonight.
Jera pursed his lips, pressure building as if he might detonate some plosive sound.
âHow long have you been in Berlin?
âJust over a month.
âAnd Kurt took you on as a roommate in the Wasserturm ?
âHe wants to collaborate on a piece for Art Basel.
Jera lifted
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