Distraction - Bruce Sterling [86]
“You’ve got modern art,” she said.
“That’s my Kandinsky. Composition VIII, from 1923.” He touched the frame, adjusting it by a hair’s width. “I don’t know why they still call this ‘modern art’ when it’s a hundred and twenty years old.”
She carefully studied the glowing canvas, glanced at Oscar meditatively, examined the painting again. “Why do they call this stuff ‘art’ at all? It’s just a big mess of angles and blobs.”
“I know it seems that way to you, but that’s because you don’t have any taste.” Oscar restrained a sigh. “Kandinsky knew all the big period art krewes: Blaue Reiter group, Surrealists, Suprematists, Futurists.… Kandinsky was huge.”
“Did it cost you a lot of money?” Clearly she hoped not.
“No, I picked it up for peanuts when the Guggenheim threw a fire sale. All the art between 1914 and 1989—you know, the Communist Period, the core of the twentieth century—that’s all totally out of fashion nowadays. Kandinsky is the very opposite of ‘modern art’ now, but you know, I find him absolutely relevant. Wassily Kandinsky really speaks to me. You know … if Kandinsky were alive today … I really think he might have understood all this.”
She shook her head woozily. “ ‘Modern art’ … How could they get away with all that? It’s like some huge, ugly scam.” She sneezed suddenly. “Sorry. My allergies are acting up.”
“Come with me.”
He led her to his media center. He was particularly proud of this room. It was a modern political war room done in a period idiom. Chairs of pierced aluminum were stacked against the wall, there were modular storage units, swarms of flat displays. Danish shelving, a caster-trolley, bright plastic Kartell office baskets. Handsome Milanese lamps.… No frills, no furbelows, no wasted motion. Everything pruned back, all very efficient and sleek.
“This looks all right,” she said. “I could work in a place like this.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that. I hope you’ll have that chance.”
She smiled. “Why not? I like it here. This place is very you.”
He was touched. “That’s very sweet, but I should be honest about it.… It’s not my interior design. I mean, that Kandinsky canvas was certainly my choice, but after I sold my start-up company, I bought this house, and I brought in a professional designer.… I was very focused about my house then. We worked on this place for months. Giovanna was very good about it, we used to absolutely haunt the antique markets.…”
“ ‘Giovanna,’ ” she said. “What a lovely name. She must have been very elegant.”
“She was, but it didn’t work out.”
Greta gazed with sudden waspish attention at the tracklights and the gleaming tower of chairs. “And then there was that other person—the journalist. She must have loved this media room.”
“Clare lived here! This was her home.”
“She’s gone to Holland now, right?”
“Yes, she’s gone. That didn’t work out, either.”
“Why don’t they work out for you, Oscar?”
“I don’t know,” he said. He jammed his hands in his pockets. “That’s an excellent question, isn’t it?”
“Well,” she said, “maybe it’s an excellent question, but maybe I shouldn’t have asked it.”
“No, Greta, I like it when you show up drunk and confrontational.”
He crossed his arms. “Let me get you fully up to speed here, all right? You see, I’m the product of unusual circumstances. I grew up in a very special milieu. Logan Valparaiso’s dream home. A classic Hollywood mansion. Tennis courts. Palm trees. Monogrammed everything, zebra skins, and gold fixtures. A big playground for Logan’s friends, all these maquiladora millionaires and South American dope czars. My dad had the worst taste in the world. I wanted this place to be different.”
“What’s different about it?”
“Nothing,” he said bitterly. “I wanted my home to be genuine. But this place has never been real. Because I have no family. No one has ever lived in here who cared enough about me to stay. In fact, I’m rarely even here myself. I’m always out on the road. So this place is a fraud. It’s an empty shell. I’ve tried my very best, but it’s all been an evil fantasy, it’s completely failed me.” He shrugged. “So,