Shootout with Father - Excerpt

Minutes before closing time my old man appears at the gallery. Now that he is technically blind, he condescends to see my show. With measured steps he enters on the arm of his lady companion or seeing eye, his custom-made tweeds too loose on his aged frame, his shoulders stooped. But his commanding presence remains undiminished. An air of power and money shields him like an armor. Old power. Old money. You can smell it miles away.

His eyes are hidden behind shades. Yet I could swear he has them trained on me. Abruptly he's pulled free from the arm of his fur-swathed companion. Well then, shall we take a shot at it, Mrs. Q? His voice is raspy. He turns his head this way and that as if to appraise the market value of the gallery space. Then he snaps his fingers twice. Shall we have a look at my son's…er…objets d'art? But first we must greet the artist. Where would he be hiding?

Hiding. I wish I could. Again he's got me by the balls, the old bastard. Now that he sees no more than an occasional flash of light, he'll have a look at what he maliciously refers to as his son's objets d'art. Mind you, not objets trouves. Not even junk. That would lend distinction as cult art to my small sculptures. And the la-di-da lilt he affects as he pronounces the French…It's a studied provocation for which I ought to be prepared and never am. Each time I'm stung anew. Each time he wins.