To all appearances, it is a typical art reception. Light jazz trills through the two levels of L Maynard Galleries in the Holsum Lofts. A long table offers cookies and hors d'oeuvres. People in standard-issue, predominantly gray biz-casual stand in twos and threes like AutoCAD figures occupying architecture, clutching drinks, handbags and price lists, chatting sotto voce.
Here a man examines a selection of Jorge Catoni's weirdly programmatic abstractions in black, white and red. Three men stand at a corner desk-bar. Lincoln Maynard's earthy abstract paintings preside over the space like tapestries in a medieval guild hall.
But upstairs the walls are hung with pictures of naked women in Playboy-style poses—bending, curling, tugging, lifting, in once case painting. Herself. In the image, a model half-kneels on a padded bench, pulling a brush down her chest. Creating, or maybe mediating, oneself. Is there a doctor of cultural studies in the house?
A few single men stroll about, examining the Giclée prints of drawings by Jon Hul. A fireplug of a guy, he seems cheerful but a bit distracted. At the bar, copies of two soft-cover books of his drawings await perusal. More reveries, more transport. The reproductions on the wall range in edition-size from 3 to 295 (the above-noted "Prevail"), and in price from $250 to $700. "Shades," an acrylic painting of a seated nude in the title eyewear, goes for $3,500. An original pencil drawing on vellum is listed at $900.
Yes, yes, unusual, upstairs, one night only. But, well, the art market has many niches. Anyway, if we don't a get a semiologist soon, we so might leave.
But wait, as Roy Orbison enjoined. What do I see? Is that a Vegas Moment on the hoof?
Through the lower gallery threads a woman for whom the word "blonde" was capitalized. She wears, yes, a gray dress, not obscenely sheath-y but busomy, and a tall young man with a ballcap. They ascend to the muted clatter of her heels, and when she arrives she erupts in glee at the sight of herself in "The Antidote" (2005, mixed-medium on board).
People still stand about, but everything has changed. The Model and Her Boyfriend have arrived from another galaxy. Hul scrambles for his camera, starts snapping them in various configurations with the work on the wall. Ballcap guy leans to, uh, buss the picture. And so on. The wattage slowly powers down, and people—okay, men—try not to look at the model. Fortunately, pictures of naked women are all around.
Skip the discourse. Make mine a scotch, double.