Husband Material (London Calling, #2)

by Alexis Hall

In an effort to look sophisticated and at home, I circled the sculpture, trying to look like I was appreciating it on an emotional and intellectual level. “So what do you think?” asked a nearby stranger. While I didn’t jump exactly, I gave a busted-not-understanding-art hop. “Ummm…” Fuck, fuck, fuck. “The thing about art,” I bullshat, “is that it’s not supposed to have one interpretation. It’s supposed to be, like, about how you think and feel.” He folded his arms, in a calling-my-bluff kind of way. “So what does it make you think and how does it make you feel?” Since James Royce-Royce was stealing my friends, I decided to steal his criticism. “It’s sort of melancholy. And sort of…oh my God, I bet raw is a really clichéd thing to say about art. But, like, the choice of materials. And the way the figure is like…barely holding it together.” “It’s also pretty angry,” said the guy. He was small and slight, with a faint rash of dark stubble across his jaw. “Is it?” I squinted. “Well, I was angry when I made it.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I gave him a dirty look. “That’s cheating. It’s hard enough having opinions about art without the artist standing there laughing at you.” “I’m not laughing. You were looking at my sculpture. I thought you might be interested.” “Yeah, you have massively misread the situation. I mean,” I went on quickly when I realised how rude that sounded, “I’m sure it’s great. I just suck at culture. If I was a yoghurt, I–I wouldn’t be a yoghurt.” He gave a slow,...