Look What Came Out of the Wash

May 16, 2020. The Broad, LA’s Premier Contemporary Art Gallery.

I’m standing in a large room surrounded by white walls and well-dressed hipsters, all of them crowded in here for the unveiling of my first exhibition as a public artist. It is, technically speaking, my first exhibition ever, but nobody needs to know that. Claude Ashworth is an accomplished artist. I am an accomplished artist.

There are a few scattered paintings hung up on the wall, very minimalist things. Just a couple dashes of paint, lines that suggest form. These aren’t the focus of the exhibition, just side-decorations to fill the space. The real centrepiece is a large something that’s covered by a heavy black tarp, occupying a good chunk of the back half of the room.

That’s where I stand. The gallery’s director, standing directly beside me and showing off her too-white teeth in a broad smile, mutters: “Where are the Najbreits? I was counting on their support to draw in an audience later.”

“I don’t think they’re going to show,” I reply through clenched teeth, smiling a fake smile of my own. The world must believe that I’m done with the Najbreits—for now. “Sean Corolla’s here though. He’s currently incognito, hanging out over by the side there. He’s a big name and he’s good for a photo-op, if you want one.”

“He’s close enough. Let’s get him up there for the unveiling,” she says.

I wave him over, and there’s excited chatter in the room as he takes off his baseball cap and sunglasses and waves to everyone in the room, hopping the security cordon to join me.

“What’s good, Claude?” he asks me, throwing me a fist-bump.

I return it, smiling for the photographer that’s positioned himself to capture this very moment.

“Just showing off what I’ve been working on. I’m glad you could make it, means a lot,” I say.

“Man, I got time to kill these days, without a girl,” he laughs. “But don’t get me wrong, I’d be here even if I had one, you hear?”

“Loud and clear,” I smile. “Have you met Jo? She’s the head curator here at the Broad. She has great taste in art, if I do say so myself.”

Sean chuckles and shakes Jo’s hand and another flashbulb from the photographer’s end goes off.

“Always a pleasure to support the arts,” he says, projecting his voice for the audience to hear. “I can’t say I know much about it, but that’s why we’ve got places like this gallery, right? So that we can learn a new thing or two.”

“That’s right, Sean,” Jo says. “We’ve got an exciting new exhibit to unveil today! Up until a month ago, Claude Ashworth was perhaps one of the most elusive artists in the world. With nothing more than a handful of interviews under his name, and certainly nothing to link his name to a real identity, he produced hit after hit for our world of modern art, with works like Socks Unthreaded and The Unbearable Whiteness of Being serving to solidify his reputation as somebody truly avant-garde and original in an age when it seems like everything to do has already been done. Now, he’s gone ahead and shocked us all again, coming forwards to the public and revealing his own identity. I won’t tarry anymore… here’s Claude Ashworth, presenting his latest piece, Phoenix 2.0”

“Thank you, Jo, and thank you, to everyone who’s gathered here today for the unveiling of my latest project. I have to say, it’s a bit surreal, standing up here and actually being the person to talk about my work. I usually listen in from a hidden mic a couple rooms away,” I say. I smile, pause, wait out the laughter. “My work has always been an investigation into refuse and waste. This time, I’ve moulded that theme together with something resembling rebirth, hence the title of the piece. So without further ado…”

I walk around the large object covered in tarp, picking it up by the edges, wincing only slightly as the motion triggers some sore spot in my chest. Jo and Sean, on the other side, pick up the other end. I count down from three, and then we toss the tarp off, revealing a battered washing machine, the circular outwards facing glass door replaced by a translucent facsimile of an enlarged human iris.

“This washing machine is perfectly functional,” I say, slipping off my loafers. I pull off my socks and then open up the washing machine door, tossing my socks in. “Everybody is welcome to put something in the wash. Come on now. There’s nothing to be afraid of, I’m not going to air your dirty laundry.”

More chuckles. It’s amazing, what passes for humour in these circles. I undo the security cordon as Jo takes off her thin summer jacket and throws it into the machine, and Sean follows suit, stripping off his shirt to casually reveal his sculpted six-pack.

“Now that’s just unfair,” I laugh.

“Just be thankful I didn’t take off my boxers,” Sean says with a cheeky smile.

A small line of people begins to form behind the washing machine, people placing in various articles of clothing until the washing machine fills up.

“And now, we begin our first load,” I say, starting up the machine.

The door shuts with a clang, the black iris staring out at the audience, and then the thing begins to shake and shudder ominously, the rainbow wash of clothes behind the glass giving the iris a kaleidoscopic quality.

“Mr. Ashworth, do you view this work of art as representing you coming clean, now that you’ve come out to the public?”

The question comes from a brunette journalist in a pencil skirt standing by the front of the crowd. I notice that she’s missing the scarf she was wearing earlier—she must have put it in the machine.

“You know I don’t interpret my art once it’s out in the public, J. Whatever you think is true—well, it’s true, since you’re part of the audience now,” I say.

“For all that I agree with you, it doesn’t make my job any easier,” the New York Times reporter replies. “Come on, give me a soundbite I can work with?”

“Don’t you usually get all the quotes you need from the audience in attendance?” I ask.

“Yeah, sure, but I was hoping that you’d have a little more to say to me, now that you can… you know, actually talk about yourself,” she says, giving me a flirtatious smile.

Crap, she’s hot and all, but should I really be doing this?

I’m about to give her the quote of a lifetime when I pause, stopping myself. Hanna Maria’s just entered the exhibit, her gaze roving about it until she locks eyes with me.

“Just because I’m public now, doesn’t mean that my art is about me,” I say, giving J a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Work the crowds. That’s where the wisdom is.”

With that, I leave her behind and move on to Hanna Maria.

She’s dressed in a stunning white backless dress, highlighting the elegant black of her skin, with diamond earrings and a pearl necklace. Her husband is nowhere to be seen.

“Impressive work,” Hanna Maria says, glancing one of the paintings hanging on the side of the wall. “This one reminds of Twombly at his prime.”

“Most people like to make the Duchamp comparison,” I say.

“You mean the washing machine? Found objects?”

I nod.

“I don’t like it as much, especially with that eye staring out at me,” she says. “It feels almost… sanitised. Too clinically designed to evoke a reaction.”

“Harsh,” I say. “Especially considering that that’s your iris on the washing machine there.”

Hanna Maria pauses then, the ghost of a smile tracing her lips.

“Is it really?”

“It wasn’t easy for me to get it. You’re good about keeping high quality photos of you off the web.”

“But there’s an exception.”

“It wasn’t on the web.”

“So you kept the photo.”

“Of course I did,” I say.

Or at least, Mr. Samuel somehow managed to get a hold of it, I think to myself.

“Whatever happened to those days? Those were good times. Life was so carefree, so easy…”

“Whoever said those days had to be over?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“I’ll meet you in two days. Your house.”

There's a blush of warmth on my cheek as Hanna Maria leaves a kiss there.

“I’m counting on it,” she says, and then she’s gone.

From across the room, Sean Corolla gives me a big smile and a thumbs up.