The Story of Art
We all supported Mom going back to college—that wasn’t the issue. She’d devoted her life to others—raising four sons, filling in at Dad’s shop, keeping grandchildren. At sixteen she’d helped start a labor union at the Friendly’s mayonnaise factory, still the only unionized business in Foote, South Carolina. She deserved something for herself, and we were excited to see what it would be. She’d always loved drawing and thought she might like to take a few studio classes at the community college.
“Of course, my children are my real art,” she said, which was something she said often, and it always made us smile. “But it might be fun to see what else I can dream up.”
And it’s not like we expected her to stick to flowers or fruit bowls or anything. While children never completely know their parents, we knew this was our mother, who loved experimental theater and books with titles none of us could pronounce. We knew any art she made would be different, and we couldn’t wait to see it.
Still, imagine our discomfort when she unveiled that first penis.
“I’m not too happy with how the glaze did,” she said, setting this ceramic monstrosity smack dab in the middle of the kitchen counter. “But my professor said it has presence.”
We’d arrived at Mom and Dad’s expecting Sunday brunch and a game of Apples to Apples. Now we all searched for another place to rest our eyes, anywhere but on that bulging, veiny mass that towered over the air fryer.
“Is that a toadstool?” asked the youngest granddaughter before being hurried outside.
Dad flashed a grin that could only be described as upsetting. “Guess who the model was?”
Over time it got to where we were afraid to visit, not knowing when Dad might answer the door in nothing but his bathrobe, or when we might find Mom arranging her latest work on the mantelpiece—phallus after phallus rendered in clay, wood, scrap metal. She’d see our faces and reply, “Oh, grow up, boys, you’ve all got them,” as if that somehow made it all right.
When we asked how we were supposed to explain all of this to our children, what to say when they asked about “Mimi’s pee-pees,” she only rolled her eyes and said they should already know the names of parts by now, and hadn’t we had The Talk with them yet, and how had she raised such prudish sons? Then she ordered us all copies of this children’s picture book called Hooray for Bodies. It was translated from Swedish, and it was horrifying.
This became our lives—all penises, all the time. Sometimes Mom would sculpt a torso or a whole body, sometimes a female figure riding a giant penis like a horse. The latter, she explained, had to do with rituals honoring the god Dionysus, and there was probably more to it, but we pretty much started dissociating whenever she got going on the penis-riding women. Mom’s penises popped up in her Facebook posts, her Christmas letters. Our childhood bedrooms were crammed full of them. When we thought “Mom,” we thought “penis.”
Still, we all showed up at the Foote Technical College art gallery for the opening reception of Totem, Mom’s show of twenty-four male figure studies in an array of colors and textures. She’d invited everyone—her book club, her Zumba class, Reverend Strickland. We ate cheese and crackers while she worked the room, blowing kisses like it was the Met Gala and not a tiny room in between the computer lab and the Chik-fil-A. She looked happy.
At the end of the night, this guy with a handlebar mustache came up and gave Mom his card, saying he’d like to do an article about her work for the Foote Fetish, our local altweekly. She immediately agreed.
Dad told us how impressive she was, how when Handlebar Mustache Guy asked questions about her work, she seemed nervous at first, but then she relaxed and started explaining about ancient Pompeiian graffiti and Louise Bourgeois, and other things she was writing about for her next art history paper. “You should have heard her,” Dad said. “She could have her own show on PBS.”
The issue came out two weeks later, and Dad drove downtown to pick up pizzas and copies of the magazine for everyone. We gathered in the den to read, leaving dinner for later lest we get pizza grease on the pages. The photos looked nice, although the perspective or something made everything look distorted and wacky. Mom’s forehead furrowed as she read the article. Then she threw her copy on the floor.
“Don’t be discouraged, hon,” Dad said. “The fact is, not everyone is going to understand what you do.”
“You mean my ‘Freudian kitsch?’” she snapped. “Because apparently that’s all my work is.”
Handlebar had also referred to her as a “spunky grandma” throughout. Even without being super familiar with aesthetic theory, we could tell it wasn’t the way you described a serious artist.
“Forget him. Let’s eat,” Dad said.
But Mom rushed upstairs, sniffling. We sat around uncomfortably.
Dad sighed. “That’s the thing about the creative life,” he said, as if the creative life were something he’d spent years pondering. “You have to contend with obtuse people.”
We agreed. Dad went up to try and reassure her, but she wouldn’t budge, and since it felt weird to have Mom’s celebratory dinner without Mom or any celebration, we each said good night and took some pizza home.
It was almost midnight when Dad texted to summon us back.
“I found Mr. Mustache’s address. We’re going to go teach him a lesson in journalistic ethics.”
We texted each other about what Dad could have meant by “lesson.” Our father was not an aggressive man. If he saw a spider in the house, he’d do a capture and release. If someone cut him off in traffic, he’d only shake his head and say, “Foolish.” As for us, we’d maybe had some scuffles at school or summer camp, but no actual fights. Now, though, our mother had been insulted, and it stirred up something primal. If Dad was considering violence, we might be on board.
“Get in,” Dad said, when we met him, motioning with a flashlight at his SUV.
We rode in silence until we arrived at these trendy lofts where one of the old textile mills used to be. You had to swipe a card at the main entrance, so we weren’t sure how we’d get in, which was sort of a relief, because what was our plan here? Now we could say we tried. Maybe we could yell something at the guy’s window and disrupt his sleep. Maybe we could leave behind a nasty note. But right then a tenant stepped out for a smoke and held the door for us five polite, harmless-looking gentlemen in polos and cargo shorts. We took the elevator up, and Dad found Handlebar’s door and pounded on it.
A young woman wearing an oversize T-shirt that said “Chicken Bucket” opened the door and blinked at us.
“Good evening, I would like to talk to the jackass with the cartoon villain facial hair about what is and is not ‘kitsch,’” Dad said, making air quotes with his fingers.
The woman blinked at us again, yelled, “Babe,” over her shoulder, and shuffled away. We stood there awkwardly until Handlebar appeared.
“Can I help you?” he said, frowning.
“Can you help me? Can you help me?” Dad pulled a rolled-up copy of the offending magazine out of his back pocket and waved it in the man’s face. “You can explain this hit piece you did on my wife.”
We all took wide stances, our arms crossed, doing our best to look threatening, but it was still unclear how this would go down. Would we all lunge at him at once? Would we be sporting and let him have a shot first? Was the girlfriend already calling the police?
And then the guy laughed.
“Um, I don’t know what to tell you. She makes penis sculptures. It’s funny. So I wrote a funny article about it. I only said nice things.”
Was now the time to punch him? It didn’t seem like it.
“Nice things,” Dad sputtered. “Nice things. My wife makes serious art, not—” he pointed to the article. “Not ‘naughty tchotchkes to spice up the next county fair craft show.’ Did you or did you not hear her tell you all that stuff about ancient Italians?”
Handlebar shrugged. “Listen, I don’t mean this in an unkind way. But every beginner artist tries to be shocking at some point. Creepy doll heads or crucifixes—or penises. It’s not that deep. But I thought it was charming to see a suburban grandmother do it. Anyway, hope y’all have a good night.” He tried to close the door.
“Oh no you don’t,” Dad said, sticking his foot in the way.
Handlebar rolled his eyes. “Sir,” he said, “It’s late, and you probably have other people to harass. So if you don’t mind—”
Several things happened seemingly at once. Dad pushed his way inside, and we tried to follow. Handlebar dodged left. We heard a low growl, and Handlebar’s girlfriend rushed headfirst into Dad’s gut, sweeping his legs and knocking him on his back. Next thing we knew, she was sitting on his chest, her hands around his neck.
“Yeah,” Handlebar said, bending over Dad. “My lady teaches at the Krav Maga academy. So are we ready to leave now?”
Sure, there were still four of us, but how were we supposed to fight a lady, especially a lady wearing nothing but a T-shirt? We moved slightly closer, and she growled again, and Dad raised his hands in surrender. At last, she stood, never looking away from us, and backed into the dark apartment. We helped Dad to his feet and shuffled toward the elevator.
The lights were on back at the house. We found Mom sitting up in her recliner, phone in hand, and that’s when we noticed all the texts we’d missed from her. Dad sheepishly gave an edited version of what we’d been up to, leaving out the part where he was sprawled on the floor begging for mercy.
Mom sighed. “The thing is, he’s right. It is kitsch. It’s silly.” She picked up a crocheted lavender penis from the coffee table and regarded it. “I’m in those classes every day with kids fifty years younger than I am, and they assume I’m doing this as my little hobby. Like they’re making real art, but I’m only trying to keep my mind active. Like I might as well be doing crossword puzzles or Bingo. Then I finally made something that got a reaction. I don’t know—maybe I should try Bingo.”
And somehow, we found ourselves all saying, No, no, please keep making sculptures of our father’s penis and displaying them in public, because it was horrible to see her so sad.
Then she looked at us and said, “Of course my children are my true works of art. That’s what really matters. My sweet babies.” And she smiled weakly and went back to bed.
It’s hard to explain why that statement suddenly felt different. Maybe because it hit us for the first time that it’s a lot of pressure to be your mother’s works of art. Was our mere existence supposed to take the place of whatever else she’d envisioned for herself? What were we supposed to do with that? We each looked at each other and then at Dad, and no one could offer any ideas as to how a person was supposed to go around being art. An orthodontist or a boiler inspector, sure, but now we were also supposed to be like paintings and whatnot?
And Mom obviously wasn’t any more convinced by her own words than we were, because she spent the next few weeks moping, not going to her classes or making anything new. The school art gallery called about coming to collect her work so they could set up the next student exhibition—which was, incidentally, a show of creepy doll heads, so sure, maybe Handlebar had a slight point. She told them to throw her work away. Thankfully Dad overheard the conversation and went and boxed it up himself and was driving back home when he had his epiphany.
Mom didn’t see the point at first and told him as much. And naturally, the HOA had issues with Dad setting out penis sculptures all over the front yard. Soon all the parents in the neighborhood were posting on Nextdoor, demanding to know what they were supposed to say when they walked past the house with their children. Dad’s response was to order them their own copies of that Swedish picturebook. Eventually someone dug up some city ordinances about offenses against public morals, and a couple of councilmen got involved, and he had to take everything down. But that was not before people who’d read the Foote Fetish article came to check out the improvised sculpture garden and take pictures, which was how Mom wound up being contacted by a fellow in Atlanta who wanted to buy some pieces for his bar.
“Wonderful,” Mom said. “Someone else who thinks I’m a joke.”
But Dad told her, “Get your work in front of people. Maybe only one person will get it at first, but they’ll talk about it to other people who’ll get it, and so on.”
And Mom did start meeting more people here and there who were interested in her work—as a joke, yes, but gradually it became a joke she was in on with them, if that makes sense? And she finished her fine arts certificate and then a four-year degree and even some grad school, although that was interrupted by her heart.
That was also why she couldn’t go see them install her piece that got purchased by this museum of erotica in Sweden. They weren’t connected to the picture book—Sweden is apparently just a very open country. Anyway, there were some slight complications with her second angioplasty, and while she argued she was fine, her doctor was against her taking a long-haul flight or even a cruise yet. Dad also stayed home, not wanting to leave her.
But we went and promised to take lots of pictures. The night of the opening reception we walked out into the museum courtyard and saw it—her eight-foot marble statue, right next to a reflecting pool, gleaming in the sunlight, because the sun doesn’t even set over there in the summer. The museum had lots and lots of penises—realistic ones, cartoony ones, ones that made sound effects—but, as we all observed, our mother’s was the biggest.
Katie Burgess’s work has previously appeared in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, New Orleans Review Online, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. Read more at katieburgess.fun.
