Joshua Cohen - Witz

Are we expected to justify — tell me, to whom? They’re here because B’s tongue’s finally finished licking its rounds, has only just returned to the city, to be unveiled tonight and enshrined, on permanent exhibition and in its original, restored reliquary of I promise, it’s gold, housed under a lone spotlight, in a furthest gallery yet to be opened…beyond the doors, which are huge, castiron monstrosities, like mouths, as if the breasts to a giant’s coat, Gog, Magog, Goliath, the noted developer Barry Silberfels depicted towering over his wife nèe Phyllis Stein and their twin kinder Stephen and Steven — the doors, stylized with carvings, imaged commandments, their symbolism obscure only to the blind or the braindead, don’t do this, do do this, Thou shalts and not and please, just don’t ask: in a wild wind they’re flung open to the street, the collection aired to the darkness, the stairs that lead up then into the marbling heart, to the flight of guests arriving at yet another destination never their final — ascension, verticality, that’s called mobility, babe; past the staircase’s landing, halving the flights, guarded by two templar lions chained tightly to rails, their paws splayed without claw, they’re rolling twinned globes, being ridden by agents, barebacked undercover as angels twirling swords on temporary fire…past them, fleeing from the flash and the ask, they’re still pouring in: curators and docents and amateur experts, the critics with their papers and pens in their defamation suits, slurry ties, arm-in-arm money-lenders with their lent, philanthropists two-by-two, alongside their beneficiaries even betterdressed, beaming, these schemers and scammers charitably deducting their rentals tonight; more guests billed as either surprise or special or both, personalities you might know from, remember or recognize, roast and toastmasters extraordinaire — this place, it must be making a fortune; they’ll museum the world three times over with what they’re taking in: fivethousand shekels per plate’s being charged, endowments gathering interest forever, sponsorship’s accumulative assurance ad æterna, the Paradise that is the Curator’s Circle, the Purgatory of Sustaining Membership slander, whatever you want to be, we’ll go ahead and give it a name; amazing, tomorrow they’ll be turning donors away. Menschs flood the lobby, make coatcheck, strip rubbers, lose umbrellas then locust the cashbar, ordering vodka with Jaffa OJ for their wives headed straight to the restrooms to face fresheningup: primp and preen with powder the puffs of their noses, redlabel mashke with Coke (O/U, by now even K’s good enough) for themselves. Free Palestein! with every large cup of coffee! A Mazel Tov orgy, boutonnières poking bosoms, the glint and stick of starredflag lapelpins, handshakes, onehanded, twohanded, hugs turning to kiss one for each cheek, two for them both then the lips; let me admire you twirls, looking the new wife or girlfriend onceover, up and down, check the gums, turn around now, bend at the waist; some are talking standing talking then moving to mingle, sidestep network, drop and hint, while others’ve already taken their placecarded seats at tables placed around the periphery then further in toward the stumbleworn inner stairs; their hands in their laps they’re waiting for what, some sort of honorable mention, another award, a keynote unlocking, the idea, justification, the reason, excuse: save it for later; first’s the gala, then the appeal; they riffle their programs — and only then, the unveiling…the Tongue.

A moment, please. In this whole huge horrible marble world in which love might be lost but its clay still remains — are there any exhibits, any objects, anything at all I’m talking save the Tongue…in this entire terrible world of stone, upon this lonesome rock thirdsunned, are there, where are they then, the artifacts, I mean, the pictures hung on the wall…statues to walk around and around again and around, following their flaws: a horror, monstrous it’s a profile all the way around; there’s no substance, it’s terrible, there’s no real…all those vast empty spanses expected and then, meaning: Rape of the Deserving by Apollo, of Europa, taken for granted by Dionysus, among others, Der Blaue Reiter heading east over Die Brücke, anything else for the chiaroscurious, maybe Selfportraits of Madonna & Child, one by him one by her how they’re hung as a diptych, side by pierced side…sacra conversazione set in shepherd’s green pasture against mountainside alla prima, what about The Circumcision of Christ, Three Kings veiled impasto, lives of the saints in infinitriptych, altarpieces in which each panel of three folds into three, those three then folding into threes of their own and then, tripling infinitely within a frozen forever, Last Supper Last Judgment natura morta, a likeness of St. Olympias done in the school of Rembrandt’s sfumato, a saint orphaned, too, who she died rich in exile in Nicodemia, and whose Roman feast day’s the day of the night of His birth, that of St. John of Martha, then, or of St. Florian, whoever how it doesn’t much matter, they’re all dead anyway and yet remembered, too, with that same gild hanging over their heads, framed with holiness, touch them, you’ll wither — any graven images is what I’m asking? No, only the Tongue…how everything else’s in private collections: the profanities had been confiscated earlier, way back in the chaos, were then snatched up illegally or — hanging frontside toward the wall for the crying, the indulgence of anonymous bids — for nothing at auction and are presently on show in the grandiose homes and offices of those who’d afforded them and their risk…

Only hours to Opening, the exceedingly fey he’s probably a fayg partyplanner (hired here in return for his silence regarding the ongoingly if slowly investigated arson of the Island, it’s said, that old Xmas Eve), he camps around, this way then that, the chicken they’re serving tonight with its head cut off, and, God, the caterers, they’re too late. More like gliding on the floors, which have just been polished, in slippered feet then his socks: he’s limp wrists, sighs, and eye rolls, in a symbolic blue bekishe (Zaiden, velvetpiped, a twelvebutton customjob, with superadded pink triangle satin appliqué just for fun) fixed with a white gartel — blue & white, the color scheme of the evening, their lives — flapping in the wake of his hustle; he’s lisping a shriek loudly, hurling lallations, his lambdacist orders; desperate pleas without please at his staff of lackeys, assistant and attendant, who relay all demands to their own assistants and attendants, who in turn pass along the frustrated rage, down the hierarchy then onto whom, the last repository of their nerves and their angst — the interning unacceptable, here just to get a little experience as the party responsible, he’s not even getting paid, whoever’s son he is or the friend of a friend. Tonight, it’s an Eden motif, paradise is the theme, Pardes, that’s why it’s so much, too much, all this work, you think the prelapsarian comes easy, come again, broaden your mind with the budget: the idea being to transform the lobby interior of the Museum into as much of an oasis as possible, as paradisiacal as resources allow; fourrivered, duly labeled the Tigris and the Euphrates, the Pishon and Gihon, surrounded by palms, real trees then fake ones allocated, too, when an emergency Miami shipment went delayed and then lost. A Garden…at least the appletrees have arrived no problem, down from Upstate then potted packed into the fray, the forbidden Tree the tallest and widest, under which the fayg meets with his waitstaff, foreigners gathered around its trunk for instruction and pep: to encourage guests to gather from this orchard at will, take their pick; the branches will be restocked with produce throughout the proceedings. An hour before doors he’s going totally manic, in a fit, an outright conniption: they’re ready for any creation, prepared for any fall, as expected, as has been amply budgeted and contracted for, but something’s missing, someone’s late, not quite right…boss, ¿qué pasa? what’s wrong? an attendant asks the scream echoed amid the lobby’s vast vault; a moment later he’s in tears on the phone dialing frantically, like where the hell’s our goddamned snake, where the gehenna’s the handler at, listen, is this the Bronx Zoo — I’m hanging up if I’m not hearing hiss…