Don Lee - The Collective

There was a general though tepid consensus that we could stick in and about after by , but then we had to pull contemporary , since sometimes we might want to address historical Asia or Asian America. This started a tiff about whether we were being too provincial. If we were going to reference Asia, Jay said, we should include Asian Asians, not just Asian Americans, so we changed it to say art by and about Asians and Asian Americans .

Then another squabble emerged. What did we mean by Asian Americans ? Annie asked. We should be specific and say Asian Pacific Americans , Cindy said. But instead of APA, shouldn’t it be APIA, Asian Pacific Islander Americans ? Leon wondered. What about splitting the difference, Andy suggested, and using AAPI, Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders ? But it would confuse the geographic origins further, I said, and by the same token — sorry, a slip of the tongue — what would we then call Asians who were foreigners — no, that had become a pejorative term — okay, nationals? Would we have to enunciate art by and about Asian Pacific Islanders and Asian Pacific Islander Americans ? That would be very clunky. What about the biracial among us, or those who were multiracial? Danielle asked. Would we have to adopt a one-drop rule?

Then Trudy mentioned South Asians. Shouldn’t we include them, too? This led to a skirmish about what Asian meant. There was no question that Southeast Asians qualified, even though many were Muslim, so weren’t Pakistanis and Indians and Bangladeshis eligible?

“Russia is technically in the continent of Asia,” Joshua said. “Why not include Russians, too? Hey, man, let’s include everybody! Let anyone in! We can be one big happy multifucking family!”

Five Sunday nights in a row, and we never were able to finish the mission statement, which was revised, elided, diluted, dumbed, appended, particularized, and parentheticalized into incoherence. Slaughtered by committee. After that, fewer people showed up for the meetings. Rick Wakamatsu and Ali Ong dropped out altogether.

We would never fulfill any of our grand ambitions to sponsor exhibitions, showcases, or publications. Although the 3AC would persist as an ersatz organization for seven more years, with the Sunday potlucks rotating to various members’ apartments, and although many of us would remain close friends, the 3AC’s activities would recede into just holding parties, playing poker and charades, singing karaoke, and watching Wong Kar-wai films.

Maybe everything that happened with the 3AC was Joshua’s fault, or even mine, but I would always resent Esther Xing’s intrusion, however brief, into our cozy little collective. She introduced the first kernels of division into the 3AC, and I would forever wish I could blame her for its eventual demise.

In early April, Jessica finalized the concept for her installation, which she would be calling Dis/Orienting Proportions , and she said she would need my help for the project. As she detailed what she required of me, I was certain she was joking.

“Funny,” I said. “Anything to eat in the house?” I had just returned from a two-day road trip to Vermont, meeting with the list broker for our direct-mail campaign in Rutland and the CSRs at our printer/lettershop in Essex.

“It’s not a joke,” Jessica said. “If you do this for me, I’ll buy you dinner at the B-Side.”

“It’d take a lot more than that. Are you really serious?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve gone completely off the deep end, haven’t you?”

“Maybe,” she said. “I think it’s going to be great, though. I got the idea after seeing W.R.: Mysteries of the Organism at the Film Archive the other day. Will you do it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You have to. Who else am I going to ask? Jimmy Fung?” she asked.

“I’m sure he’d be willing.”

“Too willing.”

“Exactly. No one but someone like Jimmy would do it.”

“Joshua did,” she said.

My imagination reeled with lurid scenarios. “When?” I asked, subsumed with jealousy.

“Last night,” Jessica said. “I just need one more. It’s not a big deal. It’s kind of clinical, the whole procedure.”

“I don’t think anyone would ever compare it to a simple doctor’s visit. Not by a long shot. It’s kind of sick, to be frank. It’s fucking weird and totally depraved, actually. Can’t you see that?”

She couldn’t, and after I made us a quick dinner of linguine with shredded zucchini, onions, garlic, chopped walnuts, and parmesan, during which Jessica badgered me continuously, I consented, mainly because I wanted to know precisely what she had done with Joshua.

“Where is Joshua, anyway?” I asked.

“He went to a rave in Northampton. He took the girl with him.”

“Like on a date? That fucking asshole. I knew it wouldn’t stay innocent for long. She was only supposed to be here a couple of days.”

“They went with Jimmy. They won’t be back until morning.”

“Convenient,” I said.

“She keeps stealing my clothes.”

“Joshua thinks she’s infatuated with you.”

“Or it could be that we’re the same size and she likes my taste and she’s a thief.” After we finished washing the dishes, Jessica said, “There’s something I need you to do first.”

“What?”

“Shave.”

“Shave?” Instinctually I rubbed the stubble on my chin.

“Your pubic hair.”

This was a mistake — a terrible mistake. “All of it?”

“All of it. Your balls, too.”

“How can I shave my balls? Don’t I need to get them waxed or something?” I asked, although waxing seemed a more painful alternative.

“I’ll shave them for you, if you want.”

“Have you gotten into S&M? Is that it? You’re getting off now by cutting people?”

I opted to do it myself, although Jessica insisted on standing outside the bathroom door, shouting instructions. First I sat on the toilet and trimmed my pubic hair with scissors (“Crop it as close as you can!”). Then I took a hot shower (“Really steam up the room! You want to soften up the skin and relax the follicles”). Then I had to exfoliate with a cleanser and a washcloth (“That’ll get rid of dead skin cells”). Next, I dabbed on some shaving oil, keeping my skin damp (“It’ll make the razor glide better and prevent razor burn”), and used a brush to apply a special cream called Brave Soldier Brave Shave, which had been originally formulated for bicyclists, swimmers, and bodybuilders, but which was now favored for extracurricular body shaving (“Work the brush in circles!”).

Jessica had given me a new pivoting razor, and, staring at the three sharp blades, I hesitated, questioning the rationality of this entire project, especially my participation in it. I stood in the tub and began with the easiest area, above and around the shaft (“Pull the skin taut and go in the direction of growth! Keep rinsing the blades! You don’t want to clog them up”). The scariest part was my testicles (“Just go slowly! Use this!” she said, and slid a small hand mirror underneath the door, the lock on which I had thankfully fixed three weeks ago). I had never noticed how wrinkly and ugly the skin of my scrotum was. I had never, actually, really looked at my scrotum.

It took forever, but finally I finished, somehow managing not to nick or cut myself (“Now rinse and pat it dry and put that moisturizer on!”). I climbed onto the edge of the tub and examined my newly bared genitalia in the mirror above the sink. It was, I had to say, a very clean look, even a good look — everything pristine, and seemingly larger.