The Missing Person Read Free

me the year of fellowship support I was living on now. I could tell that he was going to read it out loud.
    â€œPlease don’t start reading it out loud,” I said.
    He peered at it as if he hadn’t written it. “The Secret Modernists: Cultural Production and Practice in Women Artists, 1965 to 1980.” He looked up. “Have you looked at those Eleanor Antin papers I was telling you about? Did you go to Philadelphia to see that show?” Then, after I didn’t answer: “You know, Lynn, I’ve always thought this was an excellent topic. You have an opportunity here to do something potentially explosive. But if you sit on it for too long, somebody else will beat you to it.”
    I’d heard this speech before, though I couldn’t remember where the idea had even come from originally, whether it was mine or his. The dissertation supposedly would re-evaluate the feminist art movement in modernist terms, arguing that even though the artists themselves rejected traditional barometers of quality, the work itself could nonetheless be evaluated and prized according to those terms. It was the perfect approach, Michael once said, one that dismantled previous criticism while elevating provocative work; it could push buttons, make enemies, resurrect careers. And, if nothing else, I did like the art of that period, which was populated by high-concept performances and fervent politics, women parading around naked in galleries, issuing manifestos, painting with their menstrual blood. I liked the physical and emotional extremity of it, the willingness of the artists to put their blood and guts, their pain and pleasure, on full display. My dissertation was going to make the case for the aesthetic value of this art, as opposed to its historical significance; I would use my skills as an art historian to situate this work in a broader context and, at the same time, situate myself in the job market. That was Michael’s plan, and clear enough to me; I just hadn’t gotten around to following it.
    He was watching me, and I shrugged. His computer hummed its same monotonous song, and his office smelled of the pear soap he used at home. I didn’t say anything. His area was contemporary art, his office littered with catalogs and announcements and letters and slides. He wrote for all the magazines and went to all the shows. That first year in graduate school, I believed that he was going to teach me something important, not only about art but also about how to live in the world as a sophisticated person. I’d felt my life, and myself, changing under his gaze. But it didn’t last.
    â€œYour grant runs through the end of the summer,” Michael said. “You can take these next few months and then—well, make up your mind. Decide whether you’re going to put out or get out.”
    â€œNot to criticize,” I said, “but do you think that’s the best choice of words?”
    He sighed. “Look, Lynn, you might not believe this, but I’m only trying to help.”
    â€œOh, you’re a big help,” I said. “You’re massive. You’re
huge.
”
    I could barely hear him saying good-bye as I walked out of the office and down the hall. All professors sleep with students, and then with other ones, and nobody is surprised. I wasn’t surprised myself. It was amazing how unhelpful, in the end, lack of surprise could be.
    On I went through the building’s pale hallways. Other people in my program had finagled research opportunities in quaint medieval libraries or internships in plushly air-conditioned museums. Everybody was gone for the summer, and soon Michael would be off to Europe or California or Asia or wherever he was heading with his wife, who was a professor in the anthropology department. The two of them were always jetting off to deliver papers or consultations in exotic locales. I’d met Marianna several times at departmental functions.