I used to have an artist friend. I didn't know much about him except for the fact that he had inherited lots of money from a grandparent that invented some shit or another, and that he had eyebrows that arched the way I imagine the devil's eyebrows would arch.
He once invited me to the opening of his new collection. I had anxiety about going because I never feel at ease around most people that have a lot of money. I feel like an Oompa Loompa in a room full of Avatars. I'm like Evita Peron. Whenever i'm around a group of rich people I always feel like they can smell me, and that they talk about the girl that smells like salami when I leave the room. I wish I didn't give a fuck but the truth is I do.
All of his friends were like him: jewelry designers, photographers, film makers. All being supported by their parents. All of them scratching their figs all day long and calling themselves artists. The worst of all of them was this one girl who was an heiress to a gigantic oil fortune who, one day, decided she was going to travel to India to get enlightened. She spent 3 months there doing Yoga and paid an old indian man to give her health tips. Then she came home and wrote a fucking book about it. She referred to herself as a “shaman.” I once overheard her at a party telling someone that if you got cancer and didn't move to a deserted beach then I quote “you were a fucking idiot.”
So my friend's work consisted of giant, 7 foot trophies crafted out of wood. I showed up to t he gallery alone and walked around looking at the all the amazing pieces. I was really impressed with everything and thought I had proved myself wrong to judge this just for being an artist with money, and to clump them all into a category of hacks. My friend approached me and held out a glass of wine, “So what do you think?” he said. I congratulated him, I told him he was a very talented artist and that I loved the concept of exaggerating a trophy which, in and of itself, is already a useless prop humans use to pat themselves on the back with and to feed their egos.
I told him that the concept was extremely intelligent, but that what I admired the most was the manual execution that went into his work. “Carving those immense 7 foot sculptures out of wood with such detail must have taken you years!”
My friend, the artist, took me by the hand and led me to a small room in the back of the gallery. He asked me to take a seat because he wanted to tell me something. “It's not really me that's creating the art pieces,” he said “It's Eulodio.” “Who is Eulodio?” I asked. My friend opened the door to an adjacent room where I was able to see a 4 and a half foot man standing on a ladder, chipping away at a large wooden trophy. “This is Eulodio. He's from Peru. He's an actual Incan can you believe it? Anyways he's my little helper. I come up with the concept. He does all the work.”
My friend led me back to the sofa. I didn't know what to say or how to escape the situation. As the room filled with silence I could still hear Eulodio chipping away at the large 7 foot trophy and at that moment my friend took my hand, and placed it over his crotch, letting me feel a gigantic penis, so hard and so erect that it seemed as if it was made of wood.