ROBIN’S INSTALLATION

Robin Parker-Sims had a ladybug tattoo on her chest and a barbwire arm band tattoo above her left elbow. I felt that if she had put half as much energy into her artwork as her appearance, she would have been a lot further along by now than merely being the co-op’s only non-dues paying member. She was not serious about art and would have been weeded out long ago if it had been up to me.

But the other members wanted more young people involved in the gallery, and someone had to hang the shows and keep the gallery clean. Ironically, after her pretentious little installation had been damaged during the opening reception, Robin said, “Thanks for helping, Audrey. This might’ve been a total loss otherwise.”

As if it could have been anything else.

Robin was about twenty-two, short, neither fat nor thin, and always the Goth look—black clothing, boots with tall soles and heels, dark hair in a bob with bangs, blinding red lipstick, gobs of eye makeup. She worked only part-time at her restaurant job, and never had enough money. She always seemed prickly and uncommunicative, my helpful comments falling upon deaf ears. 

Gladys Larsen, a ceramics artist originally from London (and so proud of it), not only had supported Robin’s installation but I’d overheard her referring to my own still life paintings as “competent but clichéd.” I did not like being spiteful and vindictive, yet such a cutting remark was not easily forgiven. How could anyone prefer Robin’s bizarre exhibition to my watercolors of lilies? Clearly, Gladys lacked appreciation for the long classic tradition. But it was her husband Glenn whom I had accused of ruining Robin’s tampon installation. 

Tampons. I was not unsophisticated, but really.

Despite the personnel problems, ours was a wonderful gallery. It always seemed to glow and gleam because of its white walls, light wood floors, and high ceilings. There was a door at the far end, usually left open, where beautiful glass objects caught the light. During openings, small groups tended to congregate in that area. I assumed this was why Robin had chosen it for her installation, though she never confided in me.

The installation was a six-by-six sculpture consisting of five hundred spray-painted tampons attached by six-pound test monofilament fishing line to the ceiling. It was not meant to be interactive, as any fool could see from the DO NOT TOUCH sign on the wall, but it was still tempting to move the tampons around and that’s exactly what Glenn Larsen had done. I knew. I had seen him. Perhaps he would have preferred to paw Robin, considering how his wife was so up in age.

All of those in the gallery started getting emails about the situation. 

Delicious.

Earlier, when Robin was getting ready to hang the show, she had asked everyone if they knew where a tall ladder might be found because of the gallery’s high ceiling. After attaching the strings of the tampons—all shades of gray—to long thin threads, she had climbed up and pinned them to the ceiling. They all swayed as you walked by. When the installation was damaged, Robin contended (or so I came to discover, the negotiations being conducted behind closed doors) that part of her loss was due to the extensive labor expended just to hang the monstrosity.

“The arrangement couldn’t look messy,” Robin said. “The tampons couldn’t touch each other, but they still had to move slightly without getting tangled up. The threads all had to be cut almost the same length, but not exactly, to get the sensuous swing-effect I wanted.”

I felt sure that after putting her arms up for such a long time, Robin got tired, poor thing. Probably, some of the pins would not hold and the tampons fell. I could imagine her having to climb down and pick them up, then climb back up and do it all over again. 

Robin’s artist statement referred to the repetition of shape and the beauty of monotony. How seeing the same thing over and over had a ritualistic attraction. But they were tampons, for God’s sake. You could put 2,000 of them up there and they would still be tampons.

Robin contended that when Glenn Larsen had touched the hanging tampons, he had tangled them up so badly the mess could never be undone. She demanded that he pay for the damage.

“My work was destroyed,” she said. “I need to be compensated. I worked hard on the installation, and what does that say about the gallery if it can’t even protect its own members?”

This was all very public, as the emails started zinging back and forth. That was how I knew what was going on. I was surprised when gallery director Dan Romano wanted to discuss the matter with me. 

“Of course, Dan,” I said. “I’ve heard the criticism going around that you were being too heavy-handed, but I was shocked because I think you’ve done a wonderful job. With over twenty gallery members, being in charge must be a terrible responsibility.” 

Romano agreed that, indeed, it was. After alluding to my well-known tact and discretion, he told me that negotiations about compensating Robin had run into a snag.

“Glenn claims that he didn’t cause all the damage,” Dan said.

“But I thought he’d admitted as much.”

“While he admits touching the installation and perhaps unintentionally tangling up a couple of threads, he contends that the twisted mess Robin found afterward was someone else’s fault.”

“Whose?” I asked.

“I was hoping you might be able to help with me with that.”

“Me? Why?”

“Only that, as you were the one who saw him do it, I wondered if you’d noticed anyone else batting it around?”

“Certainly not. Otherwise, I’d have said so. I resent the implication, Dan.”

“No implication intended.”

“The only person I saw was Gladys Larsen’s husband. He was batting it around like a cat who can’t keep his paws to himself.”

“Well, you know how it is in a situation like this,” Dan said. “There’s a substantial amount of money being demanded. I’m an artist, not a detective, but I have to ask everyone who might’ve seen something. I know you are observant. That’s why I asked. Thank you for your help.”

Not long after this, at a meeting where I expected further discussion, Romano announced that the matter had been settled privately. Gladys was at that meeting and remained silent, which I found both appropriate and gratifying.

“Let’s not talk about it anymore,” Dan said.

And it was all taken care of, and never spoken of since—openly, although the gossip was that the Larsens had paid a substantial sum in damages to Robin. I told Gladys how sorry I was, and do you know she gave her such an odd look, as if to question my sincerity. But Gladys wouldn’t dare accuse me.

The installation might have been Robin’s last show. She spoke of leaving the gallery soon after, taking her tangled tampons with her, surely not because of this incident, but rather to live in Toronto, where she heard there was an amazing independent art scene—and presumably everyone was tattooed.

© 2024 Rick Neumayer

“Robin’s Installation” was first published in 2012 in Bartleby Snopes and will appear in the forthcoming THREE FOGGY MORNINGS: Stories by Rick Neumayer. If you like this one, I’d love to hear from you.