No Panic

PROLOGUE.

May 10, 2008

We live in fear, and thus we don't live.

BUDDHA

What is man? Courage was always dominating

the universe because everything is weakness and fear

UGO FOSCOLO, The Last Letters of Jacopo Ortis

The room is steeped in shadow. All of a sudden I leap up from the floor. My legs don’t feel very steady and my head is spinning, but I continue on. I stop only to allow my eyes, struck by what for a moment appears to be a swarm of angry insects, to become accustomed. And then I head toward the closet. I open it, stand in front of the mirror that covers the entire inner surface of the door and confront myself. I look myself straight in the eye, without lowering my gaze, without succumbing to the desire to pity myself, to lie to myself. I watch and wait.

Suddenly I see myself: a coward. A well preserved coward: slim but not skinny. Long straight hair, hard-to-read eyes, breasts that fit perfectly in the curve of a hand, shapely legs, small feet. Not one wrinkle. 35 years old in just a few days. I look at least five years younger. Perhaps because I never actually lived those years, that’s why they haven’t left any marks on my face. No children, no pets, a relatively interesting and well paid job, just enough to live comfortably, no mortgage, a leased Volkswagen, and health insurance that covers all my needs. Yet another bad affair that has just ended in shambles. After almost five years. Shambles: the only way I know to put an end to something. The parting destroys me, even if the person I’m leaving is always the wrong person, or, worse yet, detrimental to me. The fact is that end implies a forever and I am not a forever woman.

My pantry is full of boxes of cookies opened and then left there, in a reverential as much as distressful inability to find the perfect time to consume the last delicious biscuit. So delicious that the mere thought of parting with it causes me unbearable longing. The last morsel always just a bite away, fleeting solace for my troubled soul. Until one day, in a cathartic fit, I throw them all away. Without reason. Without pity. This is just my way of living. Pointless privations, tempered expectations. Fears and raptures broken up by moments of stasis that I have decided to call life. Geometric phases in the life of a coward by choice. This time, however, I feel like I’ve reached the limit. Probably I already passed the limit without realizing it and I can’t turn back, even if I wanted to.

I did it. Mentally and physically. I ripped away the safety net that supported me over the past five years. The thought of this makes me euphoric, though at the same time it throws me off balance. I sit on the floor, disoriented, and observe the room around me. It’s room number 55 of the Hotel Continental, a huge building near the Milan Convention Center. I have always loved hotels. In the same way that airports do, they arouse a feeling of excitement in me and make my perception more lucid. That which slumbers in daily existence comes back to life. Contact with transient individuals, an impersonal but basically reassuring structure, helps me be more courageous in confronting those dark areas in which I am lost. Like a traveler discovering the world, having given up all her domestic routines but eager to experiment, to learn, even to risk.

That’s why I’m here. I want to trip the switch. I’m not running away: I’ve confined myself in a corner with my back to the wall. That’s the only way I can do it. Nights here are long and silent, identical to day. The present becomes blurred with the past. My mind prepares to battle its fears. I get up, open the drapes. The sun is sinking and the last rays come through the window and lap at parts of my naked body. I hear light footsteps which stop in front of my door and then continue on. It must be the cleaning woman: she must want to come in and do her job, but she can’t ignore the do not disturb sign that has hung on the doorknob for the last twenty-four hours. A few feet away, the cell phone, in silent mode, pulsates, emitting a faint bluish light that I once again ignore. There must be at least twenty missed calls and just as many messages. It electrifies me to think that others are looking for me. They want to know where I am, what’s happening to me. Maybe they’d like to help me, stay close to me, know what’s going through my mind. Edoardo probably wants to apologize. Now he probably thinks he loves me, that he wants me, that I’m the only one: this always happens when something you had, and didn’t appreciate, disappears. Everything is destined to disappear, why is it so difficult to accept?

Moved by an uncontrollable impulse, I grab the cell phone and throw it up in the air. It makes a dull thud when it falls and breaks into three pieces. I feel like laughing. I’ve always dreamed of doing that. Satisfied, I lie down on the floor in a fetal position, in front of the sliding glass door. I shut my eyes and let the darkness surround me.

.PART I.

FEAR OF FEAR

Every day I lose courage, and every day somehow, I find it again.

BARBARA HONIGMANN, Story of a child

We are threatened with suffering from three directions:

from our own body, which is doomed to decay and dissolution and which cannot even do without pain and anxiety as warning signals;

from the external world, which may rage against us with overwhelming and merciless forces of destruction; and finally from our relations to other men.

SIGMUND FREUD, Civilization and Its Discontents

.ONE.

It’s not an I-wouldn’t-have-it-in-my-house philosophy that inspires art. Much more inspiring are the love and passion of those for whom art is a reason for living, those who know, study, enjoy and ultimately possess it. Art is much more than an aesthetically pleasing object to gaze at, hung on a wall or viewed in a film. Much more than a collection of information to be memorized, more than an alternative economic investment to real estate or stocks. Since the beginning of time, art has been the mimesis of reality but also critique, interpretation and vision. It is a glimpse of genius ahead of its time, which often pays the price of incomprehension, of public scorn, sometimes even persecution or worse, ante mortem oblivion. Indeed, art is not only that consecration that an artist seeks in his lifetime, but the glory that endures throughout centuries, surviving history, men and time. A profound, poignant and terribly human attempt to rise to the rank of creator of all things. In art therefore death is not the end, but the eternal consecration of genius…

Bianca Buzzati

It is in this spirit that I impatiently await the demise of Spaiolo, the artist to whom the article is dedicated, who always pats my behind, calls me baby doll, treats me and my boss arrogantly, and makes us sweat blood over the twelve pieces in his collection of paintings, sculptures and monochromes dating back to the Sixties. A rarity on the market which craves them, venerates them, overpays for them and will overpay at least twice that when they become, in fact, posthumous. And yet, having just turned seventy-nine, Spaiolo drinks, smokes, carouses with his slutty twenty-five year-old and has no intention of consecrating his genius to eternal glory, far from it. Yesterday evening, as a guest on a national television talk show, he stated that he intends to begin painting a cycle of oils in his eighties, employing his penis. He used the word penis, pointing to it and turning to Rita Levi-Montalcini who was sitting beside him, trying to figure out if she had correctly understood the topos of the conversation. The reaction of those present was nearly a standing ovation that transformed him into some kind of oracle: the old man invited everyone present, including the show’s host, to come see his show in ten years, which he maintained would be a societal cross-section not to be missed. A typically male point of view. Along the lines (by now decidedly passé) of: give me a penis and I will lift up the world.

I can’t write these reflections in the article. Right, Mamma? Cynical and politically incorrect, I would become a source of embarrassment for Astart. I reread the piece: composed and suitable for the website of a small auction house, established thanks to the whim of a wealthy, cultured Milanese financier. A firm with a staff of five employees: the managing director and the four department heads for the areas we deal in, namely: Modern and Contemporary Art; Seventeenth Century; Fourteenth and Fifteenth Century Italian Art; and Jewelry. Plus the group of us assistants and the administrative people: contract employees, subject to being sacrificed at any moment. A company that boasts a competent, specialized workforce, almost entirely European (synonymous with culture and history), the large majority Italian (synonymous with elegant taste, developed and confirmed by 45 percent of the world's artistic heritage) and, last but not least, in many cases of noble birth. A company that in a few years has doubled its sales, thanks to new financial trends on the part of collectors who consider the art world a more interesting playground than the stock market. The credit is also partly due to the American who is my immediate superior.

David Spolding, male, Jewish, around 43 years old, head of the contemporary art division. He is the only American in the company, and he is also the expert with the most interesting resumé. To fill in certain educational gaps at the Masters level and acquire the ultra-select specializations that he probably did not have occasion to become familiar with, David served as assistant to the manager of the equivalent department at Sotheby's for two years and, for one year, was in charge of contemporary art at Christie's. The two deities in the small world of auction houses. There aren’t very many of them in Italy, so it’s natural that the experts not only know one another, but move from one auction house to another depending on the best offer. Just like the lots they sell. I am convinced that to attract David to Astart, Mr. Magnoni, the managing director, must have made him a rather interesting offer. In fact, it seems to me that Mr. Magnoni gives David an appreciable part of my salary. Even though, a week ago, he promised that by the end of the year he will give me a reasonable increase which I am reasonably awaiting.

I hit Send and shut down Astart’s screen. And with that, dear Mamma, I can end the day with a clear conscience. I also close Splinder, Messenger, Facebook, Gmail, and finally Skype. Announced by a series of synthetic sounds, I slip offline without delay, denying the virtual world the presence of my avatar and its resolute character. With the same ease with which I put on my coat, I retake possession of my usual confused personality.

It’s seven o’clock, I just have time to stop by the delicatessen on the way home and pick up dinner for the evening that Edo and I have planned. Octopus and potatoes, rare filet, grilled vegetables and Catalan custard. I’ll get a bottle of Gewurztraminer in the hopes that this time, for a change, when it circulates through Edo’s bloodstream, it will arouse his senses and his dormant desire. It’s only been five years.

Like youthful recklessness, sex diminishes over time. After a while faithful sex is no longer gratifying and, even in the best of families, engenders a desire to seek new stimuli. You know that all too well, Mamma, don’t you? Even the most elective affinity, the most attractive, sensual body, the most exciting odor are temporary. I too know it only too well, Mamma. All my men have always betrayed me. And I, thanks to a series of coincidences, almost as if it were a sign from destiny, always found out about it. Edo doesn’t betray me, but for two years now the most he grants me is a couple of performances a month, maintaining that it’s normal for a man of forty-six, his biological rhythms are by now those of a man in his fifties (but then, who says sex goes out of style at age fifty?). Still, he loves me deeply. I love him too, but my season isn’t over yet: I would have sex much more often. I often think back to our first times, when I was a patient of his. It was stolen sex, in his office, with his wife’s photo on his desk. Urgent sex, as necessary as breathing. Fearless sex, something rare for a person like me. Sex that today is only a memory.

Good thing you’re still here... Bianca, what are you thinking so hard about?. David's voice makes me jump in my seat. I don’t answer. I smile and lower my eyes, trying to hide my embarrassment over my thoughts, even if he hasn’t heard them. As David praises my article, tilting his face slightly to the right and moving his hands in the same elegant way that he usually reserves for the bidding and that makes him look like one of the most fascinating auctioneers in the place, I begin to feel suspicious. To say that David is usually sparing with his compliments is a euphemism; not to mention the fact that he doesn’t read the site very often, much less in real time. Bianca, my dear, I’d like it if you were to come with me tonight: Count Camillo Crespi Rospigliosi has planned a kind of cocktail party at his home, major collectors will be there, as well as gallery owners, a few artists. He smiles sweetly, and waits, as always when he gives me an order. Despite his authentic Yankee origins (he’s from Florida even though he claims to be originally from Boston), David has the look and manner of an elegant dandy. He’s courteous, never raises his voice and his gaze is penetrating. His formidable shrewdness at work is matched by an equal vulnerability in his love life. He lives with his homosexuality in a tormented fashion, exalting or concealing it, depending on the period. Our relationship experiences the same ups and downs: at times he tries to be supportive, at other times he becomes caustic and tyrannical. Tonight is a thumbs up night. Or is there something more?

Tactfully I explain to David that it would be difficult for me to accompany him to the Count’s soirée because of a series of engagements related to my so-called private life. Then I watch his eyes for a moment: it’s impossible to say no to him once he’s made up his mind. I confess that I don’t even have much desire to do so. The evening with David will certainly be more enjoyable that the one looming with my boyfriend. Lately (a matter of years now) these evenings are all the same: dinner, a move, bedtime. There isn’t a single new release or film d’auteur which I haven’t seen, thanks to his frantic downloading habit. I’m tired of watching life on film. Bianca, my dear, this is a business matter, not just a simple evening at the home of a collector. It’s about the Pollock we’ve been courting for a year, don’t you see? Millions of dollars, not peanuts! And the Count requested you specifically. … So freshen your makeup and hop in the car.

I leave my excuses on Edo’s voicemail, and as I settle myself in the seat I think about the significance and limitations of my work. I surf through the art world, regularly signing project-based contracts and hoping that one day I’ll be able to do what I really want. In fact, one of these days I hope to figure out what I really want to do. David thinks I want his job at Astart, but that’s far from the truth. The fact that I generally ignore the luxurious social life that flourishes in the art world’s milieu irritates and attracts him at the same time. He thinks I’m the snobbiest of snobs. The truth is that soirées at the home of wealthy, aristocratic collectors usually rattle me. Those artists, critics and journalists who consider themselves keepers of knowledge inhibit me and turn me into a professional gaffeuse. The gallery owners, with their practical common sense and passion for the numbers behind the art, are the only ones I can stand. Ranging between prices and dates, the conversations are always neutral. My realm for now is the office, or rather, the PC and the virtual rooms in which I am able to resemble at least a little the person I would like to be.

Complaints aside, I’m fortunate: I love art and this feeling surpasses my uneasiness at not knowing what I want out of life, goes beyond my fear of uncertainty about the future, beyond the pessimism that I can’t help cultivating towards others and towards the world. The work I do allows me to experience art without filters. To touch the crackalure in the colors of a Raphael, to have a Modigliani and a Picasso in my office, an exhibition of Balla and one of Giacometti's drawings; to interview great artists who have shaped the history of art. During university – humanities, with an art major, since according to my father the Brera Art Academy in Milan, and DAMS performing arts program, were dens of do-nothings – I dreamt of narrowing the gap between me and these great artists. At least on a physical level, as happens here in Astart. Here we are, Bianca. Just remember the goal of the evening: the Pollock. The rest is just window dressing! That’s how David sees things. Life is organized around objectives. One goal accomplished, onto the next. If you stop, you’re lost. We enter the foyer of the villa at Via Morigi 5 and walk up to the second floor. It’s one of those buildings which, viewed from outside, reveal nothing of what they are like inside. Externally the structure has undergone a massive renovation in line with the colors and contours of the adjacent buildings. Internally it is clear that the architecture dates back to the second half of the sixteenth century: square floorplan, frescoed porticos and vaulted ceilings. Waiters in livery circulate between the second and third floors carrying trays laden with sushi and champagne flutes, the well-dressed guests murmur and laugh softly, the works on the walls are simply sensational. David, as excited as a bull facing a red cape, is wearing his cultured man of art expression: he purses his lips, raises his right eyebrow, tenses his nostrils. The effect is a slight grimace that makes him look sufficiently snobbish for the radical chic element in attendance. He downs the entire contents of the first flute in one gulp and, with ruthless eyes, seeks out his victim.

He begins by striking up a conversation with a group of men, who can only be lawyers or people who work in financial firms that make money. Laughing boisterously a few yards away are their saccharine better halves, ash blond, in designer Prada and Hermes. The men’s talk concerns fluctuations in the paintings’ values, that of the women is about the upcoming weekend at the Forte sports club and