Provocative Exhibition

Coral and I shared a gallery exhibition in mid-'84.

"Geez, they are confronting," I informed my bestie, taking in the explicit large canvases based on an artist's married life!

Coral worked confidentially on commission to sell controversial artworks while managing a commercial gallery.

The exhibition, Jeff Koons, Made in Heaven series. The local newspaper reviewed the exhibition as pornographic. This headline resulted in a full gallery on corporate sales night.

As I entered the gallery, Coral handed me a champagne flute and a catalogue with an x-rated cover. The venue buzzed in conversation.

"Let's share art," she gushed, bubbling like the fizz in her flute.

She linked arms and glided us through the crowd, gabbing openly about the giant lithographs covering her gallery walls. I tried to process the first confronting image.

My thoughts alternated between arousal and where was the respect? Koons posed, ejaculating over his partner Ilona's body in the artwork. Coral compartmentalised it as art and ideas, not as an actual bedroom scene.

"The model was a former Italian porn star: Cicciolina," Coral informed me. "I like the lithographs. Sure, they're graphic, but they have composition. In a sense, they are not real or spontaneous. Their value is the artist opening a dialogue about sex, marriage and intimacy."

I imagined it hanging above my queen-sized bed.

Then, I couldn't picture a girl staying in my bedroom with art showing a woman being back-door banged.

Coral and I agreed; Ilona in heels, lace and lingerie modelled sexily.

Nothing covered the pair's privates on one canvas. Yet, it was possible to connect to the couple's shared intimacy.

Coral stated, "Koons explores two individuals' sexuality in a relationship. He's saying it's complex. One person's sexuality in life is complex enough, eh, sunshine?"

She gave me a gentle elbow dig in the ribs.

Coral remarked, "Think two! Ilona had a long, explicit public career as a porn star. Here she is as a partner: Koons and Ilona married."

Porn and love — Plenty to think about.

"He seems to accept her as she is. One wonders, could he have produced the works without knowing her past?"

I couldn't visualise a studio model posing like a porn star.

Porn and the explicit: I didn't go there.

"I like this one," passing quickly, a perturbing huge anal sex image.

I viewed Fingers Between Legs.

On the canvas, I contemplated a tenderness in sexuality and equity of feelings. An incredible image, decisive in the courage of its statement, sex can be unflinching and classy within the same instance.

Coral's next piece of commentary modulated sympathy.

"Unfortunately, no happy ending. Koons and Ilona divorced, and custody acrimony ensued."

My sudden thought; Coral needed a happy ending. Who would provide it?

She continued, "The images are sincere because Koons conceived them when he loved Ilona."

I liked how my bestie expressed heartfelt thoughts.

Her golden hair influenced my thinking.

I had to hold my past sexual experiences as sincere — as they were given and received — not weighed with hindsight!

Coral wore a short pink dress. The fabric made me think of freshly spun candy floss.

My golden girl excused herself.

Returning happy after a big sale, her infectious smile, I thought, belonged to a bride. 

My best friend needed her own wedding.

But not wedding photos like Koons and Ilona!

Coral continued her art background story, "So, on canvas, they appear, compeer married lovers. Yet, does anyone ever love equally?"

What a truth!

I watched my champagne bubble.

Her assistant, a lass wearing a light green dress, stole her away for another sale. The signed lithographs sold like hotcakes.

I wondered, where the frick could you hang a Koons? 

Impossible in a boardroom unless you wanted an orgy. 

In your bathroom?

Coral sold every gallery piece. At one stage, she whizzed past me, clinking her half-filled champagne flute with a client, as she bee-lined to sell another Koons.

Another time, I stood swirling two half-full flutes, watching the fizz—the golden girl 'waxed lyrical' selling art a short distance away.

Strange where memory took me as I stood patiently. I left behind sex on a gallery wall and pictured a paper cup in a girl's hand. It was the annual community bonfire and fireworks night in November 1974.

As kids, Josh and I exploded piles of crackers. As teenagers, our priority changed to hanging out and acting cool. At eighteen, the night brought complexities. Josh's complication was Coral and his exasperation, her virginal waiting game. Whilst lurking in the shadows, an opportunistic Brittany was ready to pounce on Josh without his Coral.

Josh and I arrived before Coral and Ruby. In the darkness, the bonfire blazed on undeveloped land behind the suburban sprawl—no need for fire permits or a pyrotechnic license. No signs banning public alcohol consumption. And plenty of blind eyes turned to underage drinking.

Though Josh and I could now do this in the open, a beer in hand, we skylarked as rockets launched to the heavens. We killed time watching fireworks, figuring Coral and Ruby had a netball-related delay.

Josh skulked irritably, gulping a second beer. Crushing the empty can underfoot. He craved his girlfriend and alone time together. His eyes often roved to the dark shadows beneath the big gum trees.

He repeatedly mumbled, "Where is she?"

I watched excited young kids twirl sparklers. Naughty primary-aged boys were lighting unpredictable jumping jacks behind unaware girls. Then illuminating the blackness, a row of colourful Roman candles whirled their flaming cartwheels.

Josh and I merged into a big group as Max and his mates joined us. As Max back slapped Josh, on cue, out of the shadows, Brit slinked into the circle. Max spread his hands and parted a space for his sister. Brit held a paper cup in her hand. Max set off a bunch of Tom thumbs deliberately in our midst.

Everyone scattered. How Brit lured Josh into the gum tree gloom, I don't know. The blonde insinuated herself closer to him than the friendship zone. She upheld her reputation: never waste time with a boy. It should have been her motto.

No teasing, she eased the cup in her hand upwards to Josh's mouth. She encouraged him to sip. I assumed an alcoholic mix. Josh and Brit slurped the same cup. She lifted the cup again to my mate's mouth. Her other hand disappeared south. I suspected, straight onto the rump of Josh's jeans.

Coral zoomed past me before I knew of her arrival.

I offered a useless "Hi," as she stormed forward, her netball uniform flouncing.

Ruby halted beside me and bandied fast, "Let's watch some real fireworks."

The minx dazzled, a petite shooting star in her bright yellow and red uniform.

Neither Brit nor Josh perceived Coral's beeline.

The blonde tilted the cup over my mate's open bottom lip. Josh opened wide as Brit urged him to drain the contents. Brit cradled the cup, and Josh spread his fingers over hers, ready to do as Brittany craved.

Coral's tongue launched acid, "Josh! How could you."

My mate spluttered liquid, and it dribbled down his shirt. The cup lay empty, rolling between his shuffling feet. Brit zipped into the farthest murk hastily.

Coral planted herself in front of Josh. His eyes dared not deviate from hers. She brandished her finger at him, right into his face.

She bristled officious wearing her sports uniform; "I trust you; how could you! And with that blonde someone!"

Her voice drowned out as en-masse fireworks launched, creating a cacophony of competing noise: bursting booms, whizzing rockets and crackling flashes in a rainbow of colours. Of the competing surrounding sounds, Ruby and I wished only to hear Coral berate Josh. And see what happened next.

A bevy of rockets whizzed skywards. They diverted my attention. The bonfire blazed higher, its flames leaping.

Hell, Josh would get a Coral barrage.

I refocused on the pair. My bestie held her boyfriend's hand and commenced walking her bear away into a nook of the park's darkness.

Drumming her fingers, Ruby reacted, "ahem", and stated, "A pretty heart to break."

I didn't challenge her, confident Coral would never suffer a broken heart.

As the bonfire flames receded, Coral and Josh reappeared. Through the lower flames, they held hands a step apart. I saw Ruby, well, her ponytail farther aside. Her face sucked an unknown guy's face, silhouetted by the outline of our homes.

The suburban perimeter lay shadowy underneath the moonlight. A few house lights shone where families known and unknown lived.

Coral sauntered across the gallery, her skin glowing, as she completed another Koons sale. Red sold stickers dotted the walls. I returned her champagne flute; she sipped it.

I suggested, "This is great; however, you should be in a public gallery, organising exhibitions and purchasing works."

"Yes," she assured me, "I've been thinking the same; I am applying, don't you worry."

I re-evaluated my opinion of her dress: a mature coral pink rather than candy floss. My best friend was grown up but single. I wished this to change. Then I dropped it in my too-hard basket.

I stayed beyond midnight, after one, when Coral locked the doors.

My buddy and I relaxed in the middle of the empty gallery, surrounded by tables littered with empty champagne bottles and flutes, chatting endlessly about high and low art.

We shared a taxi at three-thirty in the morning.

Home is where we return to. Home defines us. And, exceedingly late, Coral and I went home alone.