Dangerous by Default

18. The museum

"Burn it down" the angry voices yelled. As a sound, it was incredible. Caine closed his eyes in the crowd. The fear in their voices was palpable.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. The SFPD had him surrounded in a protective circle and they wanted to keep moving. For the first time in his life, they were there to protect him. Caine opened his eyes and took in the cardboard signs that danced before his face like puppets. They were meant for him to read, and he felt it only right to oblige them.

"Violence against animals is not art" towered on a large posterboard, the letters written in dripping red ink that imitated blood. He was flattered. The ego enjoys being remembered. It happened a little over a decade ago, but he could still remember the feeling of the crowd, all 12,000 of them, booing. An energy not unlike today.

Caine was dressed as a clown then, and he took advantage of an opportune moment to sneak onto the ring of the Maenstranza, the most famous bullfighting ring in Seville. It was like a temple dedicated to the slaughter of animals for sport. Timing and courage - those were his true mediums. His presence in the bullfighting ring sent guard to immediately flood the edges of the ring as the 1 ton bull, bred for maximum aggression - the better to sell the aggrandizement of its own murder - sized him up. Caine began to meditate and the bull responded by becoming calm. Shaker technology at work. The fearsome, and terrified, animal transformed from a creature to be feared, and dominated, to something gentle, a cow to be nurtured. His act was a kindness, a protest. But alas, the moment ended shortly with Caine in handcuffs. The bull's slaughter was only delayed, not prevented, by his act. The museum's marketing team had implied that he was bringing a live bull to the SFMoMA to relive the work, to stir the pot, setting off a firestorm of protests. They had deceived the public. And now he was being labeled as profiting off of the slaughter of animals. There was truth in what they said. His anarchic spirit longed to whisper in the ears of the protestors: I believe you. Let's burn it to the ground. Allow me to light your torch.

The SFPD hurried him through the crowd into the front door of the museum. Rising to the 4th floor gallery, a lifetime of work stared back at him. He breathed it in astounded. Most of the artifacts on display had been whisked away by private collectors soon after their creation and seeing them now roused the same emotions of seeing an intimate childhood friend long since estranged. They were markers of the past, and his distance to them only highlighted how much he had grown. He felt claustrophobic in their presence. The nasally voice of the head curator broke his thoughts. "We've found flow, we've found balance! Sheer brilliance, my dear!" she said. "What do you think? Did we do your work justice? Please tell me you love it." In all of his interactions with her she spoke a mile a minute, and seemed totally self-possessed, as if the cares of the world outside only existed to lend a supportive backdrop to whatever exhibition she was planning.

"It looks.... good," he said, using the sweetest compliments he could physically muster. Curators live in a world of praise, he thought. She didn't need any more from me.

She was certain, as were the rest of the staff, that his show would burnish the reputation of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art as a "world-class institution unafraid to show the most challenging and complex social works." She loved the coverage all the protestors attracted. Their aggression grew each day, and with it, new commitments from art collectors agreeing to lend their most valuable pieces.

While the lion's share of the show had been organized without his involvement, he agreed to participate with one condition: they grant him the right to select a single work of his choosing, to be presented in any way he liked. But he was having mixed feelings. Everything had been finalized. The show would open later that evening. And yet. He scanned the objects. Something was missing.