Openings

No one had heard of Dubinsky. From time to time it seemed even his family had conveniently forgotten his name. He was a conceptual artist—at least that was what he called himself on his tax forms. His art consisted entirely of stuffing large pieces of furniture into small spaces. This single idea had taken hold of him years ago—so long ago now that Dubinsky could no longer remember life before it. It was like a fever which had come and never-gone. His career had been marked by a few green triumphs—enough to call it a career, rather than a sickness—set in a desert of failure and dwindling hope.

To support himself, Dubinsky worked at the Mid-Town Jewish Community Center, teaching arts and crafts. Lanyards, wallets, acrylic painting, a life-drawing class in which the models, in accordance with the Center’s regulations, had to wear two-piece bathing suits—he even taught macramé, of which he knew nothing. He got them all: wise-guy eight-year-olds popping their gum, dope-smoking teenagers, desperate wives, drooling old joskies from the Home for the Jewish Aged. The pay was insulting, but they didn’t ask much of him, either.