THE TREACHERY OF IMAGES

Sean DeSautelle

University of New Hampshire

My boyfriend studies art. Fine Arts: Undeclared is what the school’s Degree Works program has listed under his name and above his year—freshman. He likes photography but is best at painting. He likes the history but doesn’t want to teach.

I study marketing. “But all I’m saying,” he says, “is that when your entire project is focused on consumer and financial profit, what you’re making isn’t art. It’s a product.” “The poster itself isn’t a product, though.” “Fine. But it’s fundamentally tethered to a product and selling it. Therefore, it’s not art at all.” This all started when I suggested my current project, creating an advertisement for a fictional product, was art in one way or another. It had to be eye-catching and aesthetically pleasing—that’s art, isn’t it? I was using scissors and paints and glue and other materials that he grabbed from, you guessed it, the art department. But, being a real artist, he won’t hear of art outside of Fine Arts, whatever that means. Arguments like this aren’t new to us, unfortunately. He has some vendetta against corporations and conglomerates. One of the first things he said to me was how I was pretty chill for a business major. He thinks studying art gives him some high horse to sit on and hand out critiques to the rest of us. Business majors only care about money. Science majors are stuck up. English majors are all right, but haughty because they think books are more important than paintings. He’ll go on tangents and rants about how every other major contributes to the downfall of society, but still calls me a bitch when I joke about actually making money someday. “You can buy posters on the same websites as photography and paintings. What makes them different?” “It’s not about the medium, it’s about the intention. You wouldn’t get it,” he says, placing his earbuds in and tuning out my business-major antics. And that’s the end of our conversation. I wouldn’t get it.

In the morning, we leave the dining hall and head back to his room. Breakfast and dinner are probably some of the best moments of our relationship. Over subpar Belgian waffles and coffee drowned in cream and sugar, he’s very pleasant to talk to. Very gentle and calm if you choose to avoid the following topics of conversation:

politics capitalism consumerism religion warfare the music industry

which are only to name a few. Yet, the conversations that don’t somehow arrive at one of his tirades about the demolition of society are quite nice. This morning, he warmly recalls his childhood dog, which turns into a fruitful conversation regarding pets. But we can only talk about dogs for so long before it grows tiresome. Eventually, we agree to go back to his room where we have sex. The other good part of our relationship.

“It’s so profound.” We’re next to each other in his bed and his laptop sits on his bare chest. He’s working on something for one of his classes. The screen shows a painting of a pipe with some French words which translate to, so he tells me, This is Not a Pipe. His class is going over a movement called, so he tells me, Surrealism. The painting is by, so he tells me, René Magritte. “I don’t expect you to get it,” he says. I haven’t said anything and still I’m not spared from the artist’s wrath. I thought silence would render me salvaged from this next round of judgement, but clearly I am mistaken. Significance, perception, and other words of the sort litter his passionate spiel on behalf of the painting. Lucky me. I’m basically getting a free lecture as he goes on about the painting and what it has done for art and why I need to care about it. “And then, there is the theory it’s just a painting of a pipe...” Thankfully, he fucks me again after this speech. I think I deserve it.

Suddenly, he wants to have a threesome. “We’re in college, why wouldn’t we have a threesome?” is his justification. “Maybe because I just don’t want to?” He has the nerve to roll his eyes at this, before turning back to his project. Sitting on his floor I manage to be called a prude, boring, and stuck up all within five minutes. We do our respective homework in silence, frustration palpable.

“You’re mad,” he finally says. “Yeah.” “I’m not an asshole for wanting to have a threesome, just so you know.” Of all the things we’ve fought about before, this one really gets under my skin. He constantly criticizes me and judges my major and now, out of the blue, our sex isn’t even enough? Who does he want me to be? Mona Lisa?

My professor feels sick so my class gets out early. I consider going back to my dorm now that I have some extra time but decide against it. It’s early fall and already dark when I leave the lecture hall. I head toward my boyfriend’s dorm instead. Might as well surprise him. After all, spontaneity would be such a pleasant surprise from a business major. The last couple of days have actually been better between us. For whatever reason he’s abandoned some of his artistic superiority complex and we’ve been having some of the best conversations. Equals. We’re finally equals in his little hierarchy of artists and rats. It’s not that far of a walk to his building and I’m there in just under ten minutes. There’s no one else in the elevator on the way up so I make it to the third floor in under a minute. To the left, down the hall, two doors down and I’m typing in the door code.

I’m not sure who I see first, him, or one of the two naked girls in bed with him. When they see me it’s like I’ve walked in on an exhibit of surprised Greek statues. The two girls, both of whom study science, get dressed with impressive haste. By the time I’ve turned around to leave they’ve already pulled on their shirts, panties, and socks. He only throws on his department store boxers to chase me down the hall. “Babe! Babe, come on!” “Don’t follow me!” “You can’t be that mad at me.” “Yeah. I think I can.” “You didn’t want to have a threesome!” “That’s not an excuse!” “Babe,” he says, putting his hands on my arms, “We’re in college. People mess around all the time. I’m not a bad guy.”

Ceci n’est pas une pipe. This is not a pipe.

Ce n’est pas un mauvais gars. This is not a bad guy.