#rip art

A lot of stuff about Jackson Pollock and other abstract artists in New York in the 1950s and 60s, and then a lot of stuff about Canadian art after WW2! All very interesting. There are some artists who i really love and others who I really disagree with 🤨🤨 it gets niche pretty fast.

PS. Because i’m very abnormal, this is about piss

“You used to wet your pants so you could go home?” Tashi’s mouth curls upwards. She’s amused. Her gaze is light and teasing, but not cruel. She’s never cruel to Art in moments like these. More than anything, she’s entertained.

Art’s lips press into a frown. Hearing it out loud, especially from Tashi, makes it sound more pathetic.

Maybe it was pathetic. But he was seven. Almost eight. “It was probably some undiagnosed anxiety disorder,” he tries to reason. He turns back to Tashi. “It’s pretty common,” Art tries to defend himself now. But even then, he remembers knowing it wasn’t normal. Other kids didn’t piss their pants for their parents’ attention, not in second grade at least.

Tashi doesn’t dismiss his explanation. She nods instead, as if his actions made perfect sense.

“When did it stop?” She asks, her voice quieter but also heavy. Her fingers trace his arm in slow, absent circles, like she’s smoothing something out that isn’t on the surface.

Art groans softly. “Tashi,” he whines, dragging her name out. His face twists with discomfort. “Can we not?”

But she doesn’t let go. If there’s one thing about Tashi, it's that she doesn’t lose. Instead, she watches him with a kind of gentle insistence. Her eyes hold him steady, not judging, not pitying, just there.

She’s coaching him.

“My parents refused to pick me up one time, so I stopped doing it.” Art says simply. Like it didn’t have any effect on him whatsoever.

That makes Tashi frown.

Not the kind that’s filled with confusion or anger, the one that’s slower and filled with sadness.

It’s no secret that Tashi dislikes his parents. They didn’t come to their wedding, a fact that Art knows she’s secretly grateful for. She never wanted them there in the first place.

He once asked her why. Just once.

Her eyes had first gone wide with surprise and then something softer, heavier. She reached over and ran her fingers through his hair. Stroking it softly before she spoke. “They’re mean to you, Artie.” She whispered, in the voice she uses after sex, when he’s craving comfort without knowing it.

She said it like it was a secret Art didn’t know yet.

He never asked again.

Tashi stares at Art like he’s some kicked puppy on the other side of the road, shivering, ribs showing, begging for some scraps. Something that will help him get through the day. Maybe a treat for his good behavior.

It does something to his body. Heat pools low in his stomach, burning, aching for more. “Tashi,” Art whines again, this time his voice cracks. If he were more aware, he’d be embarrassed, ashamed even, of this whole conversation.

“Would you do it again?”

Art blinks. “What?”

“Would you piss yourself for me?”

Tashi’s voice is steady, but there’s a tremor hidden underneath the surface. Tashi’s eyes are hard, but a layer of nervousness lies beneath them.

“Uhh—” Art short-circuits. His brain stalls, as if he can’t process what she just said. Like, he must’ve misheard her. But he didn’t.

She’s dead serious.