Benchere in Wonderland Read online

  Rose uses binoculars to keep an eye on the scene below. Eschenbach Farlux Selectors, German made. “Top of the line,” Rose praises the product.

  Stern leans over and takes the glasses from Rose. Benchere’s sculpture is large enough to be viewed without aid, but becomes resplendent through the binoculars. In the trunk behind Stern’s chair is a Crystal RS101x2 computer with Intel CPU architecture, a Nikon dSLR D700 camera and AF-S Nikkor telescopic lens. All of the equipment, along with the Savage 10FP rifle and Eschenbach binoculars, is government issue. The trunk offers protection from the sand, keeps things cool beneath an insulated lining.

  After Marti died, Benchere took a leave of absence from teaching at the Backwater Art Academy and began organizing the details for his Kalahari project. A liberal fellow always, as far back as his days at Brown, Benchere was a staunch supporter of social causes: civil rights, gay rights, workers’ rights, gun control and immigration reform, fiscal, environmental, labor and health amendments, communal and political accountability. As he acquired a certain fame, first as an architect and then as a sculptor, his activities came under increased scrutiny, his conduct kept on file.

  Twice in the months before flying to Africa, Benchere was visited by representatives from the House sub-committee on African Affairs. His plans were questioned, were discouraged then blocked, his passport suspended until Benchere howled and filed a formal complaint. “Seriously now?” To those who claimed his trip involved a broader agenda than simply making art, Benchere scoffed and said, “I’m going to build a sculpture. A sculpture, that’s all.”

  Rose photographs each person in camp. The shots are digitalized and run through the RS101 for identification. “Nothing to it,” Rose boasts.

  “Come to data,” Stern passes the binoculars back. He lays a flat board across the arms of his chair, produces a folder from his briefcase, clips the pages down and studies his notes. The file on Benchere is several inches thick. Stern reviews the contents daily, searches for clues as to why Benchere’s here. “The obvious isn’t.”

  “Unless we’re overlooking.”

  From the hilltop Stern says, “That’s funny.”

  Rose realizes and snickers. “So what do we know?”

  Stern reads from the file. Contained within is a detailed history of Michael Benchere at work and play, his personal and political affairs, his involvement in public demonstrations and dissents, civil disobedience, sit-ins and marches. As agitator, Benchere enjoys stirring the waters, his most natural state one of protest, and still he insists in essays and lectures that his art remains a separate beast. Dismissive of the conservative modernists and early forms of progressive modernism, Benchere believes art is meant to inspire the human soul, not issue dictates or dogma. “My art is no roiled fist. I am not some poster maker. My sculptures aren’t done up as a stomping boot or raised middle finger to be monopolized and propagandized for any faction, right or left.”

  “And yet here he is in Africa,” Rose says to Stern.

  “Go figure that.”

  “An influential artist.”

  “Disinclined to influence.”

  “Or so he says.”

  “Art and politics.”

  “Politics and art.”

  “Benchere claims there’s a distinction.”

  “Is adamant.”

  “Right.”

  “Is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Benchere passes below, wears Bermuda shorts, brown boots and a ratty tan hat. Rose wipes his forehead, points toward the sculpture and says, “She’s a big one.”

  “Monolithic.”

  “It takes an inflated sense of self to build such a thing.”

  “Possibly.”

  “It’s hubris.”

  “Just look at it.”

  “I can see.”

  “Who’s he trying to impress?”

  “That’s the question.” Rose asks Stern, “Do you think it’s what he says?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know, or you don’t, no?”

  “I don’t know if what he says is the real reason he’s here.”

  Rose blows the dirt and sand from the binoculars by using a pocket-sized can of compressed air. He follows this with a gentle rub from a microfiber cloth and soft brush. The excessive care contrasts with the cracks in his boots and the unwashed shirts he wears until the collars fray and armpits change color.

  Stern puts the folder back, takes out the Savage and tells Rose, “Time me.” He breaks the gun down then reassembles it in under 23 seconds, Rose counting, “One Mississippi, two Mississippi …” As Stern finishes, Rose looks through the binoculars. Stern returns the Savage to its case and asks Rose, “Can you see him?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Climbing.”

  “What?”

  “There seems to be something he wants to attach to the sculpture.”

  Stern shades his eyes, stares straight ahead. Down below a series of rope ladders run off the armatures. Scaffolding surrounds the spine. Benchere scrambles up the wood, reaches the ropes with a sack on his back. Inside is a drill and bit, a bolt and wrench and chime he plans to connect; a wind bell he’s brought from home that once was Marti’s.

  The climb is difficult. The ropes twist as Benchere makes his way off the scaffolding and sets his boots on the narrow rungs. Too old, he thinks. Too fat. Assigning the task to one of the younger and more agile members of the camp would have been sensible, but then Benchere has no intention of letting anyone else hang the chime.

  Daimon stands below and films while Benchere works his way along. The rope sways from side to side before he reaches the top. He sets himself inside a harness, applies the bit and then secures the bolt.

  Stern leans forward in his chair. Rose, too, thinks he can hear as the wind passes through the hollow of the chime and sings out lightly. Both watch Benchere dangling above. “Quite the sight,” Rose says.

  “A work in progress.”

  “No doubt.”

  For a moment Benchere appears as a comet, huge and weightless and nearly in flight.

  3.

  DOWNSTAIRS, ONCE THE BLINDS ARE OPENED AND THE sliding glass door unlocked, Jazz sprints ahead of Benchere, navigates the back lawn out toward the woods. Benchere walks from the house along the garden path where the perennials Marti planted are in bloom; the bee balm and loosestrife, clematis, bleeding hearts and primrose. A rabbit appears and Jazz gives chase. From a distance, Benchere watches both animals dash into the woods, can hear the twigs and brushwood snapping.

  IN THE DESERT, Benchere pounds hammer strokes late, marks the shell. Can’t sleep. Others are now used to the sound. Jazz stays near. The lantern sends shadow larks into the field. The armatures of the sculpture stretch out. Benchere grooves the surface of the metals with a ball pein, creates patterns like scar tissue.

  Daily now more people arrive in the desert. They come on foot and in jeeps, alone and in groups, in sandals and hiking boots, with suitcases, backpacks and duffles. Many treat the trek as a pilgrimage, while others show up out of curiosity, ready to revel in Benchere’s celebrity and be part of the experience. The number of people in camp exceeds expectation. “Party crashers,” Harper calls them. Benchere pays no attention to any of this. As best he can, he treats the growing swell as a manageable distraction.

  IN THE REAR of Benchere’s backyard is a sculpture made a year ago last spring. Assembled during Marti’s recovery, composed of blue steel twisted together with overlapping joists, like some recusant vine in bloom, Benchere named the piece Venus Unraveled. Designed as a celebration of Marti’s resilience, as Benchere wanted to portray her new body as a thing of beauty, Venus was hailed as a crowning achievement. The critic Rosalind Epstein Krauss was a fan of Benchere, referred to his discipline as corporeal intuitivism. Celebrated for creating art which provided an alternative to standard perception, dismissing form while observing the world through a le
ns off-center, Benchere’s intended result was tougher to come by in Venus, was impossible to show the Marti he saw there. Still, Krauss praised his approach for taking odd shapes and turning them into something revelatory. Moved by the doggedness of his effort, Krauss described Venus as a devastatingly intimate piece.

  “Devastating sure,” Benchere gave his heavy head a shake. Skeptical now, he questioned his ability to represent Marti in the way he wanted. “It’s like this,” he said to Harper. “She was perfect once, and then perfect again, and how can I show that exactly? There are layers here, do you understand? People see some sort of busted angel’s wing and that’s not it. Do you get what I’m saying?”

  Grass has grown around Venus’ base, giving the sculpture an even more preadamic look. At auction, S.I. Newhouse purchased Venus. When Marti died Benchere bought the sculpture back.

  THE NEW AQUATICS Center on Hope Street is only a few blocks away from the Backwater Art Academy where Benchere taught. In order to prepare physically for his trip to the desert, Benchere took up swimming, gave up overdrinking as he had done for several weeks following Marti’s funeral. In the locker room, Benchere pulled off his pants and boxers, his shirt and socks, hoisted his belly and tugged on his swim trunks. He approached the pool, kicked off his deck shoes and got himself quickly into the water.

  Rather than dive, he dropped down then bobbed back to the surface and began his laps. A modest swimmer, his arms and legs performed efficiently in a synchronized paddle. The water was well chlorinated. Benchere wore goggles but no cap, coordinated his strokes until they established a rhythm. Three laps in he felt the burn, distracted himself with thoughts of Marti and of his children, of Zooie and Kyle.

  AFTER HIS SWIM, Benchere drove to his studio. Daimon was there, waiting to film Benchere at work. “Creative context,” Daimon called it. “Whatever happens in Africa, we’re going to need a preface.”

  Benchere’s studio is an old airplane hangar just outside Tiverton, with high ceilings and a siloxane sealed concrete floor. The front wall is on wheels, the air inside neither heated nor cooled by any constructed system, but subject rather to the whims of the weather.

  Benchere wore heavy gloves, a leather apron and clear facial shield. Commissioned to finish one last sculpture before Africa, he spent the morning working on a weld. The acetylene and oxygen tanks were chained together along the side wall, the regulators adjusted, the hoses attached and pressure key turned to blow out any dust. The front of Benchere’s face shield was hand painted with eyebrows and a gap-toothed grin. Naveed and Julie assisted Benchere as he leaned in to the heat. The welding rod was set at 6500 degrees, sparked against the metal, while a noncombustible gas protected the vein from the air, kept the seam from oxidizing.

  Once the weld was done, Benchere signaled Naveed to turn off the tanks. He holstered the rod, removed his leather apron and mask then walked out in front of the studio. Daimon put his camera back in its case, the case on a strap, the strap set around his left shoulder as he followed Benchere outside. A faint steam rose from the tarmac. Benchere brushed the remaining welding dust from his shirt. He drank bottled water, poured some for Jazz into the palm of his hand.

  As a documentarian, Daimon was scrupulous in his research and preparation. In the weeks before, he had read dozens of articles and biographical notes on Benchere, made side trips to visit sculptures and see the seven Benchere originals firsthand. He studied the trajectory of Benchere’s success after leaving L/L, his effort to win over critics and skeptics, to reinvent himself beginning with works like Sparrow the Bird and Want, Spread, Heart. He invested countless hours going through interviews, trying to understand Benchere’s theories on art, his commitment to causes and the nonnegotiable line he drew between the two. Of Benchere’s intent to create an enormous sculpture in the middle of the Kalahari, Daimon confessed, “It’s hard to get a handle on your thinking.”

  “Is that right?”

  “The consensus is you’re going to Botswana to cause trouble.”

  “Define trouble.”

  Daimon answered, “To stir the waters.”

  “In the desert?”

  “Metaphorically.”

  “The waters now,” Benchere laughs. “And why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. You’re a political person.”

  “But not a political artist.”

  “And there’s the catch.”

  “What catch? Why must my thinking be flawed just because you don’t understand?”

  Daimon stopped here, regrouped, tried to come up with a sound reply. Inside the studio Naveed swept metal shavings from near the sculpture. Julie stored the welding rod, moved the tanks against the wall. Benchere adjusted his sunglasses. Jazz paced at the end of the tarmac. Daimon turned to specifics, addressed the logistics of Benchere’s trip and how “Two-thirds of the 53 nations in Africa are involved in some sort of rebellion.”

  “Fifty-four.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There are 54 countries now that South Sudan has split from the North.”

  “Right,” Daimon moved into a small patch of shade. He was also tall, though not like Benchere. He tipped his head just slightly back and said, “Maybe if you told me.”

  “Told you what?”

  “Why you’re going.”

  “To Africa?”

  “Yes.”

  Benchere scratched his ear. “You’re asking why?”

  “I am.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No, I’m asking why should you want to know?”

  “Because it would help my own work if I knew why you were going.” Daimon said.

  Benchere in turn, “I’m going to build a sculpture.”

  “Yes, but why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Are you going to build a sculpture?”

  “Yes I am.”

  A grassy field lay just behind the studio, off the final runway. At the far end of the field was a shallow pond. Benchere walked around the building, called after Jazz who sprinted ahead then onto the grass. Daimon also came around, removed his camera from its case and recorded Jazz in stride.

  Benchere gave the back of his neck a quick massage. His replies to Daimon were more for sport than anything. He did not mind discussing his work, or the reason for his trip, was on record as having tried to explain, even if people refused to believe him. For his final lecture at the BAA, Benchere set his huge hands against the sides of the podium and fielded questions from his students. A purist on the meditation, he taught his classes Vecchietta and Bernini, Rodin and Brancusi, Ann Christopher and Alfred Nossig, among others. When he spoke about the fundamental nature of art, he distinguished such from radical activism; his reputation as a rabble rouser, his temperament robust, his hearty whoofs and howls extreme, his irreverent blasts and iconoclastic indulgence all notwithstanding.

  “Anyone can create propaganda,” Benchere said. “This isn’t art. Art is not meant to be used as a form of political engagement. Art is there to influence the individual’s heart not provide radical posturing. These sledgehammer strokes aren’t real art.” He regarded Goya and Picasso, Ali Weiwei, George Grosz and Marcel Janco, Zurab Tsereteli and Duncan P. Ferguson, Jewad Selim, Vivien Mallock and Shepard Fairey, as brilliant artists. “But when they turn their work into doctrinal props, their art becomes cheesy.”

  “Did you say …?” His students asked, “What about Guernica and The Third of May 1808?”

  “They’re both cheddar based.”

  “And Dada? What of 1916 Berlin, the Stieglitz Gallery in New York, Huelsenback, Hausmann, Heartfield, Ernst and Duchamp and Dix?”

  “What about them?” Benchere agreed Dada changed the relationship between art and its audience forever, “But the art itself was a gimmick. Listen now,” Benchere believed, “Art exists to initiate free thought not deliver dogma.” He told his students, “If we blur the line the work becomes imperious, and then it isn’t art.” />
  Heidi Hough sat up front, absorbed in the talk, taking notes. An eager pupil, when Benchere invited questions she immediately raised her hand and wanted to know, “Why then are you going to Africa?”

  Daimon again asked the same.

  Benchere left the pavement behind his studio and mashed down the grass which was soft from an early drizzle. “Why, why, why?” He answered this way, his heels sinking further into the sod. “You sound like a parrot.”

  “Maybe if you answered.”

  “And told you what?”

  “Why you’re going.”

  “But when I answer you don’t believe me.” Benchere looked out at Jazz, said without turning, “Wait until we get to the Kalahari. See if you don’t understand then.”

  Daimon lowered his camera and followed Benchere onto the grass. The heat after the rain moistened the back of his neck. He waited a beat, tried to think of something else to ask, some other way to get Benchere talking. He decided on another fact-based statement, hoping to induce a response. “I suppose the Kalahari is a good choice,” he said, “given the relative stability of Botswana. I mean it’s not the Congo or the Sudan.”

  Benchere said of this no more than, “It’s quiet.”

  “And isolated.”

  “Which makes you wonder why I would want to build something where no one can see it?”

  “Since you bring it up.”

  “Why would I? What sense does it make?” Benchere turned to face Daimon once more as he said, “In terms of art, pure art, the art I hope to make, whether or not people see my work makes no difference.”

  Daimon tapped the center of his forehead with his middle finger, tried to force through a clear thought. Failing, he said, “I still don’t get it.”

  “Then wait,” Benchere brought his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, leaned in and gave Daimon a wink.

  Daimon adjusted the strap on his shoulder and rephrased his question. “How is it art if no one sees it?”

  “Aaargh,” Benchere straightened as if jolted. He grunted low in his throat, his boots in the sod causing a sucking sound as he said, “If a bear shits in the woods and you don’t step in it, it’s still shit, isn’t it?”