Ten iron sculptures were shared and I sided with Tal’s opinion of Dash’s work: they weren’t for me. The pieces of art seemed boring and lifeless, without any passion or exuberance whatsoever. One iron horizon resembled the others. Truth was I wouldn’t have paid a dime for the sculptures, but didn’t admit that to Dash, whom seemed quite pleasant, charming, and rather interested in me.
During a long and tedious story of how and why he constructed Under the Sun #4, a cactus with giant thorns, he sidled up to me, brushed fingers along my left hip, circled me, and said, “I know why you’re here.”
“Explain,” I said with arrogance, surprised by his announcement.
He stood in front of me, brushed his chin against my chin, stepped away, and said, “It’s about that Evan Sting boy, isn’t it? You know
