Due Diligence #6
“It’s deceptively simple, honestly. We’re inured to Madonna and Child images because of their prevalence, but this small picture—sometime
around 1300, it was a turning point for Western art. Duccio introduced a human dimension to representing divine figures: the
foreknowledge in Mary’s expression, how Christ is almost consoling in how he pushes back his mother’s veil. That’s remnants
of the Eastern Orthodox tradition, the Christ Child depiction. Intended to convey a sense of his godliness, balance the perception
of him as both fully human and fully divine, his two natures. The sense of souls, not just symbols.”
“Are you religious?” she asks, a little surprised.
“No, I’m a rather staunch atheist,” he replies. “State atheism made that lasting impression, at least.”
Lili knocks her hips back against him, not appreciating his quip.
Aleksandr laughs, his free hand coming to rest on her other hip, pulling her closer against him.
“Anyway, a turning point. The paintings from here on out, even those that aren’t overtly religious, owe a debt to this one.
It’s one of the masterpieces of the Met, but the way they’ve curated it, it’s subtle.
It allows the power of the piece to draw you in, rather than through any forced staging.
” He makes a sound of consideration, close to amusement.
“It’s meant to be seen on your knees, actually.
A devotional item, meant to be worshipped. ”
Lili’s face heats slightly.
“I tried to buy it,” he concedes.
She rolls her eyes, letting the magnetism of the painting, its golden intimacy, fade a little.
“Why not just let it be?” she asks. She turns to look at him, and—he’s very close.
There’s a warmth that’s not entirely kind in his eyes. Intent, as he looks down at her.
“Indeed,” he says.
His voice, falling low and just to her in empty galleries, makes her remember the weight of his grip on her throat; the wet
chill of marble, holding her through hurt.
Lili’s hands tighten into fists. She steps away, walking through the rest of the gallery.
She doesn’t like him.
She doesn’t like him at all.
She’s just—using him.
It’s a feminist act of reverse objectification, subjecting him to what the patriarchy has enacted on women for millennia.
She just wants his body, and what it can offer her.
“Is that a reaction to your childhood, do you think?” she asks, willing abrasive distance into her tone. “This desire to own
things—because you weren’t supposed to?”
“Ownership is a form of power.”
She snorts. “And you like that?”
“I enjoy power,” he says simply.
Lili winces. “Jesus. Maybe you are hopeless.”
“Have you ever really been powerless? Choices made for you, entirely beholden to others?”
“You’re speaking as a white man, in a world where everything is made for you.”
“I concede that, but privilege isn’t power.”
“Yes, it is!”
“Privilege makes it easier to attain power, sure, but no one hands you your life.”
“Privilege itself is a power dynamic. Power over others, in contrast to others. It’s a zero-sum game.”
“Yes, that’s the point.”
She makes an exasperated sound, glaring at him over a display case. “And you have to see that that’s immoral. A zero-sum system,
dominated by concepts of property, free markets, live and let live—it hurts people. There’s a human cost.”
“That’s just history.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’ve seen the alternative,” he says. “Where power apparently lies in the hands of the people. It never actually does. In
every system, it’s the same story. Control over, power over. I’d prefer the reality of it to the sham. I’d prefer to have
that power than to be at anyone else’s mercy.”
“That’s absurdly cynical.”
“You’re very young.”
Her eyes widen. She’s about to retort, but he holds up a hand. “I’m not insulting you. But you’ve only lived here, in a country
that—however much you Americans like to bemoan it—allows you freedom of thought, speech, movement. Coexisting with millions
of others who think differently than you. There’s agency in that, the ability to define yourself. That’s a freedom no one
can give you, you can only take it.”
“Take from someone else, you mean.”
An expression caught between consideration and condescension; as if she hasn’t quite gotten the point.
“Perhaps.”
Outside, dusk has given way to night over the city. The museum fountains are laced with light. Two cars idle.
Lili looks at Aleksandr, confused. “Why—”
He opens the door to one of the cars, holding it for her. “A lovely evening, Lili. Until next time.”
She laughs. “Funny.”
He raises an eyebrow.
Irritation rushes over her fast. “You’re joking,” she says, disbelief. “That’s it?”
“I don’t fuck on the first date.”
The look of innocence on his face is utter bullshit. “This wasn’t a date,” she retorts.
“Right.”
“I’m not joking. This was—a walk. An indoor walk.”
“Of course.” He just smiles, this expression of patronizing tolerance. Lili wants to stamp her foot.
Instead, she gets into the car as ungracefully and ungratefully as she can. Before he closes the door behind her, Aleksandr
leans in.
“You’d do well to remember, Lili: When I want things, I tend to get them.”