Submissive

I met D on Saturday morning to go to some galleries on the Upper East Side. These galleries are the heavy-hitters, the ones that show well-established artists, the rich ones. The ones in which there are not any people like us.

As you know, I am insecure about my lack of knowledge about art. I’m getting up to speed. I can recognize artists and I know what I like, but I’m not obsessive-compulsive about following “the scene” or remembering every piece I’ve ever seen. I just don’t like art that much and there’s nothing wrong with that, right? But sometimes I feel like there is, because art is “cool” and “smart” and D is all over it, and I know it doesn’t make him better than me, but sometimes I feel like he is.

I guess I deem anyone with an obsessive, excessive, and complete expert knowledge of anything better than me.

I don’t operate like this. I consume as much as I deem fit. I don’t know everything about anything, nor do I feel compelled to. There’s too much information out there for me to even think myself capable of absorbing all of it, so I pick and choose.

D, ever OCD about things like this, has to know everything about everything. He reads every newspaper, every magazine, every free periodical on the street. He knows about TV shows even though he doesn’t watch TV. He knows every obscure band, every obscure director, every obscure artist. He’s seen every movie, read every book that anyone has ever said is worth reading, etc.

This, of course, makes me feel stupid. It is hard to just accept that we are different sorts of people, and perhaps D admires my ability to be relaxed about consuming the world around me and wishes that he could relax enough to read fiction.

I like art enough, though, to look at it every now and then. I probably look at more of it than I can tolerate because D loves art and I want to spend time with him and be easygoing about his obsession.

D had made a list of galleries he wanted to check out. We found ourselves at a gallery that showcases Chinese art. When we got there, The Gallerist was thrilled to see us, because apparently his gallery doesn’t get a lot of traffic. He wanted to know how we’d heard of the gallery. He was appreciative of our looking at his collection and therefore wanted to talk to us.

The Gallerist was an older gentleman, very polished and very posh. He was probably in his mid-50’s, wearing a tweed jacket. You know the sort, and you are thrilled if you are a lover of stereotypes because this man was the quintessential white, rich, tweed-wearing gallerist with greying facial hair and ambiguous accent despite most likely being American. He should have been smoking a pipe.

He said “So, what brings you here? What kind of painting are you into?”

D said “Blah blah blah wah wah wah.” I had no idea what he was talking about.

“And you?” said the gallerist, looking to a blank-faced me for information.

I didn’t know what to say. I have no favorites. I disliked everything in his gallery that I’d seen up until that point. I had nothing educated to say. I didn’t want to sound stupid. I was on the spot. I didn’t want to say “I’m not really that into painting” so I instead said “Oh, I’m just with him,” and then stumbled over it, realizing that was a stupid thing to say, so then added “I’m actually more into photography.”

“I’m *just* with him, she says. Good for you!” he said to D.

Right.

The gallery was nice. It was more of an old apartment, with carpets and a very warm feeling. We walked to the back of the gallery where there were couches, a dog, and more paintings, paintings I actually liked. I gasped when I saw one of them.

I sat down while D and The Gallerist talked art. I flipped through some of the gallery’s catalogues, eavesdropped and interjected every now and then when they were talking about science or cheap labor abroad. They mostly spoke of painting and the renaissance that’s going on in China right now and how The Gallerist wants in on it. D said "Did you see such and such exhibit at such and such gallery?" and The Gallerist hadn't even heard of it. D said "Oh, yes, I saw so-and-so's work at such-and-such museum in insert city here" and then "His work reminds me of so-and-so's piece from blah blah blah." D said "You might like such-and-such." They talked about the importance of Cy Twombly, whose work I dug at the Philadelphia Art Museum, but about whom I have no opinion because I’ve only seen that and haven’t read about him nor obsessively sought out his work everywhere I’ve ever been. And not that I could articulate an opinion if I even had one. My opinion would have sounded like “The stuff I saw in Philly was cool. Sort of violent and raw. I took a lot of photos of them, actually. Yeah. Cool. But I didn’t like what we saw of his today for no real reason. Just not my taste.”

I knew D was having a great time so I didn’t push him to leave. I sat there in my own little world, feeling stupid and inferior and uninvolved, a feeling I often experience around D. The Gallerist got a call on his cell phone and accepted it, which afforded D and I the segue to escape.

As we were saying our good-byes, the Gallerist said “Well, it was a pleasure meeting the both of you. You are both lovely.” To D he said “You are a very lucky man.”

How nice, I thought.

“When I asked her what she was doing here, she said ‘I’m *just* with him.’ You’ve got a good one. Submissive. That’s how it should be.”

D = nervous laughter. “Not this one,” D said.

“No, really, that’s telling. I’m *just* with him. That’s how it ought to be. In China, they know how it’s done. Women there are submissive. It should still be like that here. Women just aren’t like that anymore, not in this day and age. You got really lucky. This is how it should be. You’re a lucky man.”

Dear god.

I didn’t say anything, of course, further reinforcing his notion of my submission.

He then wanted to know how long we’d been together, how we’d met, etc.

As we were leaving, The Gallerist kindly gave me a catalogue of the gallery’s photography collection which was actually pretty awesome. He was a nice guy, friendly, genuinely interested in us but…

But yeah.

When we left, D said “I had so much fun!”

“That’s good,” I said.

“I love talking with rich people. He was so interesting.”

True.

“That was so fun!” he said, thrilled.

“Yes,” I said, thrilled for him but, of course, mortified.

Pause.

D said “Do you think he was serious about all that submissive stuff?”

“I don’t know. I hope not.”

“He was probably just kidding.”

“I would hope so, but I don’t think he was. He’s into Chinese art, he’s into the culture, why wouldn’t he be into submissive women? Isn’t that the stereotype? Why would he say something like that to complete strangers unless he was serious?”

“Well, that stereotype is true.”

I was upset. I’ve never been referred to as “submissive.”

I think I was upset, though, because it rang true to me at that moment. I’d spent the morning being dragged around to art galleries to make D happy. That’s not submissive. That is just nice. It’s a compromise. It’s not submission.

Listening to your boyfriend talk art for half an hour while you just sit there in silence waiting for him to finish? Is that submissive? No, again, it’s nice. It’s polite.

But, was it incorrect for The Gallerist to assume, based on my statement and the behavior that followed it, that I was submissive? No. I don’t think he was at fault at all, and that is why I said nothing.

Was he wrong for saying it out loud? Yes. He should have said nothing. He doesn’t know either of us. Was he wrong for thinking it? No. Was he wrong to be jealous of D for having a girlfriend who will follow him around on journeys that make her feel insecure? No. Is D lucky for a million other reasons? Yes. Should D have pointed those out? I wish.

The following day, D said to his friend “We had this really fun experience
yesterday at this gallery on the Upper East Side.” He told her about the gallery and how chatty and interesting The Gallerist had been and how it is so fascinating to talk to rich people. I’m happy for D. I know he loves this sort of thing and that makes me happy and it makes me happy to be a part of these things with him. His friend then asked me what I thought, and I said “The art was ok but The Gallerist was a prick because he told me I was submissive to D because I follow him around to galleries, which I do, but not because I am submissive.”

Ouch.

“Sorry,” I said to D, for bursting his bubble and for ending the conversation so abruptly, but I never told him that it bothered me because it didn’t seem to bother him, and I wonder if that makes me submissive.