rolled up carpet. There was something that looked like a blanket draped over the top in a triangular pattern.
Four bathroom wastepaper baskets lined the back wall.
Myron guessed that she must have a leak.
Myron waited for Francine Rennart to ask him to sit down. She didn't. She stood with him in the entranceway and said, 'Well?'
He smiled, his brain stuck in a cusp where he was not dumb enough to say, 'Well what?' but not smart enough to know what the hell she was talking about. So Myron froze there with his anchorman-waiting-to-go to- commercial grin.
'You like it?' Francine Rermart asked.
Still the grin. 'Uh-huh.'
'I know it's not for everybody.'
'Hmm.' Scoop Bolitar engages in sparkling repartee.
She watched his face for a moment. He kept up the idiot grin. 'You don't know anything about installation art, do you?'
He shrugged. 'Got me.' Myron shifted gears on the ily. 'Thing is, I don't do features normally. I'm a sports writer. That's my beat.' Beat. Note the authentic reporter lingo. 'But Tanya she's my boss she needed somebody to handle a lifestyle piece. And when Jennifer called in sick, well, the job fell to me. It's a story on a variety of local artists painters, sculptors . . .' He couldn't think of` any. other kind of artist, so he stopped. 'Anyway, maybe you could explain a little bit about what it is you do.' .
'My art is about space and concepts. lt's about creating a mood.'
Myron nodded. 'I see.'
'It's not art, per se, in the classic sense. It goes beyond that. It's the next step in the artistic evolutionary process.'
More nods. 'I see.'
'Everything in this exhibit has a purpose. Where I
place the couch. The texture of the carpeting. The color of the walls. The way the sunlight shines in through the windows. The blend creates a specific ambience.'
Oh, boy.
Myron motioned at the, uh, art. 'So how do you sell something like this?'
She frowned. 'You don't sell it.'
'Pardon?'
'Art is not about money, Mr. Worley. True artists do not put a monetary value on their work. Only hacks do that.'
Yeah, like Michelangelo and Da Vinci, those hacks.
'But what do you do with this?' he asked. 'I mean, do you just keep the room like this?'
'No. I change it around. I bring in other pieces. I
create something new.'
'And what happens to this?'
She shook her head. 'Art is not about permanence.
Life is temporary. Why shouldn't art be the same?'
Oooookay.
'Is there a name for this art'?'
'Installation art. But we do not like labels.'
'How long have you been an, uh, installation artist?'
'I've been working on my masters at the New York Art Institute for two years.'
He tried not to look shocked. 'You go to school for this?'
'Yes. It's a very competitive program.'
Yeah, Myron thought, like a TV/VCR repair course advertised by Sally Struthers.
They finally moved back into the living room. Myron sat on the couch. Gently. Might be art. He waited to be offered a cookie. Might be art too.
'You still don't get it, do you?'
Myron shrugged. 'Maybe if you threw in a poker table and some dogs.'
She laughed. Mr. Self Deprecation strikes again.
'Fair enough,' she said.
'Let me shift gears for a moment, if I may,' Myron said. 'How about a little something on Francine Rennart, the person?' Scoop Bolitar mines the personal angle.
She looked a bit wary, but she said, 'Okay, ask away.'
'Are you married?'
'No.' Her voice was like a slamming door.
' 'Divorced?' '
'No.' _
Scoop Bolitar loves an garrulous interviewee. 'I see,'
he said. ''l`hen I guess you have no children.'
'I have a son.'
'How old is he?'
'Seventeen. His name is Larry.'
A year older than Chad Coldren. Interesting. 'Larry Rennart'?'
'Yes.'
'Where does he go to school?'
'Right here at Manasquan High. He's going to be a senior.' +
'How nice.' Myron risked it, nibbled on a cookie.
'Maybe I could interview him too.'
'My son?' '
'Sure. I'd love a quote from the prodigal son on how proud he is of his mom, of how he supports what she's doing, that kinda thing.' Scoop Bolitar grows pathetic.
'He's not home.'
'Oh?'
He waited for her to elaborate. Nothing.
'Where is Larry?' Myron tried. 'Is he staying with his father?'
'His father is dead.' .
Finally. Myron put on the big act. 'Oh, sheesh, I'm sorry. I didn't . . . I mean, you being so young and all. I
just didn't consider the possibility that . . .' Scoop Bolitar as Robert DeNiro.
'It's okay,' Francine Rennart said. .
'I feel awful.'
'No need to.'
'Have you been widowed long?'
She tilted her head. 'Why do you ask?'
'Background,' he said.
' 'Background?' '
'Yes. I think it's crucial to understanding Francine Rennart the artist. I want to explore how being widowed affected you and your art.' Scoop Bolitar shovels it good.
'I've only been a widow a short time.'
Myron motioned toward the, uh, studio. 'So when you created this work, did your husband's death have any bearing on the outcome? On the color of the wastebaskets maybe. Or the way you rolled up that rug.'
'No, not really.'
'How did your husband die?'
'Why would you '
'Again, I think it's important for digesting the entire artistic statement. Was it an accident, for example? The
