experiment altogether and took off in a handmade boat to Europe in a work he called “In Search of the Miraculous.” The craft was found nine months later off the coast of Ireland. His body was never recovered, and so he was transformed into a piece of ephemeral art himself. Duncan did not wonder that Adoniram got lost, what with all that hair in his face. He was twenty-eight when he died.
To recreate God Help Us , the NAP conceptual artists used the same location as Adoniram had, directly in front of Seacrest’s, originally chosen for its industrial taint. And, like Adoniram, they had arrived by a flat-bottomed skiff, leaning out from the boat to write in order to protect the pristine canvas of sand, which explained both the lack of footprints and the wobbly handwriting. The artists had been rowing back to the mother ship to wait for the tide to recede a bit more before filming when they saw Duncan change the message. They took some footage, which led—certainly to their joy and amazement—directly to the dance of the seagull. Then they posted it on YouTube as a promotion for the reenactments and as an example of the transformative power of art.
Duncan let the binoculars hang from his neck. The wind was gone. It was the third leg of the race, and Nod had managed to trail half his lines in the water. The wonder was not that he had never won a race; the miracle was that he never killed himself in the process. Right about now, his mother would be throwing herself against the glass in her cupola like a trapped bird. It was strange the way she behaved as if defeat were an unknown quantity in her life. Aside from competitiveness to the point of instability, she suffered from a chronic case of unrealistic expectations. She transmitted her debilitating disease to Nod. Every week they still both expected to win in spite of what past experience had to teach them. Maybe Adoniram was right. We learn nothing.
The good news was that the officials would have to call the race soon even if no one crossed the finish line. Nod wouldn’t have lost because no one would have won. It usually worked the other way around—as long as he was in the race, the rest of the sailors were never last, which made Nod one of the more popular members of the Club. No matter how late he came in, he was greeted with a hero’s welcome, with drinks and cheers all around, which tempered his chronic state of loss. Racing had given his life meaning, such as it was, and as pathetic as it might have seemed to some, it was more than Duncan had at the moment.
Judson Drake—Duncan’s stock broker when there had been stocks to broker—walked across the lawn toward the boat ramp and waved as if he were innocent of any YouTube. Duncan held his breath and waited. Judson was never innocent of anything. Just before he disappeared down the ramp he turned around, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Go Kelp!” Then he continued to the launch boat, his shoulders shuddering with laughter.
Duncan’s humiliation was now complete. He was not art, as he had begun to think of himself; he was an idiot. Judson’s voice traveled over the water as he joked with the launch driver. The boat puttered past the old stone pier, which was half submerged like the spine of a sea monster. At high water, it was a profound danger when its jagged stones were invisible to the navigator’s eye, but the Club felt it kept out the amateurs and weak of heart, and so it stayed. The launch continued to the outer edge of the mooring field where L’ark floated like a swan. The glare of the low sun played on her brightwork mast as the vessel rocked, sending bursts of light up and down the shaft. Among the many lovely yachts in the tranquil cove, she stood out for being the most elegant. She was a vintage Q-boat, all brass and beveled glass, thickly enameled in Prussian blue and as sleek as a thoroughbred horse, at many times the price. Judson was insanely proud of her even though he
To recreate God Help Us , the NAP conceptual artists used the same location as Adoniram had, directly in front of Seacrest’s, originally chosen for its industrial taint. And, like Adoniram, they had arrived by a flat-bottomed skiff, leaning out from the boat to write in order to protect the pristine canvas of sand, which explained both the lack of footprints and the wobbly handwriting. The artists had been rowing back to the mother ship to wait for the tide to recede a bit more before filming when they saw Duncan change the message. They took some footage, which led—certainly to their joy and amazement—directly to the dance of the seagull. Then they posted it on YouTube as a promotion for the reenactments and as an example of the transformative power of art.
Duncan let the binoculars hang from his neck. The wind was gone. It was the third leg of the race, and Nod had managed to trail half his lines in the water. The wonder was not that he had never won a race; the miracle was that he never killed himself in the process. Right about now, his mother would be throwing herself against the glass in her cupola like a trapped bird. It was strange the way she behaved as if defeat were an unknown quantity in her life. Aside from competitiveness to the point of instability, she suffered from a chronic case of unrealistic expectations. She transmitted her debilitating disease to Nod. Every week they still both expected to win in spite of what past experience had to teach them. Maybe Adoniram was right. We learn nothing.
The good news was that the officials would have to call the race soon even if no one crossed the finish line. Nod wouldn’t have lost because no one would have won. It usually worked the other way around—as long as he was in the race, the rest of the sailors were never last, which made Nod one of the more popular members of the Club. No matter how late he came in, he was greeted with a hero’s welcome, with drinks and cheers all around, which tempered his chronic state of loss. Racing had given his life meaning, such as it was, and as pathetic as it might have seemed to some, it was more than Duncan had at the moment.
Judson Drake—Duncan’s stock broker when there had been stocks to broker—walked across the lawn toward the boat ramp and waved as if he were innocent of any YouTube. Duncan held his breath and waited. Judson was never innocent of anything. Just before he disappeared down the ramp he turned around, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Go Kelp!” Then he continued to the launch boat, his shoulders shuddering with laughter.
Duncan’s humiliation was now complete. He was not art, as he had begun to think of himself; he was an idiot. Judson’s voice traveled over the water as he joked with the launch driver. The boat puttered past the old stone pier, which was half submerged like the spine of a sea monster. At high water, it was a profound danger when its jagged stones were invisible to the navigator’s eye, but the Club felt it kept out the amateurs and weak of heart, and so it stayed. The launch continued to the outer edge of the mooring field where L’ark floated like a swan. The glare of the low sun played on her brightwork mast as the vessel rocked, sending bursts of light up and down the shaft. Among the many lovely yachts in the tranquil cove, she stood out for being the most elegant. She was a vintage Q-boat, all brass and beveled glass, thickly enameled in Prussian blue and as sleek as a thoroughbred horse, at many times the price. Judson was insanely proud of her even though he
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