One man’s opinion.
If Spring Lake was an old movie, then Spring Lake Heights would be the other side of the tracks. There weren’t slums or anything like that. The area where the Rennarts lived was a sort of tract-house suburbia—the middle ground between a trailer park and circa 1967 split-level colonials. Solid Americana.
Myron knocked on the door. A woman he guessed was Francine Rennart pushed open the screen. Her ready smile was shadowed by a daunting beak of a nose. Her burnt-auburn hair was wavy and undisciplined, like she’d just taken out her curlers but hadn’t had time to comb it out.
“Hi,” Myron said.
“You must be from the Coastal Star.”
“That’s right.” Myron stuck out his hand. “I’m Bernie Worley.” Scoop Bolitar uses a disguise.
“Your timing is perfect,” Francine said. “I’ve just started a new exhibit.”
The living room furniture didn’t have plastic on it, but it should have. The couch was off-green. The BarcaLounger—a real, live BarcaLounger—was maroon with duct tape mending rips. The console television had rabbit ears on top. Collectors’ plates Myron had seen advertised in Parade were neatly hung on a wall.
“My studio’s in the back,” she said.
Francine Rennart led him to a big addition off the kitchen. It was a sparsely furnished room with white walls. A couch with a spring sticking out of it sat in the middle of the room. A kitchen chair leaned against it. So did a 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 Rennart 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 fly. “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. It’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 a garrulous interviewee. “I see,” he said. “Then 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.
If Spring Lake was an old movie, then Spring Lake Heights would be the other side of the tracks. There weren’t slums or anything like that. The area where the Rennarts lived was a sort of tract-house suburbia—the middle ground between a trailer park and circa 1967 split-level colonials. Solid Americana.
Myron knocked on the door. A woman he guessed was Francine Rennart pushed open the screen. Her ready smile was shadowed by a daunting beak of a nose. Her burnt-auburn hair was wavy and undisciplined, like she’d just taken out her curlers but hadn’t had time to comb it out.
“Hi,” Myron said.
“You must be from the Coastal Star.”
“That’s right.” Myron stuck out his hand. “I’m Bernie Worley.” Scoop Bolitar uses a disguise.
“Your timing is perfect,” Francine said. “I’ve just started a new exhibit.”
The living room furniture didn’t have plastic on it, but it should have. The couch was off-green. The BarcaLounger—a real, live BarcaLounger—was maroon with duct tape mending rips. The console television had rabbit ears on top. Collectors’ plates Myron had seen advertised in Parade were neatly hung on a wall.
“My studio’s in the back,” she said.
Francine Rennart led him to a big addition off the kitchen. It was a sparsely furnished room with white walls. A couch with a spring sticking out of it sat in the middle of the room. A kitchen chair leaned against it. So did a 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 Rennart 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 fly. “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. It’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 a garrulous interviewee. “I see,” he said. “Then 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.
