Dear paper Frankenstein,
New York is not a city; it is an uncatalogued archive. It is a chaotic accumulation of noise, dust, and people who simply should not be occupying space. Any space at all.
Today marked the end of my first week in the Curatorial Studies program. The building itself is exactly as I expected it to be: blindingly white walls, polished concrete floors, and a silence that feels almost sacred. But it is merely an illusion. The moment my peers—a term I use with extreme reluctance—open their mouths, the sanctity vanishes. They are "noise," Franky. Pure, unnecessary noise.
There is one individual in particular. Marcus H. Thorne. He is the heir to some Midwestern steel fortune, operating under the delusion that buying art makes him an artist. Marcus talks over the professors, laughs too loudly, and throws around words like "disruptive" and "visceral" without grasping the actual artwork or the intent of the artist. He is a smear of grease on the immaculate canvas of this institution.
The other day, during a seminar on "Subtraction in Minimalist Art," Marcus had the audacity to claim that the use of negative space was "a lack of creative courage." He practically laughed at my thesis regarding the meaningfulness and aesthetics of the void. In that exact moment, as I watched him gesticulate with those perfectly manicured, useless, clumsy hands, I realised that my first curatorial exercise would not take place on a gallery wall.
It would take place on him.
And soon.
I actually have to thank Henri Delacunt for my previous biological failure. That humiliating panic attack taught me that emotion is a contaminant. If I want to "restore" the aesthetic of my classroom, I cannot afford to tremble. I cannot use industrial solvents that reek of chemicals and risk causing messy, disorganised convulsions. I need something that belongs to this world: something elegant, invisible, and clinical.
I have started spending my afternoons in the university's medical library instead of the fine arts wing. I have developed a sudden, intense interest in aesthetic toxicology.
To the curious group of "friends" I have acquired, it is merely an act of sisterly devotion. I told them I am researching important material for my sister's medical dissertation back in Italy, as she cannot come here to consult the books herself. I even made up the most banal name an Italian woman could possibly have: Francesca.
However, fascinating as it is, my foray into toxicology hasn't yet yielded the perfect result I had hoped for.
Too bad. I will keep researching. Besides, we don't have much to do for the program anyway. One week into the course, and there is still no rigorous research or serious homework—just minor, trivial assignments that take five minutes to prepare before we sit in class and endlessly discuss them. It feels like a mere formality. We are too early in the term to be designing actual exhibitions, or even mock ones, so they force us to do these non-existent, nonsensical tasks just to implicitly justify the exorbitant tuition fees we are paying.
Ah, Franky! I almost forgot to tell you. My aunt is overseeing an important exhibition in Italy next month, which means she will be visiting my family. I asked her to pet my cat for me and to send my regards to my parents. Hopefully, she only has good things to report to her sister. I mean, I am doing everything she asks of me and causing zero disruptions, so there shouldn't be an issue.
I find myself oddly excited about her trip, though I can't quite grasp why. I certainly don't miss my parents or my old friends. Just my cat. But even then, I am living quite happily without her.
I must go now, Franky. The toxicology texts are calling my name again.
See you later,
Vera