Sinking in the Venice bienale

There was a sunset party at the Arsenale, with lots of pretty girls in dresses and high heels, curators and gallerists in smart suits, and those Prada black spectacles thirstily attacking the automated waiters who could not even get halfway into the crowd before all the champagne flutes they had just brought out would be replaced with empty ones.

I had a painting in the Arsenale Nuovo exhibition, which was located exactly across the canal from the party. Having set up my work earlier that day, I was ready to celebrate and dressed up for the occasion, joining in the clinking of flutes.

The Austrian artists Gelitin, who were also showing their work at the Arsenale Nuovo, had, for the purpose of quick transport from our exhibition in the Arsenale Nuovo across 200 meters of canal to the old Arsenale, created a wooden vessel. This vessel did not resemble a boat, really; it was more like a shack on water, with some sort of sail attached, which fooled a bunch of people into daring to mount it and try to prove to the rest of the party how this art piece could be used to cross the water. No girls wanted to attempt this obvious folly, so Elena, the curator of our show, pestered me until I consented to engage alongside her in the maiden voyage of the rickety raft.

Six of us set sail into the sunset. People on the shore cooed and ahhed at us for a moment, and then returned to hunting down waiters. As we were 40 meters from the shore, the raft began to sink. Yes, the wood soaked up the water, and within seconds our ankles and pretty leather shoes were in water. Soon we were in water up to the knees. Then we started to holler for help. At this point, the party suddenly did find it interesting to watch, point, stare, laugh at, and probably make bets on how fast we would sink.

In that moment, while sinking, on the shore, I saw him. The pilot-boy I had fallen head over heels for in Mexico City, who was coming to meet me in Venice and whom I had been dying to see for weeks. I was too embarrassed even to wave. I hoped he did not see me. The boat did not stop sinking. Elena screamed down a speedboat, which picked us up out of that mysterious situation and returned us to shore with our cameras and phones intact. By then, the pilot boy had left. The raft had sunk.