I’ve spoken to thousands of art dealers listed in the yellow pages. I’ve turned the thin pages and made over a thousand calls asking for art made of plastic, which will keep for a thousand years. The art dealers call back and say the Ocean, the Ocean. I suppose they mean dive in and come to the surface with lost frisbees, discarded gardening gloves, plastic bags.
My daughter thinks her breasts are too small, I want implants she says. You’re the first one I’ve told, you’re my mother, she says. I tell her men will reuse her, reduce her in any case, it has nothing to do with breasts. You’re loveless, she says.
Some years later, when she’s older and I’m old, we meet at the art gallery: mother and daughter. It’s an installation where we have to sit across each other, look the other in the eye for one minute and not speak. It’s called One Minute of Silence with a Complete Stranger. It takes a long time. I note that my daughter has turned into a doll, her face is made of plastic.