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joshym · 11 months

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Le Morte d'Arthur: Chapter 1

Paring: Jake Kiszka x f!Reader

Summary: It all began with a passion for literature. What was once a dream to walk the halls of the University of Michigan is now a reality.

You thought you were prepared for everything.

A new town, a new school, a new way of life,

but what you were not prepared for…

was meeting the enigma that is Jake Kiszka.

Word Count: 8.8k+

Warnings: (for this chapter) mentions of stress & anxiety, mentions of a broken home, mentions of an ill, disabled parent, mentions of an oxygen tank & medications, jake is an asshole, (if I missed anything, please let me know)

a/n: it's here! i can't begin to express how excited i am to share this with everyone. this story has been in the works for quite some time now, & it's been such a joy to write. i sincerely hope you all love it. please don't be afraid to let me know what you think. 🤍

also, huge thank you to @jakeyt for being the best editor, & being my right hand in helping create this. i seriously couldn't have done it without you. love you SO much. you're the best sister i could ever ask for.

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As you walk up the stone steps of Angell Hall, you feel as though you’re walking into a book filled with ancient Greek Mythology. The pillars that resemble the Parthenon temple, the delicate stone work motifs that portray Athena's owl and Pegasus; you’ve truly never felt more at home than you do at this very moment as you take your first steps inside the building that houses the English Literature courses. The inside is rich with artwork personifying poetry and myth. The intricate neoclassical design of the ceilings, complete with gold leafing and imperial medallions. The most incredible building you’ve ever seen, and one of the many reasons you decided to make the transfer to the University of Michigan.

It’s been no easy feat to get here. In fact, it’s been damn near impossible. It’s by the skin of your teeth that you’re here today, walking the very halls of your dream school.

The road to get here has been hell. Pure, unadulterated hell. You’ve saved every last penny to afford the move here, while trying to take care of your mom and her declining health. It didn’t help that your dad decided it was all too much for him and left a year ago, leaving the two of you alone with hardly the means to afford even the bare necessities. With two full time jobs, online classes at some bullshit university, and tending to your mom’s every need for the last year, it’s a fucking miracle you’re standing here today.

It’s only been a month since you received your acceptance letter in the mail. You worked your ass off the last two years maintaining a 4.0 gpa to be sure you’d be accepted. You’d applied back in January and waited six excruciating months to hear back, obsessively checking the mail at least three times a day.

One day, you noticed a rather large, crumpled envelope stuffed in your tiny mailbox. It was wet from a rainstorm that had hit earlier that day, but you could still make out the sender information.

The University of Michigan

515 East Jefferson St.

1220 Student Activities Building

Ann Arbor, MI 48109-1316

You knew that the contents of this envelope would seal your fate for the next two years. You were hesitant at first to open, scared of rejection. You let it sit for a few hours before finally ripping it open as quickly as your fingers would allow.

You pulled out the sopping piece of cardstock, stamped with a golden “M” at the top left corner.

Congratulations, y/n!

You’re in! We are pleased to inform you that you are admitted to the University of Michigan College of Literature, Science and the Arts Junior class entering fall of 2023.

Within two weeks of receiving the letter, you and your mom packed up what little you had and left the sleepy town of Cherry Tree, Oklahoma.

Up until now, you’d lived in this tiny town your entire life. You’ve been so ready to leave, to find adventure elsewhere that would allow you to spread your wings. You’d been held back there for so long. You knew it was time, and as much as she could, your mother supported your choice to leave and she was eager herself to get away.

You managed to secure a low income apartment in Ann Arbor that has accommodations for those with disabilities. It’s a shithole. But it’s your shithole.

You’re solely responsible for any and all bills as your mom isn’t fit to work. You’ve got enough saved up to last about a month, so one of your first priorities is to find a job that will sustain you.

Right now, though, your current goal is to find your first class in this massive building. It’s intimidating. Everyone here is walking past you in a hurry to get where they need to go as you’re stuck, still trying to figure out where room 3182 is. There aren’t signs anywhere to help guide you through the utter maze that is Angell Hall. You haven’t the slightest clue of where to start.

You try asking a few people, only to be met with vague points in general directions, or people simply telling you ‘up stairs.’

Where are the damn stairs?

You start trekking along in an attempt to find them, when you see a large wooden door that’s cracked open just enough to see, finally, a staircase.

Some progress.

Making your way to the third floor, you assume you’ve finally found where your class will be when you look at a room number… and it says ‘2548.’

Dammit.

You head back to the stairs to make your way up to the next floor, and to your relief, the class numbers all begin with a three.

You head down the long, dimly lit hallway in frantic search for room 3182, to no avail. The hallway has so many twists and turns with no guidance for direction. There may as well be a scarecrow with arms pointing in all directions saying ‘this way!’

You’re stuck yet again, unsure of where to go. You assume everyone is in their respective classes as the hall is barren, so there’s not a soul to ask. With only two minutes until class begins, you’re nearing the point of giving up.

Anything is better than waltzing into class late on your first day, no less your first day at a university where no one knows you. What a fantastic first impression to make.

Suddenly, a man comes barging down the hall towards you. He looks a bit unapproachable, wearing a large brimmed black hat on top of his shoulder length hair, sunglasses that mimic ones worn by John Lennon in the seventies and a matching all black ensemble of linen pants and a button up, with only the last few buttons actually secured. He jingles as he moves due to an obnoxious number of necklaces sitting on his bare chest.

You’re not sure you want to bother him but desperate times call for asking strange men for directions.

“Hi, excuse me. Could you tell me where room-”

Without even acknowledging your basic existence, he seems to be in a hurry as he slams into you, knocking your brown canvas bag off your shoulder and effectively dumping everything out of it.

“Sorry,” he mumbles as he quickly turns the corner, not even bothering to help you pick up the mess he’s created.

“John Lennon wannabe motherfucker,” you mutter under your breath as you bend down to gather your belongings.

You hear footsteps coming closer to you, thinking just maybe he's decided to come back and make amends.

“Sorry about him, girl.”

You glance up just as she’s kneeling down, offering to help with your scattered books.

“Don’t pay him any mind. He thinks he walks on water,” she says as she helps you shove the last of them in your bag, now all disheveled and out of your perfect order.

“God, thank you so much. Would you happen to know where room 3182 is? I haven’t the slightest clue where I’m going.”

“Just keep going down the hall until you reach the bathroom, take a left and it’s the second room on the right,” she says, with a warm smile.

You thank her again and quickly head in that direction.

At last, you breathe a sigh of relief as you approach room 3182.

With a deep breath, you open the door to the massive lecture hall that appears more like an auditorium with its pitched floor.

All eyes are on you, the room dead silent as the professor glares at you.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, I had the worst time-”

“No matter. Just take your seat and do it quickly,” he cuts you off.

You scan the room in search of an empty seat as everyone continues to silently stare at you, eyes burning holes in your soul.

This is exactly what you wanted to avoid.

Finally you spot one on the far right corner of the room. Swiftly heading towards it, you make a horrid discovery.

Mr. John Lennon wannabe is in the seat right next to the empty one.

Of fucking course.

Grudgingly, you take your seat next to him. He shifts his body slightly away from you as you situate yourself, letting out a long, dramatic sigh once you're settled.

You decide to try and humble him with your southern hospitality, asking his name with a kind smile, to which he only responds by cocking his head in your general direction and not bothering to answer you.

What an ass.

“Now that it seems we finally have everyone here, let’s get things started. Welcome to English 450, The Quest for King Arthur. My name is Dr. Movack and I will be your instructor throughout the semester.”

You start pulling out all of your books on King Arthur, annoyed that some of them now have bent pages thanks to the mysterious man wearing all black sitting to your left.

“One of the requirements to be accepted in this class, aside from the prerequisite courses, is to have more than just the basic knowledge of Arthurian lore.” Dr. Movack continues, “Taking that into account, there is no need to waste time in starting from the beginning. However, I would like to take a moment to test your knowledge. Each person who answers correctly will receive a point towards extra credit.”

Dr. Movack begins going around the room, asking everyone basic questions and facts about King Arthur when he finally gets to you.

“I would like you to tell me which text offers the earliest reference to Arthur.”

With booming confidence, you answer, “I believe it’s around the 7th century when he is briefly mentioned in the poem titled Y Gododdin.”

The John Lennon look alike on your left lets out an obnoxiously loud chuckle while shaking his head.

“Dr. Movack, it’s a well known fact that Arthur isn’t specifically mentioned until Historia Brittonum in the 9th century. She’s clearly wrong,” he blurts out.

You know your stuff when it comes to this lore. You’ve studied it for the better part of your life and you’ll be damned if you let this man who, for whatever reason has developed a vendetta against you, try to outwit you.

“No, you are wrong. You obviously haven’t read the poem or you’d know he’s named when referencing the bravery of Gwawrddur.”

He waves his palm in your face in an attempt to silence you, the gesture causing your lip to curl in frustration. “Tell her, Dr. Movack. Tell her she’s wrong and has no idea what she’s talking about.” He asserts.

Talking about you instead of to you is a great way to piss you off and he’s on the right path towards it. His refusal to even look at you has you nearly in flames with rage.

“What’s your name, miss?” Dr. Movack asks.

“Y/n,” you respond.

Your heart is thumping out of your chest as you await the professor's response.

“It seems there may be someone here who knows even more than you, Kiszka.” Lennon’s jaw nearly hits the desk beneath him. “Y/n is absolutely right. Y Gododdin does, in fact, mention Arthur. The introduction is so slight that it’s often missed, but scholars argue that this piece does indeed contain the first true reference.”

Even through his obnoxious sunglasses, you can see the frustration painted on his face. Proving him wrong in front of the whole class serves him right.

Poetic justice at its finest.

You laugh through your nose and give yourself a metaphorical pat on the back, anticipating more praise from Dr. Movack when he says “However, miss, you will not receive your point for being late to my class.”

Lennon cackles at this, of course, feeling he’s somehow won this educational battle.

He answers his question correctly, receiving his point and commendation from Dr. Movack.

He sits back in his chair, arms crossed with a smug face, wearing a ‘kiss my ass’ grin on his lips.

You just roll your eyes and look the other direction, envisioning yourself ripping those ridiculous sunglasses off his face.

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Something you’re not used to yet, and perhaps will never get used to, is the Detroit traffic. Stuck in your beat to hell ‘92 Firebird in bumper to bumper traffic, you’re at a near standstill as you’re desperate to get home after a long day of classes. What should only be a fifteen minute drive home has already lasted more than thirty, and you’ve hardly moved an inch.

You’re sitting in silence as you don’t even have the luxury of the radio to keep you company. You’re lucky enough that this car even runs with as much shit as it’s been through. A hand-me-down from a hand-me-down, losing parts and gusto after each set of hands it passes through. You figure you’ll be the last to drive it before it meets its timely end in the very near future.

WIthout much else to preoccupy you at the moment, your mind is wandering with recollection of your first day at the school you’ve had your sights set on since your first comprehensible memory. Feeling like a fish out of water would be the most comfortable way to describe your day. It goes far beyond that.

You know it’ll take some time to settle. But you’re afraid that time won’t fix the fact that you may not truly belong here. You’ve never really fit in anywhere, even in your tiny hometown that you’d lived in your whole life. You were never fully accepted there, so what makes you think you’d be accepted here? You’d always felt so isolated in Cherry Tree, too small of a town to feel such a way. Now, you have the intimidation of a rather large city to amplify your isolation.

Aside from the nightmare that was finding your first class and the man who made you late to it, your other classes went about as well as you could’ve hoped for. You’d still managed to get lost a fair amount, but on the brightside, you’d found the campus coffee shop so you had been able to stay there for a while this afternoon.

The man, who you can only refer to as Lennon given he so rudely refused to give you his first name, was also studying in the coffee shop today, much to your dismay.

And the way he’d locked eyes with you for a brief moment before quickly looking away…

You were not sure why, but now, you can’t pry him from your ambulant mind. Something about him, aside from his insolent demeanor, is oddly enticing. He’s dark, almost mystifying. There are secrets in the air he breathes. Whether or not you want to know them, you can’t quite decide. Nonetheless, you’re intrigued.

Traffic finally begins to move at a steady pace, breaking your trance and causing your disoriented image of him to return to one filled with anger.

Mystifying or not, he was an ass for absolutely no reason. You’ve made up your mind that you will never give him the time of day again.

You pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex, your car sputtering its cry of exhaustion as you’ve put it to the ultimate test far too many times lately.

“I need you to hang on just a little longer, old friend.” You say as you throw the gear shift in park. “Just a little longer, then we’ll lay your heaping metal bones to rest.”

You trek up the stairs to your apartment, stopping at door 264. You smile as you look down to see “Don’t Knock Unless You Brought Wine” stitched on the doormat beneath your feet. Your mom insisted on it, and as ridiculous as you think it is, you’re grateful for the smile it’s brought to your tired face.

You search through your disarranged canvas bag for your key, silently cursing the fact that it’s not in its designated spot.

Finally spotting the shining silver, you pull it out and twist it in the rusted bolt to open the door.

Your mom is sprawled out on the couch, her oxygen tank filling the quiet apartment with a subtle humming. The living room television is on some old sitcom she loves with the volume muted, as per usual for her.

You don’t want to wake her, as it’s imperative that she gets as much rest these days as she can. You keep as quiet as possible while heading to the kitchen to start dinner for the two of you.

You decide on something simple; bowtie pasta with alfredo and grilled chicken.

Your mom always had a knack for all things culinary. Her skill remains unmatched, although it’s not as easy for her these days.

You sadly missed out on that trait from her. You’re lucky if you don’t burn the water. But, over the course of her illness becoming increasingly debilitating, you’ve taught yourself some easy and quick recipes to get by.

You spoon a healthy amount of pasta on each of your plates, even garnishing them with a few basil leaves for a little aesthetic.

You pour yourself a much needed glass of merlot before taking your mom’s plate to her.

You gently wake her by carefully nudging her hand.

“Dinners ready, mom. I hope it’s okay.”

She slowly begins to stir awake, looking happy to see you as you sit next to her. “I’m sure it’ll be great. Thank you, sweetie.” You help her to sit up and get stabilized before handing her her plate. “How was your first day?” She tries not to wince as she takes her first bite. Her years of being a culinary expert have made her awfully picky when it comes to food, but she’s never once outwardly complained about your cooking. Although you can tell she’s less than impressed, she would never tell you that. She knows you’re trying your best and she’s so grateful for it, especially since your dad left.

“It was alright, I guess.” You take your first bite and instantly understand her initial aversion to it. Undercooked noodles and over cooked chicken. You’re glad it’s not the other way around this time.

“Just alright?” she asks.

You don’t have the heart to tell her how draining today truly was, so you just tell her that classes were a little stressful but that it really was a great day.

You switch the subject and talk about the beauty of the campus and how badly you wish she could see it. “Maybe someday,” she says.

You want nothing more than to get her out of this dingy apartment for a day and take her around, to show her the wonder of the city. It’s been incredibly difficult watching battle her illness. She seems to grow weaker with each passing day. Although she tries to conceal it from you, you know your mom, and you can see her deteriorate before your very eyes. It breaks your heart in a million pieces, but you still hold out hope that she will get better someday.

Hope is all you have.

Until then, you just try to enjoy each and every moment you share with her.

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You’re situated outside of room 3182 nearly thirty minutes early this morning, drinking your steaming coffee and reading House of Leaves that was assigned to you yesterday in your Classic Horror course.

The real inescapable horror, however, would be sitting next to him again, so you’re here early to avoid the unnecessary cruelty you faced the other day.

Taking advantage of your extra time, you allow yourself to become immersed in the daunting novel.

You read of a man on a slow descent to insanity, discovering a manuscript that details a home that transforms on the inside, yet stays the same on the outside.

Unlit hallways that continue for ages, doors appearing where they hadn’t been before. An architectural conundrum, this house.

The words in the book appear in strange prints, some pages with them upside down, placed in strange patterns; some pages with no words at all.

The word “House” is always in the color blue, even on the cover.

The novel both fascinates you and terrifies you all at once, having read it twice before. You’ve yet to make your own interpretations on this book as they seem to change with each read. A bit of a mindfuck, as it were.

Just as you’re diving head first into the maddening depths of Danielewski's story, you hear keys jingling followed by the door to the classroom opening.

You’d been so lost in your book you hadn’t even noticed that most of the students had joined you in the hall, waiting for class to begin.

You’re the first to head inside, much to Dr. Movack’s shock. You take your seat in the front row near the podium, the furthest one away from where you assume Lennon will sit.

The rest of the class piles in, taking their respective seats and gearing up for class. Here comes Lennon, clad in all black once again– sunglasses and all. He walks right past you, humoring you by ignoring your presence.

Good. Keep walking.

As more students pile in, you notice one mindlessly walking towards you before he abruptly stops and eyes you in your seat. You simply smile and nod as he stands there with a curious look about him.

He slowly walks away, leaving you a bit puzzled but you choose to ignore it.

The hands on the antique brass wall clock strike 10:00 am, and you notice Dr. Movack is still out in the hall speaking with someone. Of whom, you can’t quite tell.

You and the rest of the class wait patiently, when finally Dr. Movack walks in, but he’s not alone. He’s with the student who glared strangely at you just moments ago.

The student is standing near the professor, as if he has something to say, when Dr. Movack clears his throat and begins speaking.

“I feel I needn't say this, but it’s clear some of you aren’t aware of how things are done around here, so I will say it this once so that we all understand. Once you choose your seat on the first day of class, that becomes your designated seat for the remainder of the semester. It is disruptive to your fellow classmates to decide to take the seat they specifically chose as their throne for learning.”

Your chest tightens and your face becomes flush with unease.

You know instantly that he’s talking about you.

“So, I will end this here: if you are not sitting in the spot you chose on the first day of class, I suggest you move to said spot immediately so we can get started with our business.”

Shit.

You’re utterly humiliated as you slowly stand up, you being the only one to stand up and making it abundantly clear to everyone in class that you were the cause of this.

You take your things and move to the spot you so desperately wanted to avoid, right next to Lennon who is covering his mouth with his hand, giggling at your shame.

The student standing by Dr. Movack takes his rightful seat as you take yours.

The class you had been most excited for this semester is quickly turning out to be the one you wished you had never signed up for.

You made a terrible impression on the first day by being late, and now on the second day of this class, you’ve broken an unspoken rule that you had no previous knowledge of. All of that topped off with the man sitting next to you who has made his distaste for you rather clear… the only thought tormenting your mind is how badly you wish you could crawl in a hole and never have to show your face in this class ever again.

“I have an important announcement,” declares Dr. Movack as he takes post behind his podium. “Through the entirety of this course, you will be working on a semester-long project relating to the appropriation of Arthurian legend. This project is fairly at your liberty, meaning there are very few stipulations for you to follow.”

Okay, this is something you can handle. Something to sink your teeth into, something you know you’ll excel at.

“This will not be a solo project, however.”

Oh no.

“There are exactly fifty students in this class, so you will be paired in twos for a total of twenty five projects.”

Please no.

“As far as who you will be assigned with, that is very simple. The person seated next to you is who you will work with for the remainder of the semester.”

With Lennon being the very last seat in your row, and you being directly next to him, this means…he will be your partner. For the entire semester.

You were cursed from the first day you stepped foot in this room and had to sit next to him. Fate would have it so things would not work in your favor, it appears.

“This project is not to be taken lightly as it is worth sixty percent of your final grade. Everything in this class will lead up to it, so I suggest you take your readings very seriously.”

He will ruin this for you, no fucking doubt.

He won’t even give you the grace of telling you his first name, and now you have to work on a huge project with him for four months? A project worth more than half of your grade?

That hole you debated on crawling in is sounding better and better by the minute.

“Well, guess that makes us partners.” To your disbelief, Lennon speaks his first words to you in lieu of his typical 'at you' approach. “The nice thing is that it guarantees me a good grade.”

“Is that your way of admitting I know more about this than you do, Kiszka?” you snark. He cocks an eyebrow above his black lenses as you dare to utter his last name.

“Not quite.” He snorts a condescending chuckle, “I can tell you’re the type to work towards the best grade possible, hence, ensuring my success in the process. Shall I thank you now or later?”

Lennon’s got you there.

You take projects like these rather seriously, and this one will be no exception. As much as you’d love to set him up for failure, that would warrant your failure right along with him.

It’s the perfect scenario for him and a living nightmare for you.

Lovely.

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You walk through the open doors of the lecture hall for your next class, spotting yet another familiar face amongst the students, only this one much more kind and welcoming.

You recognize her as the kind soul who helped you the other day when your bag was senselessly knocked off your shoulder by your favorite Lennon impersonator.

“Hey!” she says as she notices you, “Come sit next to me!”

You’re nearly taken away by her beauty as you sit beside her, finally able to get a better look at her this time.

Her glowing caramel skin, her eyes light and honest with a sepia tone, her dark brown curls that are unruly yet flawlessly styled, held perfectly on top of her head with the most beautiful satin scarf.

“Thank you again for helping me the other day. You’re a saint for that.” You hang your book bag on the back of your chair, pulling out its contents for class. “You’ll never believe this, but that guy that slammed into me with no remorse, he’s in my class. The one that he made me so late for. And because of that, we’re partnered together for a semester-long project.”

“Ah yes, Jake,” she says under a giggle, adjusting her dark green, slouchy sweater off her toned shoulder. “He’s something else, that’s for sure. He’s got a good heart but he covers it with that mysterious, dark facade that he thinks makes him look so cool.”

Alas, Lennon does have a first name after all. Although, you prefer the nickname you’ve given him.

“Well, Jake has made it rather clear that I am not his favorite person and I can’t for the life of me figure out why. I’m not sure how we’ll manage to make it through this semester together with his shitty attitude.”

She hums under her breath, slowly shaking her head as if to say ‘just you wait.’

“My name’s Natalia. Where’d you fly in from?”

The way her name rolls off her tongue with her slight accent is nothing short of beautiful.

“Just a miniscule town in Oklahoma. Is it really that obvious that I’m not from here?” you answer in a hushed tone, half embarrassed to admit such a thing.

She grins as she sings a few words from the title track from the beloved Rodgers and Hammerstein musical, showcasing her stark white teeth that compliment her glowing, tanned skin perfectly.

“I hate to tell you Ms. Oklahoma, but you do kind of stick out like a sore thumb,” she quips.

Having gone from a small, southern town to the outskirts of Detroit, you’re bound to look like an outsider until the culture shock wears off, much to your discontent.

As much as you wish you could quickly adapt and easily blend in, it’s just not possible. Your face twinges as you remember your first day, specifically that one class you’d care to not mention any further.

“Welcome, students, to Women in Literature. My name is Dr. Lacey and I’ll be your instructor through the duration of this course.”

Class begins and you both submerge yourself in a study that’s particularly important to each of you.

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“I can’t call you Ms. Oklahoma forever, you know.”

You and Natalia have the rest of the day free from classes, so you decided to walk with her to the Central Campus library to do some studying.

“I guess you’re right,” you say through a laugh. “My name is y/n.”

You walk across the large courtyard full of lush green grass, intricate steel benches and the most lovely hydrangeas colored a deep purple.

The Michigan landscape is a far cry from anything you had ever seen in Oklahoma. Everything's so green and flourished, so full of life. Vibrant colors paint the scenery in the most beautiful vision.

The weather is nearly perfect, with the temperatures never exceeding the mid seventies and the humidity far below the excruciating levels of the southern states.

You’re in awe as you go day to day with the sheer beauty of the nature that surrounds you.

Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, your curiosity begins to take over your every thought. Jake Kiszka. Your semester-long partner. You need to know more about him, as much as you attempt to relinquish the desire.

You finally build up the courage to ask. “So, how do you know him?”

She looks at you upon your inquiry, squinting her eyes as she studies your face. “Who, Jake?” She says with a sinister grin about her.

“Yes, Jake. What is it about him that he feels the need to treat people like they’re beneath him?”

“Ah, Sir Jacob,” she says. “He’s a bit of an enigma, I guess you could say. And yes, he is single.” She throws you a wink as you stare at her with utter disgust at her wisecrack.

“I do not care if he’s single,” you respond, causing her to snort a chuckle.

“I’ve known the guy for years. We go all the way back to the golden days of our youth. He and his twin brother graduated high school a year before me, and their younger brother was a year below me.” A twin? There’s two of him? “I’ve known their family for the better part of my life. Good people, truly. I can’t begin to tell you how much they’ve helped my family and me.”

You’ve only just met him, but the words ‘good’ and ‘Jake’ don’t seem to belong in the same sentence.

“Incidentally enough, his twin, Josh, and my brother, Malachi, have been partners since they graduated together. So, they’re kind of my family, too.” You walk up the steps to the library as she holds the large wooden door open for you.“I promise you, y/n. He’s not all bad. You’ve just seen what he projects to people he doesn’t know. Like I said, he thinks it makes him look cool.”

Your thoughts momentarily stop as you take your first steps into the library. You’re in shock. Though, you shouldn’t be. Every single building you’ve stepped foot into on this campus is absolutely immaculate, and the library is no exception.

It’s almost bewitching, with thousands of books lining the walls, reaching chandeliers that seem to hang from the clouds at their height.

The alluring musty scent of aged novels fill your senses and take you back to a time long since forgotten.

It’ll be far too tempting to spend all of your time here, getting lost in the pages that fill the space of grandeur.

You’ve been stuck in a near trance by the beauty surrounding you, you hadn’t even noticed that Natalia moved behind the circulation desk.

“It’s also his way of keeping his guard up. It’s rare that anyone gets to discover the true Jacob,” she says as she types away at the computer sitting at the desk.

“Um, Natalia?” You quietly ask. “Should you be back there?”

She laughs as she takes in your slightly terrified expression, “Well I would say so, ya know, since it’s the start of my shift.”

“You work here?” How could anyone be so lucky as to work in such an immaculate setting?

“It’s a pretty sweet gig. It’s not the most thrilling job but it’s nice and quiet. I get to spend my days among books, and the tuition break is a pretty nice incentive.” She secures her gold plated magnetic name badge to sweater, making her look rather official.

A job on campus would be utter perfection for you. You’ll be spending a vast majority of your time here anyways, and the tuition break would be a significant help in your situation.

“Do you happen to know of any other jobs on campus that are hiring?” you ask, almost embarrassed, but you have a feeling you can trust her. “I’m kind of in a pinch to find something soon. Desperate, actually.”

She rests her chin between her index finger and thumb, seeming to ponder your question. “I know of a few,” she says. “One that just so happens to be in this very library, if you’re interested.” Her voice carries an almost sarcastic tone, she knows you’re interested.

“Oh my god, are you serious? I would love to work here!” you say.

“I figured you would.” She rummages through the credenza and pulls out a sheet of paper entitled ‘Employment Application’ and sets it on the desk in front of you.

“Go ahead and fill this out, and I’ll consider putting in a good word for you.” She winks at you as she hands you a pen.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

Classes have become increasingly difficult. It’s nothing you can’t handle, but you find it hard to make time for much of anything outside of work and school.

You started your new job at the library one week ago today. You pick up as many shifts as possible, mostly evenings and nights as your days are taken up with your classes. The library stays open until ten o’clock, so most nights you don’t get home until at least ten thirty.

You set aside a little time after class everyday to run home and take care of your mom before work, making her dinner and being sure her nightly medications are set out before you head back to campus.

As busy as you are, you truly love your job and you’re immensely excited about your studies.

Your friendship with Natalia has bloomed beautifully over the last week.

You’re so grateful for her. She has been your saving grace lately as this last week has been a bit treacherous. Her companionship has been a major help in your adjustment to this new way of life and your somewhat rigorous schedule.

Jake, on the other hand–well, things are about the same. You’ve set aside your pride a few times this week in an attempt to get along with him for the sake of your project, but he just brushed you off, every single time.

This project is massive, and not having it started yet, or even having a single idea about what you’ll do with it, is giving you serious anxiety.

The tension with him seems to grow by the day and you’re almost at the end of your rope with it. You don’t know how to fix it, but you need to figure out something soon so you can bury this unnecessary hatchet and focus on your shared assignment.

–

After running home to make dinner for your mom and tend to a few chores, you make it back to campus just in time to begin your shift.

Tonight, you’re in charge of contacting students with missing books and tacking on late fees to their accounts if necessary.

You’re sitting at the computer, scrolling through the seemingly endless list of students and calling them to let them know of the fees they’ve accrued.

Most of them are rather displeased with you upon your notice, some of them even giving you a small piece of their mind before abruptly hanging up on you.

You make phone call after phone call, trekking through the list organized alphabetically by last name.

At last, you’ve made it to the end of the J’s. Your task for the evening was to make it halfway through the list, and you’re nearly there as you begin contacting students whose last names begin with K.

Upon reading the name of the next student, your heart sinks to the pit of your stomach.

Kiszka, Jacob T (1): Le Morte d’Arthur (Norton Critical Edition) - Mallory

“You can’t be serious,” you mumble.

You debate on ‘accidentally’ skipping him, but you don’t want anything to jeopardize your brand new job.

You have to call him, and you’re not looking forward to it.

You suddenly hear the voice of your boss in the back of your mind, “It’s proper etiquette to always state your name when calling students, so be sure to introduce yourself with each call you make.”

You quickly make up your mind that you will not mention your name during your call to him. The last thing you need is any more awkward air between you two.

You dial his number and wait, listening to the ominous ringing from the other end.

Your eyes are pinched shut, your palms sticky with sweat as you secretly hope he doesn’t answer.

Then, the ringing comes to a stop, “Hello?”

Shit.

“Is this Jacob?” You use your best professional tone, hoping to disguise your voice as much as you can.

“This is he,” he responds, the statement ending in more of a question.

“Hi, Jacob. This is y/n with the Central Campus Library.”

Fuck.

You throw your head in your hand, mentally cursing yourself for letting your name slip through. Maybe he didn’t notice, you think to yourself.

There’s an uncomfortable silence for a moment before you clear your throat and continue speaking.

“I’m calling about your overdue copy of Le Morte d’Arthur.”

“Y/n? Aren’t you in my class?” he asks.

So much for him not noticing.

Ignoring his question, you proceed “It looks like you checked it out over the summer and it’s now twenty eight days overdue. Per policy, there has been a fee of seven dollars and fifty cents added to your account. If it is not returned by the thirty one day mark, you will receive anoth-”

He patronizingly cuts you off before you can finish, “You’re in Movack’s class, huh? You sit right next to me.”

With a sigh of frustration, you finish telling him that he must return it within three days or he’ll receive a much heftier fee.

“Yeah, okay. We’ll see about that,” he says before hanging up on you. His short tone has infuriated you beyond belief.

“Asshole,” you exclaim as you slam the phone down on the receiver causing a booming echo to erupt throughout the building. Luckily, the only other person here with you is Natalia. She’s been in the back sorting books while you’ve been dealing with overdue rentals.

Her boisterous laughter adds to the echoing bouncing off the walls. “I heard that,” she yells.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

You’re especially dreading Dr. Movacks class today after your phone call with Jake last night. You know for a fact that things will be even more tense with him today, and you’re just not in the mood to deal with it.

The exhaustion from everything piled on your plate has really begun to set in. Jake is the last thing you want to worry about. With each unpleasant interaction with him, your impatience grows to new levels.

With the support of your large cold brew in hand, you gather the nerve to walk into class.

“So you work at the library, huh?” Jake says as you take your seat.

“Yep,” you say in response. You pull out your phone and scroll mindlessly, giving him the hint that you’re less than interested in talking with him.

Class begins, and Dr. Movack starts his lecture on Arthurian timelines. You’re trying to pay close attention, but you find yourself becoming increasingly distracted– by Jake.

He smells so good– a mix of sandalwood and vanilla. You’ve noticed it before, but for some reason it’s particularly exhilarating today.

You chalk it up to delusion from fatigue and force yourself to pay attention to the lecture.

But fuck if it isn’t hard has hell to ignore.

You reach for your coffee, glancing Jake's way when you make yet another intrusive realization.

The way he grips his pen so tightly– the veins in his hand and forearm protrude in the most captivating way.

Your eyes slowly follow a trail to his pecks, the curve of them seen just beneath his partially open, black—of course—button down. You watch them tense slightly with each word he writes.

Dr. Movack ends the lecture and you suddenly realize you’ve been staring far too long.

“Can I help you?”

You’re instantly mortified at him catching your stare. Desperate to find any excuse, you happen to see his copy of Le Morte d’Arthur sitting underneath his notebook. Thank god.

“Your book,” you point to the novel. “You need to return it.”

He huffs a laugh as he takes his sunglasses off, leaving you stunned. This is the first time you’ve seen his face without their obstruction—and the first time you’ve ever seen his eyes.

His eyes are kind and warm. They glow amber brown like a glass of whiskey on the rocks, intoxicating you just as the smooth drink would.

“I still have two days, right?”

You saw his lips move, but the sound that came from them was muffled in your head as you’re entirely mesmerized by his eyes.

“Right?” he asserts, breaking you from your trance.

You blink your eyes a few times to bring yourself back to earth as your brain registers what he had said.

“What? Y– yes, you still have two days,” you say. “You know it’s not a required reading until later on in the semester, right? Why do you need it right now?”

“Maybe I wanted to get a head start,” he says while tossing it in his black leather satchel. “Maybe it’s not any of your business.” He swiftly gets up and walks away, leaving you completely frustrated yet again.

Your journey to your next class feels more like a rigorous trudge. You’re walking fast and hard, stomping your feet with each step as your anger towards Jake exudes through your body.

Not only are you pissed at his stupid fucking attitude, you’re pissed that you find him so damn attractive.

How could you possibly find someone like him appealing? Appealing to the eye, yes, but that’s where it stops. He’s a walking rain cloud hovering over you, stealing all the sunshine from your day in only a matter of a single class period.

You’re impatiently counting the days until this class– until this project– is over and done with so you can move on and live a peaceful existence.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

It’s just about time to close the library and you could not be more ready. The last few days have been incredibly draining. With homework piling up in heaps, multiple tests to study for and working nearly every night, your stress is at an all time high.

Thankfully, tomorrow is Saturday. This will be your first day off all week and you’re beyond ready for some much needed relaxation. You just need to get through these next five, excruciating minutes.

It’s been awfully quiet tonight and you’re grateful for it since you’re the only one working, but the lack of students has made the shift feel much longer than usual.

You glance up at the clock that says it’s two minutes until ten. Given you haven’t seen any signs of a student in hours, you figure it would be okay to go ahead and lock up a few minutes early.

Just as you're about to twist the lock on the bolt, someone from the other end hastily turns the knob and pushes open the door with great force, causing you to stumble backwards.

Standing before you with their overdue book in hand, and to your utter disgust, is Jake.

“We’re closed, Jake.”

He takes a few steps inside as he points behind you at the clock. “According to that, you’re still open for one more minute and I need to return my book.”

Of fucking course he waited until the literal last minute.

You want nothing more than to turn him away and tell him he’s shit out of luck, but technically, he’s right. He’s entered the building before closing and according to policy, you have to serve him.

Son of a bitch.

You bring your hand up to rub your forehead, trying to relieve some tension before you begin this process with him. “Follow me,” you say as you head back to the desk.

There’s an awkward silence lingering between you two as you sign into the computer, the only sound being his fingers tapping away at the desk as he impatiently waits for you.

“You could’ve just put it in the drop box outside, you know. They would’ve gotten it on Monday morning,” you tell him.

“Yeah, but then it would’ve been late. I’m not letting you all charge yet another absurd late fee,” he retorts.

“You should’ve turned it in on time, then.”

You seem to have struck a nerve with him given the way his jaw clenched at your statement. You just can’t bring yourself to care– he’s the one forcing you to stay late when all you want to do is go home and go to bed.

You go through the return process as quickly as you can. You finish, giving him his copy of the document that states he brought the book back.

“Thanks,” he says. “Now I would like to check it back out, please.”

Are you fucking kidding.

You know he’s doing this just to spite you.

You throw your hands down on the keyboard, “Seriously? Why can’t you just come back on Monday?”

“Because I need it this weekend,” he claims.

“What could you possibly need it for?” Any semblance of patience you may have had left has officially walked out the door.

“Didn’t I tell you it was none of your business?”

You take a deep breath and push it back out in a long sigh. You just don’t have it in you to argue anymore, so you accept defeat and begin checking it back out to him.

You don’t say anything as you hand him a pen and the checkout slip for him to sign. He grabs the pen, looking at you with a slight guilt-ridden expression before giving his signature.

“I’m working on a film with my brother, and I need the book to help him write the script.” This is the first time you’ve ever noted a hint of sincerity in his voice. The features of his face have softened– you can tell this is important to him.

You flip delicately through the tattered and stained pages of the book. “I have my own copy of this out in my car,” you say. “I’ll just let you borrow mine. It’s in much better condition than this one, anyways.”

He agrees as you take the slip from under his fingers and crumple it, throwing it in the trash can under the desk. He waits a few minutes, letting you lock up.

Then, he follows closely behind you to your car to retrieve the book.

You bend at the waist to dig for the book in the mess of your backseat. When you do so, you hear him take a deep inhale, and then blow it out in an exhale.

Is he annoyed with you having to dig? Because he can get the fuck over it.

Just as you hear him clear his throat in impatience, you’ve found the book. You stand and hand him the book, annoyed with him and ready to leave. He thanks you, and you nod, bidding him a hasty ‘good night’… you’re just ready to get home.

He begins to walk away, but stops and turns back around to face you.

Fuck. You’d been so close to being in the car, on your way home. Dammit.

“This film my brother’s doing,” he says. “Its focus surrounds the adultery of Arthur and Guinevere. He asked me to help him, and I was thinking…” You nod your head to let him know to keep going. “Well, if we both helped him, we could use it for our project.”

Your interest is certainly piqued. “Yeah, that could work. I’ve written a few scripts and designed theoretical sets for a couple film electives before… so I could definitely do that.”

“He could use more help with all of that for sure, but what he really needs are actors, specifically ones to play Arthur and Guinevere. He’s been begging me to play Arthur and I agreed, but now he’s on my case about finding someone to play Guinevere and, well...” He gestures his arms towards you, signaling that he thinks you should play her.

“Um…,” you take a minute to figure out how to politely turn him down as you feel a blush rise to your cheeks. You’d never admit it, but just the mere thought of interacting with him so intimately in those roles has your stomach doing weird flips. “Jake… I– I don’t know about that. I’m much better behind the camera, acting just isn’t really my thing.”

“Just give it a try,” he insists. Why does he seem so adamant? Geez. “And if you hate it, you can do something else. But I think you’d be great at it, really.” He smiles at you, the first time you’ve seen a true, genuine smile from him.

Well, fuck.

You want to say no, you should say no. With how he’s treated you thus far, you don’t owe him anything. But– you can’t deny how it would help your project. And this project in Movack’s class… It's important to you. It would be fantastic to have it to back up your own project…

And, aside from that, his smile is making it awfully hard to turn him down right now.

If you were alone, you would have slapped your forehead at the utter chaos in your head, leading to your ultimate decision.

With a little hesitancy, you speak up, “I guess I could stop by. Feel out the role…”

His features seem to lift more at that. You pay it hardly any mind.

And with his final reply, his velvet-toned voice has a brand new, excited, air to it. “It’ll be really amazing, I promise.” Then, he chuckles, almost to himself. “It’ll definitely be interesting,” he shakes his head, a grin still lifting his cheek. “But really… I think it’ll be great. I know my brother and you will get along. He’s also one hell of a director.”

Minutes later, as you’re climbing into your driver's seat, you take a few minutes to sit in the silence of your car.

Trying your damnedest to block out the obnoxious fluorescent lighting of the parking lot, you stare through your windshield into the black night sky.

And when normally, the blanket of black would bring you a sense of peace and comfort, tonight it’s different. Tonight, you can’t help but feel a burgeoning sense of timidness as you fail to find answers to your new predicament in the night sky.

What in the hell had you just agreed to?

taglist:

@jakeyt @alwaysonthemend @sacredjake @jakesgrapejuice @misshunnybee @reesetrippingthelight @way-to-go-lad @iffypanic @sinarainbows @klarxtr @brinlygvf @stardustjake @gretavanbear @gvfmelbourne @sinsofstardust @literal-dead-leaf @livkiszka @gvf-ficreads @jaaakeeey @capturethechaos @neptune2324 @jaketlove @thetroublegetssoloud71 @myleftsock @sanguinebats @jakekiszkapunchmeintheface

a/n: let me know if you'd like to be tagged, or follow this link to be added. 🤍

love you all SO MUCH

Le Morte d’Arthur Masterlist

Masterlist

#jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszka fic #jake kiszka fanfiction #jake kiszka smut #greta van fleet fanfiction #gvf fic #jake fic #jake kiszka #le morte d’arthur

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bongianimuseum · 5 months

Text

Retrospettiva di Ray Johnson “NOTHING / NOIHTNG”

Presentazione:

Pavilion Lautania Valley

Stranieri Qui e Altrove - Foreigners Here And Elsewhere

Retrospettiva di Ray Johnson “NOTHING / NOIHTNG”

Presentazione a cura di Sandro Bongiani

con la collaborazione dell'Archivio Ray Johnson di Coco Gordon, Colorado (USA).

Salerno, 5 aprile 2024

Quella di Ray Johnson da autentico “stranger” rimane una proposta decisamente ai margini del sistema dell’arte ufficiale diffusa ad ampio raggio, grazie alla capillarità del mezzo postale in diversi paesi del mondo. Per lungo tempo è stato considerato dalla critica negli anni 60’ per essere “il più famoso artista sconosciuto di New York” e un pioniere della performance nell'uso della lingua scritta nell'arte visuale. Una ricerca che accoglie persino frammenti di oggetti di vita. Ray è stato “un assiduo raccoglitore di cose trovate e recuperate” per essere rimesse nel circuito della comunicazione e nell’arte restituendo a loro una nuova vita. Le associazioni delle cose e i processiin cui accadono realmente erano alla base della comunicazione visiva, una sorta d’indagine intesa come un “work in progress” assolutamente del tutto provvisorio, che non può avere mai una definitiva conclusione.

Una pratica per certi versi trasversale e nel contempo deviante e poco credibile agli occhi del sistema dell’arte ufficiale, basata essenzialmente sulla contaminazione tra i diversi strumenti espressivi: collage, fotografia, oggetti recuperati, disegno, performance, happening e testi scritti, utilizzando frequentemente il gioco oscuro delle parole, come per esempio, “SEND” riorganizzato come “ENDS”, oppure, “NO THINGS” diventato “NOTHINGS”, con unasorta di operazione, in cui “i giochi di parole non sono solo un fatto ludico”, fine a se stesso,ma un’altra diversa possibilità di liberarsi dalle costrizioni e dagli impedimenti e affidarsi all’invenzione e alla creatività della parola, avvalorata anche dalle collaborazioni attraverso dall’invio postale.

Nella parola “Nothing” come nel collage di Jeff - scrive Coco Gordon - non c’è la lettera “I”, in cui sotto le dita del piede c’è scritto “Martin Friedman”, a volte non scrive per tre volte la lettera “I”, oppure aggiunge “No I” come quello spedito a Chuck Welch. Nella mia personale esperienza con Ray il "NO I “' l’aveva scritto in occasione della mia mostra alla CHA SOHO Gallery nel 1982 sull’invito all'opera trap per pianoforte, scrivendo su un piccolo foglietto di carta la parola “noihtng”, opponendola come regalo di compleanno per John Cage con 70 rossi pistacchi sanguinanti in carta sulla parete della Galleria. Forse provava a comunicare nascostamente la sua scomparsa con un “i” scrivendo “Noihtng” anche dietro la mia tshirt dicendo di non perderla perché era molto importante… In questo modo nascosto annunciava già sommessamente agli amici la sua prematura scomparsa che poi realmente ha realizzato nel 1995 gettandosi in mare da un ponte a Sag Harbor, New York, e che la critica ha valutato come ultima opera testimoniale e finale di questo importante artista americano.

Diceva Ray: “ho semplicemente dovuto accettare che per una necessità di vita ho scritto molte lettere e dato via molto materiale e informazioni, ed è stata una mia azione compulsiva, e mentre l'ho fatto, è diventato storia. È il mio curriculum, è la mia biografia, è la mia storia, è la mia vita”. I suoi progetti includono prestazioni concettualmente elaborate che si occupavano di relazioni interpersonali e disordini formali, diceva: "sono interessato a cose e cose che si disintegrano o si disgregano, cose che crescono o hanno aggiunte, cose che nascono da cose e processi del modo in cui le cose mi accadono realmente. Secondo Coco Gordon, “i suoi lavori non sono mai singole operazione assestanti di mail art, ma nascono da piccole storie, da incontri con le altre persone, da relazioni e riflessioni spontanee capaci di innescare nuovi apporti e nuove azioni al pensiero creativo”dando così completa autonomia alla comunicazione e rendendo questo nuovo modo di espressione totalmente libero, al di fuori di qualsiasi schema imposto e prefissato dal potere culturale e di conseguenza dal mercato ufficiale dell’arte.

Spesso viene associato al gruppo Fluxus per il carattere solitamente minimal-concettuale dei suoi progetti; il gruppo Fluxus è stato un vivace movimento internazionale che in quel periodo si distinse per una serie di azioni e interventi a carattere neodadaista. Dobbiamo segnalare che Ray Johnson non ha mai fatto parte del “Fluxus”, ma ha comunque condiviso le stesse problematiche e ”l’underground” prettamente sperimentale con molti artisti di questo raggruppamento. Precursore e convinto individualista. presenza enigmatica e nel contempo trasgressiva dell’arte contemporanea americana, nel 48, si era trasferito a New York iniziando una produzione di opere geometriche aderendo così al “Gruppo degli Artisti Astratti Americani”, per poi a metà degli anni '50 dedicarsi al collage, producendo centinaia di piccoli lavori che chiamò "moticos", quasi una sorta di “Pop Art” anticipatrice delle ricerche che a distanza di qualche anno verranno messe in campo con successo da Leo Castelli con il gruppo storico americano. Non sappiamo se era cosciente fino in fondo della portata innovativa e rivoluzionaria che stava apportando all’interno dell’arte . Oggi, a distanza di diversi anni ci appare uno dei personaggi più originali e influenti, e nel contempo, un grande pioniere solitario dell’arte visuale, influenzando il futuro dell'arte e divenendo altresì il punto di riferimento per nuove generazioni di giovani artisti.

Johnson ha sempre preferito lavorare su piccoli formati, precludendosi così l’appoggio del grande mercato dell’arte ufficiale, rifiutando spesso di esporre o vendere il proprio lavoro. Del resto, il mercato dell’arte preferisce le grandi dimensioni e una produzione creata appositamente per essere “mercificata” in senso commerciale, e quindi, poco interessato a tale situazione. Si direbbe, una ricerca del tutto “trasversale” rispetto alle proposte svolte in quel periodo da altri autori, che accoglie diversi mezzi espressivi con interventi che di fatto hanno creato attrito come del resto ha fatto, quasi nello stesso periodo, anche Guglielmo Achille Cavellini in Italia utilizzando la scrittura, il comportamento, la concettualità e persino l'ironia ben sapendo che questa era l’unica strada possibile da percorrere. Ray, non amava tanto essere chiamato un mail artista, e neanche essere considerato il pioniere della Mail Art, ma pensava di poter creare un nuovo gruppo di lavoro “Pre Pop Shop” tra Black Mountain e Pop Art. Secondo lui l’arte è vita, del resto, anche la parola “Moticos” utilizzata molto spesso deriva dalla parola osmotic, una specifica qualità caratterizzata da una reciproca influenza, uno scambio fra individui, una compenetrazione di idee, atteggiamenti e realtà culturali, insomma, un nuovo modo di pensare in un processo decisamente fluido e in evoluzione che si rivela in modo puntuale esaminando gli scritti e le azioni performative “Zen Nothings” svolte dall’artista americano. Oggi a distanza di 29 anni dalla morte il suo lavoro sperimentale dagli anni 60’ in poi è considerato dalla critica parte integrante del movimento Fluxus e persino originale anticipatore della Pop Art americana.

Ray Johnson (1927-1995)

Nato il 16 ottobre 1927 a Detroit, nel Michigan, i suoi primi anni di vita comprendevano lezioni sporadiche al Detroit Art Institute e un'estate alla Ox-Bow School di Saugatuck, nel Michigan. Nel 1945, Johnson lasciò Detroit per frequentare il progressivo Black Mountain College in North Carolina. Durante i suoi tre anni nel programma, ha studiato con un certo numero di artisti, tra cui Josef Albers, Jacob Lawrence, John Cage e Willem de Kooning. Trasferitosi a New York nel 1949, Johnson stringe amicizia tra Robert Rauschenberg e Jasper Johns, sviluppando una forma idiosincratica di Pop Art. Nei decenni successivi, Johnson divenne sempre più impegnato in performance e filosofia Zen, fondendo assieme la pratica artistica con la vita. Il 13 gennaio 1995 Johnson si suicidò, gettandosi da un ponte a Sag Harbor, New York, poi nuotando in mare e annegando. Nel 2002, un documentario sulla vita dell'artista chiamato How to Draw a Bunny, ci fa capire il suo lavoro di ricerca. Oggi, le sue opere si trovano nelle collezioni della National Gallery of Art di Washington, D.C., del Museum of Modern Art di New York, del Walker Art Center di Minneapolis e del Los Angeles County Museum of Art.

#ray johnson

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