Once, the Gresge and I tagged along to a party that was being held for a student who'd just sold a painting for some five figures. The place was packed. Wall to wall black turtlenecks and clove cigarettes. I spotted my avant-garde theater prof there, as well as the French Intellectual History big gun. On the walls hung art by the guy who the party was for. Ralph and I stood, in jeans and t-shirts, drinks in hand, staring at some hideous abstract Expressionist triptych that the guy had painted. Onto it he'd pasted random newspaper headlines.
While we were staring at it, trying to look knowledgeable, some guy walked over, stood between us, and said, "So, whaddaya think?" I could see my fine arts housemate mouth the words "He's the artist" to me, but I knew Ralph hadn't seen him. The room was oddly quiet and I could feel numerous dark, bloodshot eyes looking at the three of us, waiting for the Gresge's pronouncement. Ralph rubbed his chin and took his glasses off and said, way too loudly, "It looks like a hastily-completed compromise."
Like a grenade there was a moment and then my artist housemate began the laughter that was still going strong when we grabbed some munchies and snuck out.