Someone asked what the newspapers were. I said they were part of the work.
A newspaper immediately folded twice, grew four legs and bit my trouser cuff. Its teeth were the financial pages. It did not hurt much.
New York, May 1974. I had only just entered Beuys’s exhibition and had already been mistaken for a guide. I pointed at the felt and added a sentence. A second paper coyote stood up. Beuys looked at me from inside the enclosure. I hastily explained that I was not a guide. A third appeared.
He pressed a finger to his lips.
I said, all right, I’ll stop talking.
A fourth.
The paper coyotes soon divided the work. One tugged my trouser cuff, one stole Beuys’s hat and two climbed the fence. The real coyote yawned at the back. I suddenly envied it. It was the only creature here not obliged to justify its presence.
I retrieved the hat and was about to explain that they had misunderstood the work when Beuys clamped a hand over my mouth. The hat was stolen again. A visitor asked through the mesh whether this happened every day. I shook my head vigorously. He said it was fascinating. The newspaper pile rustled and five fresh coyotes landed together.
That time it wasn’t me.
Beuys removed his vest and threw it over two of them. They emerged through the collar, having learned to wear clothes. I pointed at the exhibition board, trying to warn people not to read it. A man thought I was inviting him to read aloud and cleared his throat. I rushed to embrace the board, but the second half of his sentence escaped. A litter of little ones ran out from behind it.
We had to resort to actions. Beuys slowly spread the felt, arching it into a dark valley. I crouched and made my fingers crawl towards it like a little animal. The paper coyotes stopped and turned.
I crawled; they crawled. I went under the felt; they followed. It was crowded inside, the financial pages pressed against my face. As agreed, Beuys lifted the other end. I rolled out and he rolled up the felt. It rustled for a while like a bundle of newspapers finally willing to be quiet.
The visitors applauded. Beuys quickly turned the explanatory board to the wall.
I tiptoed towards the hat. The last paper coyote sat on its brim with the title card clenched in its mouth. I reached out. It bared a row of sharply folded letters.
I let it keep the hat.