Piggybacks and Ponytails

Genius by association???

This is the first note I took while reading Gertrude Stein's The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas. Three question marks. Who is this Ms. Toklas? Does writing about dinner parties with Picasso and Fernande, walks with Matisse and talks about Hemingway with Sherwood Anderson make someone legitimate? Is this the story of one's life she wishes to share? Afternoons with friends and weekend visits extended to a summer in the British countryside? Would I hope to hang the hat of my fame on social associations with artists and writers and travelers and lovers? The artist, the writer, the traveler, the lover who lets me hang her portraits in my foyer and read his poetry on a Pacific boardwalk, hand her her luggage from the trunk of the car and keep him warm in the sloped center of a lumpy bed?

I suppose you might be onto something, Gertrude. My story, perhaps, would not be so different. Not so different at all. While, indeed, it seems the best tales set up the philosophical proofs without consciousness of its systems (please see The Heights of Cinema, below), really, without any self-consciousness whatsoever - let them find us in the rafters, let them chase us through the 'Performers Only' backstage dressing rooms - when it comes down to it, Picasso is just Pablo is just Kate and Anderson is just Sherwood is just Steph, and it is most important that each was at my side, not that rafters were extraterrestrial. I can climb the ladders on my own, test all the doorknobs with the twist of my own wrist. What I cannot do is create this kind of proofing on my own, without association.

Notes to my reading end thus:
p. 212: the commonplace, success

No questions.

The Heights of Cinema.

Enchanting evenings involve all the proper ingredients, and rarely reach a pinnacle you might call "magical". Every once in a while however, they happen. I suggest trying this one on for size:

1. Gather close buddies, begin with a jovial wine tasting. Preferrably one you don't pay for.

2. Decide after some deliberation with (around, and in spite of) a drunk Texan-bachelor, decide to attend a found-footage festival with two of your favorite ladies.

3. Laugh until your tummy hurts while holding a beer cup that rivals the size of your head. Pass it to the left occasionally during "Hunks." We may be sitting on barstools in the "nose-bleeds" but the funny still seems to translate way back here.

4. Once the movie is over, (now this part may be difficult to orchestrate in many of today's modern cinema-establishments.) find a handle securely attached to a bare wall for no apparent reason. Pull on it until it occurs to you that this would make a truly unique photographic opportunity.

5. Capitalize on all the unique architectural features, ornate carpet, marble, dramatic velvet couches or various uninhabited corners that 200 year old theatre has to offer, and take pictures like you're a 16 years old! (You know, when you were having the best time of your life with your bffs, and you never wanted to forget the moment... yes, that's right, the braces and the stuffed animals too.)

6. Step six is IMPERATIVE. Open every door you come across. That's right Nancy Drew, explore like you've got a mystery to solve, or at least half an imagination.

At this point you've hopefully found the really dark, dirty, cave-ish type room with a rusty iron ladder that seems to head upwards for several stories. I'm fairly certain you know what to do: Climb it. Use your silenced cell-phones for flashlights, and don't let your buddies get snagged on grabsie, dangling extension cords. Be sure to marvel at the strange and frightening rafters high above the main theatre. Take a nice touristy pic. (Hey guys! I've just ascended willingingly into the physical manifestation of a Tim Burton nightmare! Weather's great. Wish you were here!)

On your way out (if you make it, life intact) dodge the caterers and make for abandoned dressing rooms.

Once you've exhausted the interest of these, find the door that opens onto to the back alley. Giggle incessantly about your getaway. Head to a bar that feels like grandma's house and get yourselves a slice of Lemon Meringue pie to share... And a brandy Manhattan if you're still up for it.

All and all, continue in a similar manner until you've renewed your sense of discovery. Smile like you're a kid again. Find some mischief. Tell your friends.

The Purchase of Art

or: The Art of Purchase (If you prefer.)

Let me begin briefly by saying, my post-art-show-depression DOES NOT have anything to do with all of my very attractively-dressed, well-behaved opening-attendees. And to Shannon: I'm sorry I told you that nothing matters while we walked (you guided me) home. Upon talking to several fellows in the business of aesthetics, it has come to my understanding that this occurrence is a rather common one, and the vague emptiness I'm feeling (where the passion for what I do usually resides) will wane. In the mean time, I shall work diligently to become a better sales representative on my own behalf. Thus far, I've been a fine example of things un-recommendable.

I spent the better half of last Sunday morning berating myself for being what you might describe as absolutely doltish, and were you to say it that way, it may have been an understatement. Coming to from my coma, afflicted by a headache to make you wish you were dead, I find that not only (during the blitzkrieg of cheap wine/bike-riding in heels) did I lose my bank card, but I also happened to have lost the contact information of a potential patron who told me he would be buying one of my pieces. A winning evening, even for me.

Now, these two issues are currently nearing resolve, so regret may be temporarily thwarted. However, nothing yet has prevented me from being the most awkward human on the planet to attempt to close a monetary transaction with.

Firstly, I want to sell art. Every time a piece leaves my possession and enters the collection of another individual, I feel closer to finding fulfillment in a career path, and they essentially gain something no one else has, something created with the intent to somehow inspire. (We all win?) That does not mean I find it easy to name a price, tell you when I want your money, or physically take it from your hand. (Should any of that ever be so straightforward.) Most likely I'll be having a glass of wine in your condo while your little dog humps my leg and you explain to me how to send an invoice using pay pal. Or you'll practically have me tearing up in my living room (I love you!) because you gingerly place 4 twenties on the table and tell me how proud you are to be making the first down payment on an art investment that you adore. In either scenario, please realize I navigated by saying "uh..." and "Thank you" more than you can imagine followed by a deluge of uncomfortable smiles, teeth clenched all the while.

This is a desperate attempt to find a manager/agent/gallerist.