Adjusting to the loss of my best girlfriends. Caroline went on a Course in Miracles retreat, and after a week she called to say she wasn't coming back. In fact she did come back, but only after quitting her job, finding someone to sublet her apartment, and returning to get her car and some personal possessions. I'm happy for her, getting enlightened and all, and I think it is High Time, for one who has been in a state of spiritual emergency almost since I've known her. She simply has a Calling, and I have to respect that. I cried, though.
And my other best girlfriend still isn't speaking to me, after I told her that there was no way I could risk going into business with her. I do not feel bad about telling her this, and I would tell her again if I had it to do over. Anyone who leaves a note on her living room door saying "The dog had an accident, you can't do yoga in there this morning," and leaves the shit and the note for the next two days, then takes me to task for cleaning it up, saying "You need to MAKE me take care of my responsibilities," is Not A Person I Can Work With. I mean, damn, that's pretty clear--"I know the shit is there, I know it's my responsibility, I know it's inconveniencing you, and I'm choosing not to deal with it--so make me!"
Her view was that little things like this don't matter, and I'm mean and horrible and not giving her a chance. My view is that every time I've noticed a problematic character trait in a friend, like, say, she's a spoiled brat who doesn't pay her bills, or he's a womanizer who cheats on all his girlfriends, or she's an egotist who gets sudden paranoid fits and decides her best friend is Satan, and I ignore this and let them be my roommate or my boyfriend or my business partner anyway, thinking "Oh, they wouldn't do that to ME," guess what? THEY ALWAYS DO IT TO ME. Always. That is what makes "character," character. I have finally learned to fire people BEFORE they screw up my life. So either my other best girlfriend will get over it, or she won't. At least I didn't give her the chance to leave a dump on my art installation for two days, metaphorically or no.
Meanwhile I'm sort of lonely, but not terribly. That's what cats are for. I had to take my baby cat to Manhattan for an X-ray this week, after he had a bladder infection that didn't clear up after a month of increasingly strong antibiotics. The first vet thought it might be a bladder stone. The second vet didn't find any stones, but prescribed an expensive cat food that he has to eat for the rest of his life to prevent him from getting any. Both cats seem to like it okay, but this now means that I can't leave town for the weekend with a big bowl of kibble to tide them over. They eat a third of a can at a time, and wake me up in the middle of the night when they're hungry. Often I wish I lived in Mexico again, where cats just stop coming home when they get sick, thus obviating expensive dilemmas like this.
Oddly, the bladder infection seemed to clear up after I let my baby cat sleep under the covers with me, and I visualized blue light enveloping him and pulverizing bladder stones. This is probably correlative and not causative. I am getting weird, being alone so much. Of course, my cat was already weird, with his predilection for getting under the covers with me.
Try letting a cat with a bladder infection sleep under YOUR covers.
After making the appointment for the X-ray in Manhattan, it occurred to me that I myself have had a chronic medical problem for which I have not yet seen a real doctor, for going on four years now. I called Dad for feedback, since Dad is the only other person on the planet with feet as bizarrely constructed and chronically painful as mine. Dad confirmed what I'd already intuited, that the pain in my left ankle is probably inflammation of the tendon, due to the abnormal sesamoid bone in the instep rubbing on it. I told Dad that I was doing yoga and Pilates, and wearing a brace and a lift and custom-made orthotics, and taking ibuprofen and glucosamine and chondrotin and hyaluronic acid, and it still hurts, what should I do?
He said, "you're doing too much. Just stay off the foot for awhile."
This is easier said than done, when you live in a fourth floor walk-up in Brooklyn, and your car has to be moved back and forth across the street every day at 11:30 and 1, along with Caroline's car that you're car-sitting, and the only cash you bring in is by doing massage, some of these outcalls, which means that you carry your table up and down from the fourth floor walk-up, and load it into the car and walk it a long city block back and forth from your clients' apartments, who also live in a walk-up. And stand up for an hour during the massage, which Dad says is worse than walking. And even going out to dinner and a dance performance involves trekking eight or nine city blocks. Hell, I can't even return my videos without walking a quarter of a mile.
I tried to stay off the foot, though, and after three days it hurt worse than ever. My theory is that inactivity causes all the other muscles in my body to cramp up, and in compensating for the sore foot they get horrendously out of balance, and yank up on the tendon and make everything worse. So today I went back to yoga, accepting that my foot may just have to hurt for the rest of my life. It's better than being couch-bound.
I've also noticed that I can't be content with gentle, repetitive workouts. The most crowded yoga and Pilates classes are always the ones where the routine is fairly basic and rarely changes; this drives me batty after a few weeks. My favorite yoga class is the one where the teacher says things like, "Okay, downward dog, now plank, now chataranga, up dog, down dog, lift right leg, hook your right toe behind your left ear, plank, chataranga, pushup, three-legged dog, standing split, fling yourself into a handstand, turn sideways, one-legged backbend, hold five breaths..." and so on. I'm not actually GOOD at this stuff, but I do like a challenge. No sooner do I finally achieve my first Full Wheel in twelve years than I'm calculating whether I'll ever be able to do a back walkover. I get out of my Power Yoga class wishing it happened every day, and hobble to my car like Quasimodo. In one of my other lifetimes I must have had a much springier physique, and I can't get used to this one.
On Monday I got the fiscal sponsorship application mailed, under the wire. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, vowing to forget the whole deal for the next four to six weeks while I get ready for my show. Then I turned on my computer and had a mild anxiety attack when I saw that the first two Swing Spaces are going up for grabs in one week, application deadline April 18. I emailed my team and told them that maybe we should wait these out. The team is, potentially, a really good one; I was proud of how responsible our application looked. It was also a real joy to meet with them and have someone who understood spreadsheets, payroll taxes, and grant research, and someone else who came up with a realistic-looking events schedule, projected budget and fundraising plan on the spot. Nobody needed to have simple concepts explained four times; nobody had a panic attack over an imaginary problem; nobody got obsessed with irrelevant details and needed a reality straitjacket. Everybody was enthusiastic. It could happen.
Meanwhile I'm entering the "I've got paint on every extremity and can't bother to scrub it all off every day" phase of show preparation. I've noticed that with each of these big linen canvases, there comes a phase where I'm sure I've irredeemably screwed it up, and will have to throw $100 worth of art supplies out the window. Then, agonizingly, I haul it back from the lip of the dumpster, using all the desperate invention and radical risk-taking at my disposal, and the result is a more dramatic, forceful and complex painting than I've done yet. It's a very slow process; my productivity in terms of quantity is still far below what it has traditionally been, in March and April of most years when I've got a show booked for the end of May. But I think the results are going to be interesting.
My "one piece of music on a repeat loop" tendencies are getting radically out of control as well. In past years I have plagued the neighbors with Arvo Part's "De Profundis," Chris Isaac's "Wicked Game" and "L'autre Valse d'Amelie." This year it has been the last track of either of two Rachel's albums, "Music for Egon Shiele" and "the Sea and the Bells," or one of two Bebel Gilberto songs--"River," or the short one near the end of the album that sounds like a torch song in a jazz bar. Any of these can and has been repeated for two hours or more. I am considering getting a videographer friend to make a music/painting video when I'm finished; it's like I'm trying to capture a certain complete dynamic.
One or two more thoughts on discipline and friendship--it hurts my feelings when 1) my friends don't seem to get that I Mean It about being an artist, that I seriously intend both to make a living at this and to achieve some critical recognition; 2) that I Work Very Hard toward achieving this end; and 3) that they seem to begrudge me what little I have earned in this direction thus far. Sometimes it's subtle; it's more on the level of assumption, as in "what kind of a job are you looking for?" or "you could move to (X location where there is nothing resembling workable studio space), or do (X occupation that leaves no time, money, space or energy for painting)." They seem to assume that hard work has nothing to do with results; that having a real career has as much to do with luck as intention and prioritization. We live in an instant gratification society, unfortunately, where raw talent and Getting Noticed are supposed to do it for you. Then a barrage of editors will suddenly descend on you and correct your grammar, spelling and syntax, a sound engineer will mix your recording, a professional tailor will manifest your design concept, a curator will mount, install and light your adolescent splatters, and a critic will divine your vague, amorphous intent and praise you so highly that collectors will elbow each other out of the way to drop ten grand on one of your sketches. If this isn't happening, people seem to say, if you actually know your grammar, your software, how to sew a hem stitch and how to write a review, well then! Why aren't you an editor?
Don't mind me, I'm just a little cranky. My cats are hungry.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Flow
Maybe it's superstitious of me, but I see synchronicities as good omens, as signs that my mind is getting in flow, perceiving glitches in the Matrix. For example, when I hear on the radio that Ute Lemper will be singing at BAM with the Brooklyn Philharmonic on Saturday, and I pout and say aloud that I wish I could afford to go, and check my email to find that the Not Only Brooklyn newsletter announces "Special Promo for NOB subscribers, 50% off tickets to hear Ute Lemper." Then when I decide at the last minute to drive instead of taking the train, because BAM has a parking lot and I can listen to the News from Lake Wobegone on the way, and upon arriving I discover that BAM's event rate parking is $13.57 plus tax, payment of which would more than nullify my 50% off ticket price, I drive hopefully around the crowded streets listening to the NFLWBG, and a gigantic parking space appears in my headlights right across the street from BAM, and, bemused, I park and listen to the end of NFLWBG, then go on in and hear Ute. On the way home I listen to New Sounds, where John Shaeffer is playing selections from Ute Lemper's album, "Punishing Kiss," because the special guest produced it.
Ute was so worth it. The Brooklyn Philharmonic wasn't too shabby, either. I stayed for the "question and answer" period afterward, not because I had any questions, but just to get full value for my evening out. Ute was in conservative, Philharmonic mode; she sang a lot of Weill and quite a bit of Piaf, and "Ne Me Quittes Pas" with the ironic edge softened to near-extinction. I shed tears. Hearing her live made it clear what a consummate professional she is; every nuance, gesture, expression, breath and syllable was perfectly considered, judged and articulated. In the interim I eavesdropped on people with European accents discussing how "the satire is much softer and more ambiguous than I would have thought," regarding her rendition of Weill's "Seven Deadly Sins," and they were right. Her range of emotional subtlety was incredible.
On a perhaps irrelevant note, upon reading the program notes I discovered that I somehow managed to purchase Ute's latest album, "But One Day," a full three months before its official release date. You can find anything in the East Village if you know where to look.
Today, thinking back on the concert, I realized what a profound influence it has had on my views about art, having a mom who is a trained classical musician. Let me amend that; having a mom who is a classical music SNOB. I won't say that the snobbery rubbed off, although it probably did. But growing up with symphonies and Anglican choir music and Van Cliburn contestants stampeding through our household, along with being chained to the piano keyboard every morning at 6:30 AM until I rebelled in the tenth grade, gave me a healthy respect for artistic discipline. The classical music world may have its politics, intrigues and injustices, but by and large it is a strictly hierarchical meritocracy. People with talent who practice seven hours a day usually get somewhere. People without talent who don't practice usually get booted out of the orchestra. There may be a certain amount of jostling and whining about racism and sexism and chair placement, but, particularly with the instatement of blind auditions during the last decade, if you sound good you ARE good. End of story.
And then, god help me, I went to art school in San Francisco.
Another female friend, who shall remain nameless, freaked out on me lately. Things are probably okay, though she hasn't returned my last phone call; I think both of us need a break. This female-friend-freakout thing seems to be a regular occurrence with me; so regular that I've gone through and beyond taking-it-personally-with-severe-emotional-distress, and out the other side. I've started noticing patterns.
By and large, female friends who freak out are 1)close friends of mine, supportive almost to the point of cathexis; 2)involved, or trying to be involved, in creative careers themselves. Problems arise when our different creative careers start to evolve out of lock-step. Then, instead of being the loving, supportive friend I have come to rely on, they suddenly pick fights over trivialities, start calling me arrogant, lose my web address, forget my birthday and the name of my boyfriend, and have an important shopping engagement on the date of my opening. Hmmmm.
Not all my friends do this, of course. There are lots of folks, thank god, who come to the openings year after year, buy art, agitate on my behalf, cheer at good news and send care packages when I get dumped. These people Get It. They get that all of us struggle, all of us need love and support, all of us are on different paths at different paces, and that's Just Fine. We can wave at each other through the trees.
But it is the cathected female friends who Freak the Hell Out, and I'm tired of it. I don't mean to cast slurs on my own gender; guys freak out too. But with guys it's more straightforward. They want to sleep with you, you say no, you say yes to some other guy, they freak out. Then either they get over it and are your buddy forever more, or they don't and ride off into the sunset. I won't say that guys don't get professionally jealous, but the professionally jealous ones don't get close to you in the first place, unless they married you before you got famous. They show up at your openings only to get an in with your dealer; then they stop acknowledging you. Jerkish, but simple.
My views on my own career are pretty straightforward. At the age of twenty I realized I could either be an artist and possibly be happy, or not be an artist and definitely be unhappy. I knew it was going to be hard. I didn't know just how hard, but I have never had any regrets. I have often been lazy, but I've never lost sight of what I wanted to be, and I have ordered my life around this goal. I've prioritized studio space and studio time over money, family, lovers, social status and (to some extent) friendships, although I value my relationships highly and put a lot of energy into them. At the age of thirty-seven I have to acknowledge the probability that I will never have children, for lack of time, money and commitment; objectively speaking I don't have much to show for it. I'm often frightened, lonely, tired and in pain.
What I don't understand is why so many of my friends think I can carry them. Maybe they don't consciously think of it that way. They THINK they are being supportive, 'collaborative,' community-oriented, and politically correct. But I have literally had a friend call me up and say, "Serena, we should collaborate on a children's book! I'll write the story and you can illustrate it. My English isn't all that good so you'll have to help with the writing. Then we'll get it published; I don't know much about that so you'll have to do the research and networking and correspondence, since my spelling and grammar are so bad. Then we'll donate half the proceeds to abused children! How about that!" Or, "Why aren't you including me in your business plan? I know I'm not very good with money, and really disorganized, and don't know anything about bookkeeping or project management or grantwriting, and I've been under a lot of stress lately and have more than I can cope with, and I'll be busy with other projects for the next nine months or so, but it's really unfair of you not to include me." Or simply, "You sold another painting? You're making out like a bandit!"
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!
Listen, friend, for every juried exhibition that I got into and you didn't, there were twenty I got turned down for. For every painting sold I spent ten times that amount in tuition, studio rent and supplies, and worked a thousand unpaid studio hours. My "successful" gallery cost me a year and a half of capital, another thousand hours of unpaid labor AWAY from my studio, and an excrutiating amount of heartbreak. I'm out of capital and I'm hanging onto my career and my equanimity by the skin of my fingernails.
Any more of this and I will become a fucking Republican. I'm starting to notice that a lot of people who talk about justice and collaboration and community really mean "I'll take the control and you can have the responsibility." Or "You do the work and I'll take the credit."
Then I listen to Ute, and I realize that she's brilliant because she PRACTICED. She studied and trained for years, and became fluent in French and English and German, and studied dance and acting and voice in three countries. That's why she brought down the house at BAM. Not because she blackmailed the Brooklyn Philharmonic with threats of discrimination lawsuits, or wept all over her 'best friend,' the guest conductor, until she got onto the program.
I apologize for moralizing.
Ute was so worth it. The Brooklyn Philharmonic wasn't too shabby, either. I stayed for the "question and answer" period afterward, not because I had any questions, but just to get full value for my evening out. Ute was in conservative, Philharmonic mode; she sang a lot of Weill and quite a bit of Piaf, and "Ne Me Quittes Pas" with the ironic edge softened to near-extinction. I shed tears. Hearing her live made it clear what a consummate professional she is; every nuance, gesture, expression, breath and syllable was perfectly considered, judged and articulated. In the interim I eavesdropped on people with European accents discussing how "the satire is much softer and more ambiguous than I would have thought," regarding her rendition of Weill's "Seven Deadly Sins," and they were right. Her range of emotional subtlety was incredible.
On a perhaps irrelevant note, upon reading the program notes I discovered that I somehow managed to purchase Ute's latest album, "But One Day," a full three months before its official release date. You can find anything in the East Village if you know where to look.
Today, thinking back on the concert, I realized what a profound influence it has had on my views about art, having a mom who is a trained classical musician. Let me amend that; having a mom who is a classical music SNOB. I won't say that the snobbery rubbed off, although it probably did. But growing up with symphonies and Anglican choir music and Van Cliburn contestants stampeding through our household, along with being chained to the piano keyboard every morning at 6:30 AM until I rebelled in the tenth grade, gave me a healthy respect for artistic discipline. The classical music world may have its politics, intrigues and injustices, but by and large it is a strictly hierarchical meritocracy. People with talent who practice seven hours a day usually get somewhere. People without talent who don't practice usually get booted out of the orchestra. There may be a certain amount of jostling and whining about racism and sexism and chair placement, but, particularly with the instatement of blind auditions during the last decade, if you sound good you ARE good. End of story.
And then, god help me, I went to art school in San Francisco.
Another female friend, who shall remain nameless, freaked out on me lately. Things are probably okay, though she hasn't returned my last phone call; I think both of us need a break. This female-friend-freakout thing seems to be a regular occurrence with me; so regular that I've gone through and beyond taking-it-personally-with-severe-emotional-distress, and out the other side. I've started noticing patterns.
By and large, female friends who freak out are 1)close friends of mine, supportive almost to the point of cathexis; 2)involved, or trying to be involved, in creative careers themselves. Problems arise when our different creative careers start to evolve out of lock-step. Then, instead of being the loving, supportive friend I have come to rely on, they suddenly pick fights over trivialities, start calling me arrogant, lose my web address, forget my birthday and the name of my boyfriend, and have an important shopping engagement on the date of my opening. Hmmmm.
Not all my friends do this, of course. There are lots of folks, thank god, who come to the openings year after year, buy art, agitate on my behalf, cheer at good news and send care packages when I get dumped. These people Get It. They get that all of us struggle, all of us need love and support, all of us are on different paths at different paces, and that's Just Fine. We can wave at each other through the trees.
But it is the cathected female friends who Freak the Hell Out, and I'm tired of it. I don't mean to cast slurs on my own gender; guys freak out too. But with guys it's more straightforward. They want to sleep with you, you say no, you say yes to some other guy, they freak out. Then either they get over it and are your buddy forever more, or they don't and ride off into the sunset. I won't say that guys don't get professionally jealous, but the professionally jealous ones don't get close to you in the first place, unless they married you before you got famous. They show up at your openings only to get an in with your dealer; then they stop acknowledging you. Jerkish, but simple.
My views on my own career are pretty straightforward. At the age of twenty I realized I could either be an artist and possibly be happy, or not be an artist and definitely be unhappy. I knew it was going to be hard. I didn't know just how hard, but I have never had any regrets. I have often been lazy, but I've never lost sight of what I wanted to be, and I have ordered my life around this goal. I've prioritized studio space and studio time over money, family, lovers, social status and (to some extent) friendships, although I value my relationships highly and put a lot of energy into them. At the age of thirty-seven I have to acknowledge the probability that I will never have children, for lack of time, money and commitment; objectively speaking I don't have much to show for it. I'm often frightened, lonely, tired and in pain.
What I don't understand is why so many of my friends think I can carry them. Maybe they don't consciously think of it that way. They THINK they are being supportive, 'collaborative,' community-oriented, and politically correct. But I have literally had a friend call me up and say, "Serena, we should collaborate on a children's book! I'll write the story and you can illustrate it. My English isn't all that good so you'll have to help with the writing. Then we'll get it published; I don't know much about that so you'll have to do the research and networking and correspondence, since my spelling and grammar are so bad. Then we'll donate half the proceeds to abused children! How about that!" Or, "Why aren't you including me in your business plan? I know I'm not very good with money, and really disorganized, and don't know anything about bookkeeping or project management or grantwriting, and I've been under a lot of stress lately and have more than I can cope with, and I'll be busy with other projects for the next nine months or so, but it's really unfair of you not to include me." Or simply, "You sold another painting? You're making out like a bandit!"
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!
Listen, friend, for every juried exhibition that I got into and you didn't, there were twenty I got turned down for. For every painting sold I spent ten times that amount in tuition, studio rent and supplies, and worked a thousand unpaid studio hours. My "successful" gallery cost me a year and a half of capital, another thousand hours of unpaid labor AWAY from my studio, and an excrutiating amount of heartbreak. I'm out of capital and I'm hanging onto my career and my equanimity by the skin of my fingernails.
Any more of this and I will become a fucking Republican. I'm starting to notice that a lot of people who talk about justice and collaboration and community really mean "I'll take the control and you can have the responsibility." Or "You do the work and I'll take the credit."
Then I listen to Ute, and I realize that she's brilliant because she PRACTICED. She studied and trained for years, and became fluent in French and English and German, and studied dance and acting and voice in three countries. That's why she brought down the house at BAM. Not because she blackmailed the Brooklyn Philharmonic with threats of discrimination lawsuits, or wept all over her 'best friend,' the guest conductor, until she got onto the program.
I apologize for moralizing.
Monday, March 07, 2005
futz, futz, yarrrrrgh
Okay, the problem is that this painting is just Not Working, it is fundamentally structurally unsound, and I am going to have to completely re-invent it, without scraping it down because you can't scrape down linen the way you can scrape plywood or even canvas. To avoid arriving at this moment of realization today I have:
*attended Pilates class
*gone to Tea Lounge for tea and bagel and art reviews in Brooklyn Rail
*mentally composed scathing letter to Brooklyn Rail, re: ridiculously pretentious review of Tim Hawkinson exhibit at Whitney--who READS this shit, anyway?!!?
*driven to Liza's and given her a 1 1/2 hour massage
*gone to Terrace Bagels to get more bagels for lunch
*decided to buy flowers in honor of spring, and changed my mind, for financial reasons and also for some vague undefined emotional malaise reasons
*returned home for lunch
*talked business tactics with O, agreeing that if this is going to be a drawn-out process of grantwriting, we need a dedicated person on team with strong financial skills
*vaccuumed
*sorted laundry (but did not get as far as taking it to laundromat)
*surfed Web
*showered
*napped
*assembled new stretcher bars
*formatted, uploaded and ordered slides of latest finished painting, with view toward applying for yet another goddamn residency, deadline in one week
*updated credit card information on earthlink account
*heated up dinner
*broke a glass
*stared at painting, closed eyes, tried to intuitively divine the way painting is supposed to look and how to get there
*decided to blog instead.
When I get to this point in a painting, the point where I realize that I have worked for weeks on Entirely The Wrong Premises, and there's nothing to do but re-draw the composition on top of all those fiddling details I shouldn't have wasted my time on, it's freakin' annoying. I feel like I should have known it all along, and indeed, some part of me did know it all along, but on I stumbled, hoping to pull it together by getting more and more obsessed with fiddling details. And now I'm not sure I can pull it off even by completely re-doing the concept. Yarrrgh.
Yesterday I procrastinated by attending the monthly Sunday at Sunny's reading, which I've been going to nearly every month since I discovered it. The readers are always GREAT and it's at a cozy little dive bar in Red Hook with Christmas lights up year round. It amazes me how many incredible, cool, published authors are living in my actual neighborhood and are free to give readings in dive bars on Sundays, and chat about it afterward. For $3 suggested donation and free coffee and pastries, it's a starving artist no-brainer entertainment venue.
However, yesterday my vague irritation and emotional malaise seemed to crystallize, and I actually left before the third reader went on, even though I had a good seat and no particular plans. For the fact is, Sunday at Sunny's readings make me uncomfortable. I don't think it's me. Twice I've brought good-looking, literary male friends with me, and both times the two of us have suddenly been unable to think of anything to say to one another, once seated on barstools and waiting for the reading to begin. Twice I've gone by myself, decently attired, with a friendly but not desperate attitude.
AND NOBODY WILL FUCKIN' TALK TO ME. I feel like I'm in high school, perched on my barstool, awkwardly munching half a cream puff, looking around the room, trying to appear content. People stand around me, talking literarily. The month before last I emailed the moderator, because a friend of mine said she knew him, and introduced myself in person. He terminated the conversation midpoint and did not resume it, nor did he indicate that he recognized me when I smiled at him yesterday. Once I got into conversation with the guy who writes "The Financial Page" for the New Yorker, asking him intelligent questions about his new book, but still he answered me politely and then made a coffee date with the short, serious, bespectacled JAP girl instead of me.
What is this about? Am I old, ugly and negligible? Am I in the wrong venue, again and still? Because I've finally figured it out about the hipster scene; I know I should absolutely Not Bother. Last Thursday I made the mistake, again, of accepting one of M.'s perpetual invitations to totally inappropriate and horrendous events, this one being the opening of a Czech filmmaker's retrospective in Chelsea. Predictably, I entered a jam-packed room full of people drinking red wine, half of them declaiming loudly to their intimates, half gazing arrogantly into the middle distance or pointing cameras at nothing, none returning smiles or eye contact. It was unbearably noisy and chaotic and they were out of cups. The exhibit consisted of about fifty video monitors displaying grimy, noisy footage of nothing in particular. I saw exactly one familiar face--the guy who lived in the apartment directly above my ex-gallery, who never once dropped in to say hello, get a massage or attend an opening, but who gave me some random book on "psychic phenomena" for an inaugural gift, which I suspect may have been an insult. He nodded but didn't stop to chat. After twenty minutes of wandering around, looking for some interesting art or an interesting person to talk to and failing, I decided I didn't need to be there and went home. M. called a couple of days later--'I got to the opening really late, don't know if you made it, hope you had fun!' Fun? How is this possible?
But I really thought people who publish interesting books in Brooklyn and do readings in dive bars would not be like this. I don't know what it is. Maybe I'm still just reeking of loss, sadness and economic uncertainty.
Because this year has probably been the most stressful year of my life to date, and the more I recover from it, the more I realize just how bad it has been. The hardest part has been having to invent each individual day from scratch, with no form, no structure, no companionship, and no income. God bless my little cat, who waits at the foot of the bed until he sees me stirring every morning, and then comes up and kneads my armpit. This is frequently the only reason I get out of bed at all. Sometimes I snarfle him, drag him under the covers and we play Indian cave for half an hour. He puts up with me.
Last Monday I had a run-in with a random yoga instructor, who substitute-taught the Wednesday Hot Power Yoga class, and offered us all free holistic health counselling sessions. We all said yes, and gave him our phone numbers. On Thursday he called and wanted to make an appointment. I told him, "I go to Pilates from 9:15-10:15 at the 7th Avenue Fitness Collective, then go to the Tea Lounge on 7th afterward. I can meet you then."
"No, I'm picking someone up at the airport. What about Monday?"
I told him that I attended the same Pilates class on Mondays, and could meet him at 10:30. He said he had to get his calendar. He called back. I said, "I can meet you at the Tea Lounge on 7th, after my class, at 10:30 or 11." He agreed to this, presumably writing it down.
On Monday morning I was too sick to go to Pilates. The yoga instructor called at 9:30. "I'm confirming our meeting at 10."
"No, 10:30 or 11," I said. I didn't explain that I would have been at Pilates, except that I was sick, because he didn't let me.
"Oh, glad I called," he said, and hung up. I went to the Tea Lounge at 10:30. He did not arrive. At 12:30 I went home, to a message on my machine. "This is me, I'm at the Tea Lounge on the left side," he said. That is, the Tea Lounge on Union St., where I suspected he'd probably gone.
I called back. "I was at the Tea Lounge on 7th ave., like I told you twice," I said.
"Yeah, the Tea Lounge between 6th and 7th," he said.
"No, the Tea Lounge on 7th Ave. and 10th, right next to the 7th Ave. Fitness Collective, where I go to class, like I also told you TWICE," I said. "I'm sorry if I sound angry, but to be a good counselor you have to LISTEN to people. I don't think I want to reschedule this appointment. Goodbye," I said, and hung up.
He called back. "You don't have to apologize for being angry. I'm sorry about the miscommunication," he said. I let the answering machine handle it. I do not need to get into any issues at all with someone who tunes out 85% of the words that come out of my mouth, the first three times we converse.
But I was way more bent out of shape than I should have been. Not-being-listened-to is now a hair-trigger issue for me. This is definitely and directly related to my ex-relationship with ex-boyfriend, who never let me finish a sentence when I was talking about something of crucial importance to me, such as sex, spirituality, art, economics or commitment. He would seriously investigate the outlandish claims of his diagnosably schizophrenic ex-girlfriend, the one who claimed to be married to John Mayer; he made a thorough search of the John Mayer website before regretfully admitting that there was no public evidence that John Mayer had secretly married a schizophrenic woman fifteen years his senior in Minneapolis. But I don't think he ever looked at a copy of Course in Miracles, or even Googled it, before screaming at me that I was in some kind of CULT that wanted to lobotomize him and induce him to sacrifice his life in the army of a Chinese emperor. I would listen and listen and listen to paranoid rant after paranoid rant, assuming that at some point he would realize how ridiculous he sounded, shut up and let me say something. It never happened. He continued ranting until he ranted himself right out of the relationship, never once asking for my point of view. I'm sure he doesn't read this blog.
So, you say, why the hell were you with this person in the first place? Good riddance.
But the fact is that I loved him, enough so that it's probably a blessing that he dumped me, because I wouldn't have given up, not until he'd wasted the last of my potential child-bearing years, destroyed my career, ruined me financially and dumped me anyway. And as nice as it is to study the Course without someone ranting in my ear, and pushing me to stock groceries for a living, and show my paintings in dingy bars and coffee shops because of course GALLERIES wouldn't want to, and move to a dingy, anonymous apartment in Staten Island because he didn't want to live with me, I was happier. I was happier when I was with him because I loved him, and when he walked through the door I'd light up like a sparkler and go to hug him, always.
So on Monday I ended up writing myself a letter, the letter that my ex-boyfriend's Higher Self would have written to me if he'd been at all in touch, which he never was. I apologized to myself for not listening, insulting my figure, belittling my feelings, treating me like a crazy person, dismissing my spirituality, trying to control my behavior instead of genuinely being a partner to me. I held onto it for a couple of days, then decided to mail it. Once I'd dropped it into the mailbox I realized I'd forgotten to stamp it. Oh well. He wouldn't have listened anyway. Just another schizophrenic ex-girlfriend.
*attended Pilates class
*gone to Tea Lounge for tea and bagel and art reviews in Brooklyn Rail
*mentally composed scathing letter to Brooklyn Rail, re: ridiculously pretentious review of Tim Hawkinson exhibit at Whitney--who READS this shit, anyway?!!?
*driven to Liza's and given her a 1 1/2 hour massage
*gone to Terrace Bagels to get more bagels for lunch
*decided to buy flowers in honor of spring, and changed my mind, for financial reasons and also for some vague undefined emotional malaise reasons
*returned home for lunch
*talked business tactics with O, agreeing that if this is going to be a drawn-out process of grantwriting, we need a dedicated person on team with strong financial skills
*vaccuumed
*sorted laundry (but did not get as far as taking it to laundromat)
*surfed Web
*showered
*napped
*assembled new stretcher bars
*formatted, uploaded and ordered slides of latest finished painting, with view toward applying for yet another goddamn residency, deadline in one week
*updated credit card information on earthlink account
*heated up dinner
*broke a glass
*stared at painting, closed eyes, tried to intuitively divine the way painting is supposed to look and how to get there
*decided to blog instead.
When I get to this point in a painting, the point where I realize that I have worked for weeks on Entirely The Wrong Premises, and there's nothing to do but re-draw the composition on top of all those fiddling details I shouldn't have wasted my time on, it's freakin' annoying. I feel like I should have known it all along, and indeed, some part of me did know it all along, but on I stumbled, hoping to pull it together by getting more and more obsessed with fiddling details. And now I'm not sure I can pull it off even by completely re-doing the concept. Yarrrgh.
Yesterday I procrastinated by attending the monthly Sunday at Sunny's reading, which I've been going to nearly every month since I discovered it. The readers are always GREAT and it's at a cozy little dive bar in Red Hook with Christmas lights up year round. It amazes me how many incredible, cool, published authors are living in my actual neighborhood and are free to give readings in dive bars on Sundays, and chat about it afterward. For $3 suggested donation and free coffee and pastries, it's a starving artist no-brainer entertainment venue.
However, yesterday my vague irritation and emotional malaise seemed to crystallize, and I actually left before the third reader went on, even though I had a good seat and no particular plans. For the fact is, Sunday at Sunny's readings make me uncomfortable. I don't think it's me. Twice I've brought good-looking, literary male friends with me, and both times the two of us have suddenly been unable to think of anything to say to one another, once seated on barstools and waiting for the reading to begin. Twice I've gone by myself, decently attired, with a friendly but not desperate attitude.
AND NOBODY WILL FUCKIN' TALK TO ME. I feel like I'm in high school, perched on my barstool, awkwardly munching half a cream puff, looking around the room, trying to appear content. People stand around me, talking literarily. The month before last I emailed the moderator, because a friend of mine said she knew him, and introduced myself in person. He terminated the conversation midpoint and did not resume it, nor did he indicate that he recognized me when I smiled at him yesterday. Once I got into conversation with the guy who writes "The Financial Page" for the New Yorker, asking him intelligent questions about his new book, but still he answered me politely and then made a coffee date with the short, serious, bespectacled JAP girl instead of me.
What is this about? Am I old, ugly and negligible? Am I in the wrong venue, again and still? Because I've finally figured it out about the hipster scene; I know I should absolutely Not Bother. Last Thursday I made the mistake, again, of accepting one of M.'s perpetual invitations to totally inappropriate and horrendous events, this one being the opening of a Czech filmmaker's retrospective in Chelsea. Predictably, I entered a jam-packed room full of people drinking red wine, half of them declaiming loudly to their intimates, half gazing arrogantly into the middle distance or pointing cameras at nothing, none returning smiles or eye contact. It was unbearably noisy and chaotic and they were out of cups. The exhibit consisted of about fifty video monitors displaying grimy, noisy footage of nothing in particular. I saw exactly one familiar face--the guy who lived in the apartment directly above my ex-gallery, who never once dropped in to say hello, get a massage or attend an opening, but who gave me some random book on "psychic phenomena" for an inaugural gift, which I suspect may have been an insult. He nodded but didn't stop to chat. After twenty minutes of wandering around, looking for some interesting art or an interesting person to talk to and failing, I decided I didn't need to be there and went home. M. called a couple of days later--'I got to the opening really late, don't know if you made it, hope you had fun!' Fun? How is this possible?
But I really thought people who publish interesting books in Brooklyn and do readings in dive bars would not be like this. I don't know what it is. Maybe I'm still just reeking of loss, sadness and economic uncertainty.
Because this year has probably been the most stressful year of my life to date, and the more I recover from it, the more I realize just how bad it has been. The hardest part has been having to invent each individual day from scratch, with no form, no structure, no companionship, and no income. God bless my little cat, who waits at the foot of the bed until he sees me stirring every morning, and then comes up and kneads my armpit. This is frequently the only reason I get out of bed at all. Sometimes I snarfle him, drag him under the covers and we play Indian cave for half an hour. He puts up with me.
Last Monday I had a run-in with a random yoga instructor, who substitute-taught the Wednesday Hot Power Yoga class, and offered us all free holistic health counselling sessions. We all said yes, and gave him our phone numbers. On Thursday he called and wanted to make an appointment. I told him, "I go to Pilates from 9:15-10:15 at the 7th Avenue Fitness Collective, then go to the Tea Lounge on 7th afterward. I can meet you then."
"No, I'm picking someone up at the airport. What about Monday?"
I told him that I attended the same Pilates class on Mondays, and could meet him at 10:30. He said he had to get his calendar. He called back. I said, "I can meet you at the Tea Lounge on 7th, after my class, at 10:30 or 11." He agreed to this, presumably writing it down.
On Monday morning I was too sick to go to Pilates. The yoga instructor called at 9:30. "I'm confirming our meeting at 10."
"No, 10:30 or 11," I said. I didn't explain that I would have been at Pilates, except that I was sick, because he didn't let me.
"Oh, glad I called," he said, and hung up. I went to the Tea Lounge at 10:30. He did not arrive. At 12:30 I went home, to a message on my machine. "This is me, I'm at the Tea Lounge on the left side," he said. That is, the Tea Lounge on Union St., where I suspected he'd probably gone.
I called back. "I was at the Tea Lounge on 7th ave., like I told you twice," I said.
"Yeah, the Tea Lounge between 6th and 7th," he said.
"No, the Tea Lounge on 7th Ave. and 10th, right next to the 7th Ave. Fitness Collective, where I go to class, like I also told you TWICE," I said. "I'm sorry if I sound angry, but to be a good counselor you have to LISTEN to people. I don't think I want to reschedule this appointment. Goodbye," I said, and hung up.
He called back. "You don't have to apologize for being angry. I'm sorry about the miscommunication," he said. I let the answering machine handle it. I do not need to get into any issues at all with someone who tunes out 85% of the words that come out of my mouth, the first three times we converse.
But I was way more bent out of shape than I should have been. Not-being-listened-to is now a hair-trigger issue for me. This is definitely and directly related to my ex-relationship with ex-boyfriend, who never let me finish a sentence when I was talking about something of crucial importance to me, such as sex, spirituality, art, economics or commitment. He would seriously investigate the outlandish claims of his diagnosably schizophrenic ex-girlfriend, the one who claimed to be married to John Mayer; he made a thorough search of the John Mayer website before regretfully admitting that there was no public evidence that John Mayer had secretly married a schizophrenic woman fifteen years his senior in Minneapolis. But I don't think he ever looked at a copy of Course in Miracles, or even Googled it, before screaming at me that I was in some kind of CULT that wanted to lobotomize him and induce him to sacrifice his life in the army of a Chinese emperor. I would listen and listen and listen to paranoid rant after paranoid rant, assuming that at some point he would realize how ridiculous he sounded, shut up and let me say something. It never happened. He continued ranting until he ranted himself right out of the relationship, never once asking for my point of view. I'm sure he doesn't read this blog.
So, you say, why the hell were you with this person in the first place? Good riddance.
But the fact is that I loved him, enough so that it's probably a blessing that he dumped me, because I wouldn't have given up, not until he'd wasted the last of my potential child-bearing years, destroyed my career, ruined me financially and dumped me anyway. And as nice as it is to study the Course without someone ranting in my ear, and pushing me to stock groceries for a living, and show my paintings in dingy bars and coffee shops because of course GALLERIES wouldn't want to, and move to a dingy, anonymous apartment in Staten Island because he didn't want to live with me, I was happier. I was happier when I was with him because I loved him, and when he walked through the door I'd light up like a sparkler and go to hug him, always.
So on Monday I ended up writing myself a letter, the letter that my ex-boyfriend's Higher Self would have written to me if he'd been at all in touch, which he never was. I apologized to myself for not listening, insulting my figure, belittling my feelings, treating me like a crazy person, dismissing my spirituality, trying to control my behavior instead of genuinely being a partner to me. I held onto it for a couple of days, then decided to mail it. Once I'd dropped it into the mailbox I realized I'd forgotten to stamp it. Oh well. He wouldn't have listened anyway. Just another schizophrenic ex-girlfriend.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Bemused
I've now told four or five people about the fact that I will have a solo show on the Upper East Side from June 4 through Labor Day Weekend. They've all said things like, "that's FANTASTIC! I'm so happy for you! Woo, woo!" I'm rather pleased, myself. For me this means that my activities have a future that will last at least six months. I've been in some doubt.
Okay, well, the solo show is in a furniture showroom. But it's a furniture showroom on Madison Avenue and 62nd, with higher foot traffic than most high-end galleries, and that foot traffic consisting of people with money to spend on fixing up their living rooms. I'll have to do all the marketing myself, including designing and printing and mailing postcards. Fortunately I have a lot of experience with this. And it's in the Summer, which as everybody knows, is when every dealer, critic and successful artist in Manhattan shuts up shop, goes to their converted barn upstate and recovers from the Season.
BUT A FURNITURE SHOWROOM IS STILL A BETTER GALLERY THAN MY FOURTH FLOOR STAIRWELL. So I'm pleased.
In parallel news, I met with LMCC today, after showing proposal to four people, setting up meetings, making alterations, doing research, printing photos, making myself sick getting no sleep. The event planner girl got her stuff printed, barely--I had to stop by her apartment at 9 AM for it, with the meeting at 10:30, and her doorbell didn't work and my cell phone hasn't arrived yet (at least it did, but I wasn't around when FedEx delivered it), so I had to drive to the next block, park, find a pay phone, call her, and drive back--then I drove to the subway station and parked a block away, and limped to the station, and the train arrived just as I got there and none of my metro cards would work. I said "fuck" and started whirling around helplessly, and the subway guard buzzed open the door for me, and a lady said "you dropped your glove!" and I said "I have to catch this TRAIN!" and a guy on the train held the door and said "throw it!" and she threw the glove and I got on the train and the guy caught my glove and said "teamwork."
There's something in this business of "we are all one mind."
Anyway I was starving but managed to get tea and a scone at Starbucks and walk six blocks and get through security and not be late. The lobby at LMCC is decorated like a pink and green jungle, with ants painted on the walls and birds on the pink ceiling and a green leaf canopy over the hot pink sofa. It's a friendly place. The people I met with were nice, and listened, and took notes, and made encouraging faces.
The upshot of all of this, though, is that I'm not yet standing at the edge of the first hoop I have to jump through to get this project actualized. Because getting access to Space and getting access to Sponsorship and getting access to Grants are all different and not necessarily related processes. First we've got to apply for "fiscal sponsorship" and then, assuming we get it, reasearch and apply for grants and corporate sponsorships, and then, assuming we get THOSE, apply for Space. I say "we" even though, up till now, it's been pretty much Me, with some gentle feedback and critique from other people, because there is no way in hell I am going to do this alone. So who wants to be on my Team? If we get through all the hoops we'll get paid 40 bucks an hour. Come on, it will be fun.
At any rate, I am planning on embarking upon this labyrinthine process, perhaps in all futility, without expectations of outcome, because at least I will be meeting arts people, and can invite all of them to my uncool summer show. And the alternative is temp agencies. It will be temp agencies anyway, probably, but I have hope there too because I met a guy yesterday who works for one, and he says they're pretty good and represent a lot of artists. This is encouraging, because when I moved here the temp agencies weren't even returning calls. I tell you, when I say I had doubts about the existence of my future, I was not exaggerating.
Okay, well, the solo show is in a furniture showroom. But it's a furniture showroom on Madison Avenue and 62nd, with higher foot traffic than most high-end galleries, and that foot traffic consisting of people with money to spend on fixing up their living rooms. I'll have to do all the marketing myself, including designing and printing and mailing postcards. Fortunately I have a lot of experience with this. And it's in the Summer, which as everybody knows, is when every dealer, critic and successful artist in Manhattan shuts up shop, goes to their converted barn upstate and recovers from the Season.
BUT A FURNITURE SHOWROOM IS STILL A BETTER GALLERY THAN MY FOURTH FLOOR STAIRWELL. So I'm pleased.
In parallel news, I met with LMCC today, after showing proposal to four people, setting up meetings, making alterations, doing research, printing photos, making myself sick getting no sleep. The event planner girl got her stuff printed, barely--I had to stop by her apartment at 9 AM for it, with the meeting at 10:30, and her doorbell didn't work and my cell phone hasn't arrived yet (at least it did, but I wasn't around when FedEx delivered it), so I had to drive to the next block, park, find a pay phone, call her, and drive back--then I drove to the subway station and parked a block away, and limped to the station, and the train arrived just as I got there and none of my metro cards would work. I said "fuck" and started whirling around helplessly, and the subway guard buzzed open the door for me, and a lady said "you dropped your glove!" and I said "I have to catch this TRAIN!" and a guy on the train held the door and said "throw it!" and she threw the glove and I got on the train and the guy caught my glove and said "teamwork."
There's something in this business of "we are all one mind."
Anyway I was starving but managed to get tea and a scone at Starbucks and walk six blocks and get through security and not be late. The lobby at LMCC is decorated like a pink and green jungle, with ants painted on the walls and birds on the pink ceiling and a green leaf canopy over the hot pink sofa. It's a friendly place. The people I met with were nice, and listened, and took notes, and made encouraging faces.
The upshot of all of this, though, is that I'm not yet standing at the edge of the first hoop I have to jump through to get this project actualized. Because getting access to Space and getting access to Sponsorship and getting access to Grants are all different and not necessarily related processes. First we've got to apply for "fiscal sponsorship" and then, assuming we get it, reasearch and apply for grants and corporate sponsorships, and then, assuming we get THOSE, apply for Space. I say "we" even though, up till now, it's been pretty much Me, with some gentle feedback and critique from other people, because there is no way in hell I am going to do this alone. So who wants to be on my Team? If we get through all the hoops we'll get paid 40 bucks an hour. Come on, it will be fun.
At any rate, I am planning on embarking upon this labyrinthine process, perhaps in all futility, without expectations of outcome, because at least I will be meeting arts people, and can invite all of them to my uncool summer show. And the alternative is temp agencies. It will be temp agencies anyway, probably, but I have hope there too because I met a guy yesterday who works for one, and he says they're pretty good and represent a lot of artists. This is encouraging, because when I moved here the temp agencies weren't even returning calls. I tell you, when I say I had doubts about the existence of my future, I was not exaggerating.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
My mind is part of God's. I am very holy.
A friend in high school asked me once, casually, if I went to church, and if I was "all holy." I wondered why she didn't come right out and ask me if I was a "sanctimonious twit." What was I going to say, "yes, I'm all holy, and you are profane and sinful. Get thee behind me!"
(I suspect now that this particular friend was a clever narcissist who honestly didn't realize that she came off as shallow and condescending. She was part of a crowd of "friends" of mine who would make loud plans for going to the circus or the movies together on weekends, with me sitting right there, and it didn't occur to them either to invite me or even that I might be upset at not being invited. This sort of thing happened to me a lot in high school, most notably in regards to dances and proms and things, wherein the "popular" girls would move heaven and earth to dredge up dates for my "friends," but seemed to regard me as some sort of asocial eunuch who would not be interested in such sordid things as proms. They were wrong, and I wreaked my revenge by NOT growing up and marrying a banker or lawyer or businessman and having 2.3 children in the upper-middle class suburbs, but becoming some sort of eccentric femme fatale, with ex-lovers in more than one country and no permanent address.)
The last time I saw the "all holy" friend was a few years into college, when she dramatically told me the story of how a group of our friends all went out to dinner at the restaurant where she worked, and didn't invite her, but they WAVED at her, and she threw a tantrum and "divorced them." I was like, "and you're telling ME this story? Me?" The irony was lost on her.
Strangely enough one of those same high school friends just wrote to me that she will be in New York in June, and that she couldn't make it to our 20th high school reunion, but "seeing you would make up for it." Gosh, maybe I'm cool, now. Or maybe some of my friends grew up.
Anyway I think that claiming to be "holy" is about the same as claiming to be "spiritual." Anybody who thinks that some people are holy and some aren't is entirely missing the point of holiness and is automatically disqualified, except that they aren't, because how could some people be holy and some not? So anyway, my mind is part of God's. I am very holy.
I got off on this tack because some friends of mine asked me to officiate at their wedding. I was very nearly speechless. "Uh, uh, duh-ba-duh, I'm honored," I said. "You can make a ton of money doing this, we've researched it on the Internet," said they. "Uh, uh, duh-ba-duh," said I.
Really, I am AMAZINGLY honored, that they thought of me, that they trust me, that both of them came to this idea together, even though I'm really the guy's friend and hardly know his fiancée (though I DO read her blog--in certain circles I think this constitutes friendship.) I have to confess that even though I've had more than one set of close friends get married by friends who sent in their $15 ordination fee to the Universal Life Church the week before the wedding, I have some issues. I have not entirely abandoned the Anglican conservatism of my forebears; we have many close family friends who are seven-years-of-seminary, deacon-to-curate-to-priest-to-rector-to-Bishop kinds of ministers, and a big part of me feels that mailing in my 15 bucks and swanning around in a collar is, at the very least, profoundly disrespectful of these people. I understand and agree with the theory that nobody has a monopoly on access to God. But good intentions are one thing; serious, long-term, focused hard work is another. I also get upset when Jeff Koons puts a blow-up doll in a gallery and calls himself an "artist."
I don't consider the concern to be so much "identity theft" as a devaluation of another person's time, thought and labor. "Identity" issues can be a red herring; I believe that all people ARE fundamentally equal and perfect and holy, no matter what their external attributes. However, all people do not spend seven years in seminary or twenty years in the studio, and it is the discipline rather than the essence which I wish to consider, when assigning worldly roles.
Anyway, the city of New York does not accept ordination by Universal Life Church. My friends still want me to officiate; what this will entail is actually producing documentation of a "church" and a "congregation" which meets regularly, and considers me to be their "spiritual leader." It happens that this would not be entirely a lie. Me and at least one good friend DO meet regularly for Course in Miracles study, and we know several others who are willing to sign on. I'm still shocked and amazed. Wow. I will NOT tell my mother, though. She might be even more upset than when she read my web page and discovered that I wasn't a virgin anymore at 35.
(I suspect now that this particular friend was a clever narcissist who honestly didn't realize that she came off as shallow and condescending. She was part of a crowd of "friends" of mine who would make loud plans for going to the circus or the movies together on weekends, with me sitting right there, and it didn't occur to them either to invite me or even that I might be upset at not being invited. This sort of thing happened to me a lot in high school, most notably in regards to dances and proms and things, wherein the "popular" girls would move heaven and earth to dredge up dates for my "friends," but seemed to regard me as some sort of asocial eunuch who would not be interested in such sordid things as proms. They were wrong, and I wreaked my revenge by NOT growing up and marrying a banker or lawyer or businessman and having 2.3 children in the upper-middle class suburbs, but becoming some sort of eccentric femme fatale, with ex-lovers in more than one country and no permanent address.)
The last time I saw the "all holy" friend was a few years into college, when she dramatically told me the story of how a group of our friends all went out to dinner at the restaurant where she worked, and didn't invite her, but they WAVED at her, and she threw a tantrum and "divorced them." I was like, "and you're telling ME this story? Me?" The irony was lost on her.
Strangely enough one of those same high school friends just wrote to me that she will be in New York in June, and that she couldn't make it to our 20th high school reunion, but "seeing you would make up for it." Gosh, maybe I'm cool, now. Or maybe some of my friends grew up.
Anyway I think that claiming to be "holy" is about the same as claiming to be "spiritual." Anybody who thinks that some people are holy and some aren't is entirely missing the point of holiness and is automatically disqualified, except that they aren't, because how could some people be holy and some not? So anyway, my mind is part of God's. I am very holy.
I got off on this tack because some friends of mine asked me to officiate at their wedding. I was very nearly speechless. "Uh, uh, duh-ba-duh, I'm honored," I said. "You can make a ton of money doing this, we've researched it on the Internet," said they. "Uh, uh, duh-ba-duh," said I.
Really, I am AMAZINGLY honored, that they thought of me, that they trust me, that both of them came to this idea together, even though I'm really the guy's friend and hardly know his fiancée (though I DO read her blog--in certain circles I think this constitutes friendship.) I have to confess that even though I've had more than one set of close friends get married by friends who sent in their $15 ordination fee to the Universal Life Church the week before the wedding, I have some issues. I have not entirely abandoned the Anglican conservatism of my forebears; we have many close family friends who are seven-years-of-seminary, deacon-to-curate-to-priest-to-rector-to-Bishop kinds of ministers, and a big part of me feels that mailing in my 15 bucks and swanning around in a collar is, at the very least, profoundly disrespectful of these people. I understand and agree with the theory that nobody has a monopoly on access to God. But good intentions are one thing; serious, long-term, focused hard work is another. I also get upset when Jeff Koons puts a blow-up doll in a gallery and calls himself an "artist."
I don't consider the concern to be so much "identity theft" as a devaluation of another person's time, thought and labor. "Identity" issues can be a red herring; I believe that all people ARE fundamentally equal and perfect and holy, no matter what their external attributes. However, all people do not spend seven years in seminary or twenty years in the studio, and it is the discipline rather than the essence which I wish to consider, when assigning worldly roles.
Anyway, the city of New York does not accept ordination by Universal Life Church. My friends still want me to officiate; what this will entail is actually producing documentation of a "church" and a "congregation" which meets regularly, and considers me to be their "spiritual leader." It happens that this would not be entirely a lie. Me and at least one good friend DO meet regularly for Course in Miracles study, and we know several others who are willing to sign on. I'm still shocked and amazed. Wow. I will NOT tell my mother, though. She might be even more upset than when she read my web page and discovered that I wasn't a virgin anymore at 35.
Friday, February 18, 2005
tiddley-pom
I've finished my PAINTING *tiddley-pom* it's a beautiful PAINTING *tiddley-pom* with a spiralling SUN *tiddley-pom* and then there's the INSTALLATION *tiddley-pom* called "the idle thoughts of ANGELS *tiddley-pom*...
well, maybe it sounds silly to describe the intricate doodle in graphite on the ceiling of the Whitney, with the looooong chandelier covered with silver vines, and the paper lantern hanging over a mirror, and the lace ripples on the floor, and the red leaf drawings pinned to the wall with little gold tacks. Plus I don't know what it means, it would just be pretty and it popped into my head while I was taking a nap. Naps are good for the soul.
Small miracles of the month:
1) M0's C4rting Co. dropped a dumpster on my truck. Instead of driving away in a hurry they looked through the front window of my truck, got my address off a piece of mail I'd left in the front seat, leaned on my doorbell until I got out of bed, confessed, apologized, and, after various negotiations with Terry the mechanic, dropped off a check for $2500. With which Terry the mechanic not only fixed the dumpster damage but my front-end suspension, which I couldn't afford to fix myself. My paternal grandmother's name was Mo. I take after her. M0's C4rting Co. ROCKS, and in the unlikely event that I ever need any carting done, I know who to call.
2) I got a phone call on Valentine's day from one of my favorite former valentines, who offered to pay for a ticket for me to come visit him where he lives, which is far away and sunny. Maybe I will take him up on it.
3) One of my formerly represented artists actually returned the favor, and recommended me to a very high-end furniture company which also sells art, and has a big showroom in Chicago, and also one on Madison Avenue and 62nd. Neneng-girl had just been telling me that I need to forget Chelsea and W-burg and go for the Upper East Side, Greenwich and the Hamptons, and I agreed, but pointed out that--
--small but important revelation of the week--
the art world does not work like the job world. Self promotion isn't. Any artist who goes into a gallery and shows the dealer her work is automatically disqualified from ever showing in any gallery that dealer even knows about. It DOESN'T WORK. The art world is full of cagey, oppositional, difficult, egoistic people with a deep distrust of sincerity, openness and good manners. The only way to get your work shown is if an Art World Insider sidles into a gallery and mutters, "so-and-so's work is really hot. Don't tell anyone I told you."
This is not an exaggeration. Last week I attended a seminar, "Selling without Selling Out," featuring the premiere Chelsea art dealer who shows emerging artists. She told us that she gets hundred of slides a month, which she throws away. The only artists she considers are those recommended by other dealers, collectors, or artists. The work she shows is total crap--I checked out the website. This means nothing. Dealers don't Look at Art. They Listen to Rumors. Which is why the whole scene makes me gag and consider giving up in despair.
But anyway, the salient piece of this revelation, which I now must communicate to dear friends everywhere, is that for fifteen years I have been stressed almost to the breaking point by dear friends who are constantly telling me, "you should check out such-and-such a gallery. They should show your work."
These dear friends mean to be helpful, and I must respond accordingly. So I smile and nod and promise to check the gallery out, knowing full well that this is useless and if I go in and introduce myself, I will be roundly snubbed. Many times I DO go in and introduce myself, and am roundly snubbed. But if I try to equivocate with the dear helpful friend, I come off sounding defensive, and Not Willing To Do What It Takes, and thus Undeserving of Success.
And meanwhile I am still stressed out by not getting into the galleries and not getting reviews and not earning enough to live on. With the added stress of having to make the dear helpful friends feel helpful. Because deep down, I always knew that the art world worked this way, I just didn't have the right words to explain it.
(This is also why I have nervous breakdowns when I DO have art world insider friends in my home and my gallery, and instead of muttering, "serena's work is really hot," to their dealer, they blather on about dancing poo. This is tantamount to attempted career homicide, and these people know it.)
So, the right words are: (please pay attention)
"Thanks so awfully much. The thing is, the art world doesn't work like the business world. Art dealers are egoistic, oppositional and suspicious. If I go in and introduce myself, I will definitely be treated like pond scum. What would really help is if YOU would go in, or a rich, important friend of yours, preferably a dealer or a critic or a well-known artist, wearing a discreet Armani suit and carrying a Hermes bag, and say something like, 'Do you carry Serena LaBella's work? I'm looking to buy/deal/write about her, and I need a contact. Oh, you don't? That's surprising. She's amazing. Anyone who IS anyone is talking about her now. Well, I don't know, try Google. You see? Absolutely stunning. If I were you I'd try to get in now, before her prices skyrock...oh, there's my agent. Ciao!' That's what would REALLY help."
Of course, we can't all be performance artists like Neneng-girl. But six degrees of separation, SOMEBODY has got to know Cameron Diaz.
At any rate, my formerly represented artist is a trooper and I thanked her a million times. She said, "Nobody's watching the kitchen door." I don't know if I can actually get my work into the showroom on the Upper East Side, but at least they were POLITE to me when I called. For chrissakes.
This is a much better lead than the "curator" I met at the conference, who has a "gallery" in TriBeca, on the fourth floor of a building with a broken buzzer and no sign. The gallery doubles as a dance rehearsal space, which I am not opposed to, but the answering machine has a generic voice on it, and there were almost no "sold" stickers on the very expensive artwork from Sweden, still on the walls one month after the show officially closed. This "curator," furthermore, let me show her my work, but only after she bored me for an hour and a half talking about the "nouveau riche" Filipino families in Manila that got rich by stealing WWII gold from the Vatican. I told her to read "Cryptonomicon." She told me to invite her for a studio visit. I actually considered doing so.
That evening I had a meltdown on the phone with Neneng-girl, who said, "I think that woman upset you." It's true. Some days I feel like I'm a strange amphibian, drowning in the cold Caribbean, and the people on shore are all smiling and waving and blowing kisses.
But today was a Happy Day, tiddley-pom. Good night.
well, maybe it sounds silly to describe the intricate doodle in graphite on the ceiling of the Whitney, with the looooong chandelier covered with silver vines, and the paper lantern hanging over a mirror, and the lace ripples on the floor, and the red leaf drawings pinned to the wall with little gold tacks. Plus I don't know what it means, it would just be pretty and it popped into my head while I was taking a nap. Naps are good for the soul.
Small miracles of the month:
1) M0's C4rting Co. dropped a dumpster on my truck. Instead of driving away in a hurry they looked through the front window of my truck, got my address off a piece of mail I'd left in the front seat, leaned on my doorbell until I got out of bed, confessed, apologized, and, after various negotiations with Terry the mechanic, dropped off a check for $2500. With which Terry the mechanic not only fixed the dumpster damage but my front-end suspension, which I couldn't afford to fix myself. My paternal grandmother's name was Mo. I take after her. M0's C4rting Co. ROCKS, and in the unlikely event that I ever need any carting done, I know who to call.
2) I got a phone call on Valentine's day from one of my favorite former valentines, who offered to pay for a ticket for me to come visit him where he lives, which is far away and sunny. Maybe I will take him up on it.
3) One of my formerly represented artists actually returned the favor, and recommended me to a very high-end furniture company which also sells art, and has a big showroom in Chicago, and also one on Madison Avenue and 62nd. Neneng-girl had just been telling me that I need to forget Chelsea and W-burg and go for the Upper East Side, Greenwich and the Hamptons, and I agreed, but pointed out that--
--small but important revelation of the week--
the art world does not work like the job world. Self promotion isn't. Any artist who goes into a gallery and shows the dealer her work is automatically disqualified from ever showing in any gallery that dealer even knows about. It DOESN'T WORK. The art world is full of cagey, oppositional, difficult, egoistic people with a deep distrust of sincerity, openness and good manners. The only way to get your work shown is if an Art World Insider sidles into a gallery and mutters, "so-and-so's work is really hot. Don't tell anyone I told you."
This is not an exaggeration. Last week I attended a seminar, "Selling without Selling Out," featuring the premiere Chelsea art dealer who shows emerging artists. She told us that she gets hundred of slides a month, which she throws away. The only artists she considers are those recommended by other dealers, collectors, or artists. The work she shows is total crap--I checked out the website. This means nothing. Dealers don't Look at Art. They Listen to Rumors. Which is why the whole scene makes me gag and consider giving up in despair.
But anyway, the salient piece of this revelation, which I now must communicate to dear friends everywhere, is that for fifteen years I have been stressed almost to the breaking point by dear friends who are constantly telling me, "you should check out such-and-such a gallery. They should show your work."
These dear friends mean to be helpful, and I must respond accordingly. So I smile and nod and promise to check the gallery out, knowing full well that this is useless and if I go in and introduce myself, I will be roundly snubbed. Many times I DO go in and introduce myself, and am roundly snubbed. But if I try to equivocate with the dear helpful friend, I come off sounding defensive, and Not Willing To Do What It Takes, and thus Undeserving of Success.
And meanwhile I am still stressed out by not getting into the galleries and not getting reviews and not earning enough to live on. With the added stress of having to make the dear helpful friends feel helpful. Because deep down, I always knew that the art world worked this way, I just didn't have the right words to explain it.
(This is also why I have nervous breakdowns when I DO have art world insider friends in my home and my gallery, and instead of muttering, "serena's work is really hot," to their dealer, they blather on about dancing poo. This is tantamount to attempted career homicide, and these people know it.)
So, the right words are: (please pay attention)
"Thanks so awfully much. The thing is, the art world doesn't work like the business world. Art dealers are egoistic, oppositional and suspicious. If I go in and introduce myself, I will definitely be treated like pond scum. What would really help is if YOU would go in, or a rich, important friend of yours, preferably a dealer or a critic or a well-known artist, wearing a discreet Armani suit and carrying a Hermes bag, and say something like, 'Do you carry Serena LaBella's work? I'm looking to buy/deal/write about her, and I need a contact. Oh, you don't? That's surprising. She's amazing. Anyone who IS anyone is talking about her now. Well, I don't know, try Google. You see? Absolutely stunning. If I were you I'd try to get in now, before her prices skyrock...oh, there's my agent. Ciao!' That's what would REALLY help."
Of course, we can't all be performance artists like Neneng-girl. But six degrees of separation, SOMEBODY has got to know Cameron Diaz.
At any rate, my formerly represented artist is a trooper and I thanked her a million times. She said, "Nobody's watching the kitchen door." I don't know if I can actually get my work into the showroom on the Upper East Side, but at least they were POLITE to me when I called. For chrissakes.
This is a much better lead than the "curator" I met at the conference, who has a "gallery" in TriBeca, on the fourth floor of a building with a broken buzzer and no sign. The gallery doubles as a dance rehearsal space, which I am not opposed to, but the answering machine has a generic voice on it, and there were almost no "sold" stickers on the very expensive artwork from Sweden, still on the walls one month after the show officially closed. This "curator," furthermore, let me show her my work, but only after she bored me for an hour and a half talking about the "nouveau riche" Filipino families in Manila that got rich by stealing WWII gold from the Vatican. I told her to read "Cryptonomicon." She told me to invite her for a studio visit. I actually considered doing so.
That evening I had a meltdown on the phone with Neneng-girl, who said, "I think that woman upset you." It's true. Some days I feel like I'm a strange amphibian, drowning in the cold Caribbean, and the people on shore are all smiling and waving and blowing kisses.
But today was a Happy Day, tiddley-pom. Good night.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Dog in the manger
What is it with these East Coast parents, don't they teach their children Aesop's fables? I thought that was mandatory. But when I told Neneng-girl that her ex-lover was a real dog in the manger for getting pissed off and sulky when she dates other guys, she said, "what? That's funny. I've never heard of that before. Dog in the manger. Tee-hee."
A friend of mine drove by my ex-gallery the other day, and she says it looks exactly the same. Libby's installation in the window, plants, empty walls, track lights going on every night on a timer. I think the answering machine is still plugged in, with my voice on it saying that I'll be on call till the end of September. It has been four months exactly since I moved out completely, and my ex-gallery is still glowing like the frickin' World Trade Center Memorial.
I must say that I am damn proud of myself. Not only did I scrape myself up off the pavement and get along with life after apocalypse, some fool part of me is now rushing in where angels...well, into Lower Manhattan.
Okay, so the long story is that I answered a flaky craigslist posting and met an investment banker. Cool guy. The girl who posted the initial advert turned out to be a complete idiot. After me and the investment banker had brainstormed a pretty darn brilliant business plan, judiciously combining the best of non- and for-profit worlds, complete with mission statement, aesthetic and cultural agenda and possible liason opportunities in Greece and Indonesia, flaky idiot responded with an open letter which read, "that's not what I want, at all. I want to form a non-profit with deep pockets, buy a huge building in Manhattan for a dollar and hold a bake sale to renovate it, making all decisions in a collective, socialistic manner. With a large, committed membership, fundraising should be easy!"
So we are not working together anymore. However, I still went to the conference I'd registered for on behalf of the group--"M0ney, M4nagement and Mark3ting," sponsored by the L0wer Manhatt4n Cultur4l Council. I felt like a total impostor, since you had to be with a cultural or arts organization to register, and I just made one up. And, foolishly, I used the name that Grace and I came up with, last August, for the visionary real estate corporation we were going to build, "L1ghtHouse."
So everybody at the conference congratulated me for working at Lighthouse for the Blind, and I had to keep explaining. Note to self and investment banker--his idea for a name, "S1te Osm0sis," is the winner.
But people who attend business conferences are not like artists. Two days before this, I attended another LMCC-sponsored event, an info session for their artist's residency program. All the artists arrived alone, sat alone and stared around with stony expressions on their faces. I went up to a cute girl with pigtails, smiled, asked "Is this seat taken?" and she looked away and mumbled. During the "question and answer period," half the artists scuttled out with their heads down, and the other half went up to the microphones and asked wild-eyed questions which could all be paraphrased, essentially, as "what about ME ME ME??????" Artists are not community-minded folk. They are Hard To Talk To. Thus I was scared shitless about attending the conference.
At the business conference, everyone I happened to find myself standing nearby introduced themselves and asked probing questions about my life and purpose. I collected more potentially useful professional contacts in one day than in the previous six months. I had a BLAST. Business people understand that nobody does anything worthwhile all alone, and if you bathe, smile, take notes and speak clearly, you're a professional. Thank God.
(In fairness to the artists, I have to point out that our culture is not artist-friendly. After getting rejected for every grant, residency, juried exhibition and fellowship that I applied for last fall, I noticed one thing they all had in common--the percentage of applicants to awardees was lottery-level impossible. As in, 2000 applications for 10 S3gal Foundation grants, 71 applications for one Abb3y Scholarship, 430 applicants for six Sm4ck Mellon residencies, and so forth. With odds like this, for programs which, each of themselves, are still only a drop in the bucket to a sustainable career, it is no wonder that artists get surly, competitive and desperate. Our society really is trying to kill us.)
Anyway, by the end of the day my head was swimming with so many business models, paradigms, principles and useful contact details that I nearly passed out during the closing remarks by various Manhattan cultural luminaries. But then the president of LMCC started talking. I had to listen because I got an instantaneous crush on him the second he walked up to the podium and smiled directly at me. Shaved head, blue suit, lopsided grin, and suddenly I feel like a teenager at a rock concert. How we do change.
One of the things that was made clear to us during all these proceedings is that there is not, in fact, an unlimited amount of grant subsidy money available for Lower Manhattan business projects. Yes, the city wants to revitalize the area. No, this does not mean that they're giving away free real estate and millions of dollars of development money away to anyone who asks. In fact, the money is mostly gone. They do want to encourage us with free business advice, though; they're here to help. Whatever.
What caused me to prick up my ears and snap out of somnolesence as though struck by lightning were the words, "Sw1ng Sp4ce Initiative." Apparently the LMCC is going to be getting access to temporarily empty spaces, being sold or leased or demolished or renovated, for short periods of time, to do worthwhile cultural projects. Zoing! That's it! That's it! I didn't listen to the rest of the wise remarks by the president of New York Foundation for the Arts, though I'm sure they were worthwhile. I was too busy writing a business plan in my head.
During the next hour, I was not like my normal self at all. I was a Superwoman. I was a fast talker, brilliant improviser, deep, serious listener, graceful networker. I went to the reception and recepted. I chatted seriously with a nearly unintelligible Asian woman about the Foundation for Historical Preservation. I collected cards, I met people, I forcefully propounded notions. And all the while I circled gracefully and casually closer and closer to the president of LMCC. When I was in striking range, I smiled.
"Hi!" said the president of LMCC.
"Hi, I'm Serena LaBella, and first I want to thank you for this wonderful event. And I want to talk to you about Sw1ng Sp4ce. I used to have this project, H3aling 4rts in Williamsburg..."
"Oh, I know H3aling 4rts," said the P. of C.
!!!!!!
(I'm sorry, but I have to take a break here and burst into tears. Nobody knew about my gallery. I worked and worked and worked, I renovated, I curated, I web-designed, I networked, I designed cards, I printed info flyers, I wrote and re-wrote press releases and sent and re-sent them to every frickin' art publication in the WORLD, and nobody published my listings even when they were soliciting advertising at astronomical rates. Reviewers never came and never wrote reviews. Other galleries snubbed me, artists snubbed me, clients were erratic and fell away when I raised my prices to market rate. Collectors passed up stunning work at bargain prices. Then my boyfriend broke my heart and closed me down in the same day, and didn't even use the space for anything afterward. I felt like the whole enterprise was a sophisticated exercise in spitting into the wind. But the president of LMCC has heard of me. And he has the nicest smile.)
"I'm H3aling 4rts," I said. "That was me. All me. I did everything. And I have an idea for Sw1ng Sp4ce. I want to go in, clean it up, make it GORGEOUS, curate an exhibition, hold performance and musical events, then LEAVE. This will benefit the landlords, the brokers, the artists, the neighborhood, and me. And I have experience doing this."
"That's a wonderful idea," said the P. of C. "Here's my card. Call me next week and we'll talk. Remind my secretary that you're the H3aling 4rts person."
After that I went home. No reason to push it, have another glass of wine, babble and look foolish. I should have been exhausted but I called about four people and chattered till midnight.
So for the last two weeks I have been working on a proposal. I called everybody I met at the conference and set up appointments. I called friends for practical and moral support. I collected input. A very clear point of input was that this project has to make money or it cannot be done. I have ideas about this, other people have ideas about this, if it works it could be a business. But I don't know if it will work at all. I simply have nothing to lose.
In the process of working on this proposal I have had to go through all the photos taken of my gallery in various phases, and I am amazed. Somehow during the process I didn't have time to be amazed, to step back and see the infinite, intricate beauty of what I was doing. I had a jerkwad of an uncommitted boyfriend standing over my shoulder and demanding to see the books, and looking at the clock, and whining and ranting and scaring people off. And now this same uncommitted jerkwad is paying the electric bill for track lights which illuminate empty walls all night, and the phone bill on an answering machine with the ghost of my former self giving outdated information, and not making a cent in rent because he is too paranoid and angry to trust anyone in the entire world. Arf, arf.
A friend of mine drove by my ex-gallery the other day, and she says it looks exactly the same. Libby's installation in the window, plants, empty walls, track lights going on every night on a timer. I think the answering machine is still plugged in, with my voice on it saying that I'll be on call till the end of September. It has been four months exactly since I moved out completely, and my ex-gallery is still glowing like the frickin' World Trade Center Memorial.
I must say that I am damn proud of myself. Not only did I scrape myself up off the pavement and get along with life after apocalypse, some fool part of me is now rushing in where angels...well, into Lower Manhattan.
Okay, so the long story is that I answered a flaky craigslist posting and met an investment banker. Cool guy. The girl who posted the initial advert turned out to be a complete idiot. After me and the investment banker had brainstormed a pretty darn brilliant business plan, judiciously combining the best of non- and for-profit worlds, complete with mission statement, aesthetic and cultural agenda and possible liason opportunities in Greece and Indonesia, flaky idiot responded with an open letter which read, "that's not what I want, at all. I want to form a non-profit with deep pockets, buy a huge building in Manhattan for a dollar and hold a bake sale to renovate it, making all decisions in a collective, socialistic manner. With a large, committed membership, fundraising should be easy!"
So we are not working together anymore. However, I still went to the conference I'd registered for on behalf of the group--"M0ney, M4nagement and Mark3ting," sponsored by the L0wer Manhatt4n Cultur4l Council. I felt like a total impostor, since you had to be with a cultural or arts organization to register, and I just made one up. And, foolishly, I used the name that Grace and I came up with, last August, for the visionary real estate corporation we were going to build, "L1ghtHouse."
So everybody at the conference congratulated me for working at Lighthouse for the Blind, and I had to keep explaining. Note to self and investment banker--his idea for a name, "S1te Osm0sis," is the winner.
But people who attend business conferences are not like artists. Two days before this, I attended another LMCC-sponsored event, an info session for their artist's residency program. All the artists arrived alone, sat alone and stared around with stony expressions on their faces. I went up to a cute girl with pigtails, smiled, asked "Is this seat taken?" and she looked away and mumbled. During the "question and answer period," half the artists scuttled out with their heads down, and the other half went up to the microphones and asked wild-eyed questions which could all be paraphrased, essentially, as "what about ME ME ME??????" Artists are not community-minded folk. They are Hard To Talk To. Thus I was scared shitless about attending the conference.
At the business conference, everyone I happened to find myself standing nearby introduced themselves and asked probing questions about my life and purpose. I collected more potentially useful professional contacts in one day than in the previous six months. I had a BLAST. Business people understand that nobody does anything worthwhile all alone, and if you bathe, smile, take notes and speak clearly, you're a professional. Thank God.
(In fairness to the artists, I have to point out that our culture is not artist-friendly. After getting rejected for every grant, residency, juried exhibition and fellowship that I applied for last fall, I noticed one thing they all had in common--the percentage of applicants to awardees was lottery-level impossible. As in, 2000 applications for 10 S3gal Foundation grants, 71 applications for one Abb3y Scholarship, 430 applicants for six Sm4ck Mellon residencies, and so forth. With odds like this, for programs which, each of themselves, are still only a drop in the bucket to a sustainable career, it is no wonder that artists get surly, competitive and desperate. Our society really is trying to kill us.)
Anyway, by the end of the day my head was swimming with so many business models, paradigms, principles and useful contact details that I nearly passed out during the closing remarks by various Manhattan cultural luminaries. But then the president of LMCC started talking. I had to listen because I got an instantaneous crush on him the second he walked up to the podium and smiled directly at me. Shaved head, blue suit, lopsided grin, and suddenly I feel like a teenager at a rock concert. How we do change.
One of the things that was made clear to us during all these proceedings is that there is not, in fact, an unlimited amount of grant subsidy money available for Lower Manhattan business projects. Yes, the city wants to revitalize the area. No, this does not mean that they're giving away free real estate and millions of dollars of development money away to anyone who asks. In fact, the money is mostly gone. They do want to encourage us with free business advice, though; they're here to help. Whatever.
What caused me to prick up my ears and snap out of somnolesence as though struck by lightning were the words, "Sw1ng Sp4ce Initiative." Apparently the LMCC is going to be getting access to temporarily empty spaces, being sold or leased or demolished or renovated, for short periods of time, to do worthwhile cultural projects. Zoing! That's it! That's it! I didn't listen to the rest of the wise remarks by the president of New York Foundation for the Arts, though I'm sure they were worthwhile. I was too busy writing a business plan in my head.
During the next hour, I was not like my normal self at all. I was a Superwoman. I was a fast talker, brilliant improviser, deep, serious listener, graceful networker. I went to the reception and recepted. I chatted seriously with a nearly unintelligible Asian woman about the Foundation for Historical Preservation. I collected cards, I met people, I forcefully propounded notions. And all the while I circled gracefully and casually closer and closer to the president of LMCC. When I was in striking range, I smiled.
"Hi!" said the president of LMCC.
"Hi, I'm Serena LaBella, and first I want to thank you for this wonderful event. And I want to talk to you about Sw1ng Sp4ce. I used to have this project, H3aling 4rts in Williamsburg..."
"Oh, I know H3aling 4rts," said the P. of C.
!!!!!!
(I'm sorry, but I have to take a break here and burst into tears. Nobody knew about my gallery. I worked and worked and worked, I renovated, I curated, I web-designed, I networked, I designed cards, I printed info flyers, I wrote and re-wrote press releases and sent and re-sent them to every frickin' art publication in the WORLD, and nobody published my listings even when they were soliciting advertising at astronomical rates. Reviewers never came and never wrote reviews. Other galleries snubbed me, artists snubbed me, clients were erratic and fell away when I raised my prices to market rate. Collectors passed up stunning work at bargain prices. Then my boyfriend broke my heart and closed me down in the same day, and didn't even use the space for anything afterward. I felt like the whole enterprise was a sophisticated exercise in spitting into the wind. But the president of LMCC has heard of me. And he has the nicest smile.)
"I'm H3aling 4rts," I said. "That was me. All me. I did everything. And I have an idea for Sw1ng Sp4ce. I want to go in, clean it up, make it GORGEOUS, curate an exhibition, hold performance and musical events, then LEAVE. This will benefit the landlords, the brokers, the artists, the neighborhood, and me. And I have experience doing this."
"That's a wonderful idea," said the P. of C. "Here's my card. Call me next week and we'll talk. Remind my secretary that you're the H3aling 4rts person."
After that I went home. No reason to push it, have another glass of wine, babble and look foolish. I should have been exhausted but I called about four people and chattered till midnight.
So for the last two weeks I have been working on a proposal. I called everybody I met at the conference and set up appointments. I called friends for practical and moral support. I collected input. A very clear point of input was that this project has to make money or it cannot be done. I have ideas about this, other people have ideas about this, if it works it could be a business. But I don't know if it will work at all. I simply have nothing to lose.
In the process of working on this proposal I have had to go through all the photos taken of my gallery in various phases, and I am amazed. Somehow during the process I didn't have time to be amazed, to step back and see the infinite, intricate beauty of what I was doing. I had a jerkwad of an uncommitted boyfriend standing over my shoulder and demanding to see the books, and looking at the clock, and whining and ranting and scaring people off. And now this same uncommitted jerkwad is paying the electric bill for track lights which illuminate empty walls all night, and the phone bill on an answering machine with the ghost of my former self giving outdated information, and not making a cent in rent because he is too paranoid and angry to trust anyone in the entire world. Arf, arf.
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