Have you ever been driving somewhere and suddenly you realize you’re doing your own voice-over? Like you’re in some Charlie Kaufmann film, but it isn’t quite a Charlie Kaufmann film, but more like a low budget crazy person talking in their car kind of movie. So instead of a REAL voice-over, its more like just you saying:
“And then she turned on the radio and Grace Slick was singing “Don’t you want somebody to love, don’t you need somebody to love, wouldn’t you love somebody to love, you better find somebody to love.” as she drove towards her second art show in as many weeks. She glanced up in her rear view mirror and wondered how much longer she would be able to get away with the dark eye make-up and tight jeans thing. But it was all she had. An image. She was, after all, once again, going to another art show, which would be bustling with creative types talking far beyond their poor little drug addled brains, and once again, she would be walking in alone.
Yeah, that’s pretty much how it went Saturday night as I headed towards The Factory for one of the bigger art shows in town. Its only big because anyone can bring art. There’s no fees to pay or juries to satisfy, plus Charlemagne is now on the Board there and if I didn’t go, I would be cursed to eternal damnation. I had picked my spot last Saturday before my other show. And then I went down Thursday to hang my three pieces. And since I’m such a retarded tool, it took me over 45 minutes of screaming obscenities to get two measly nails nailed into this huge asbestos laden wooden crate. I finally gave up on the third nail and just propped my painting against the wood. Fuck it!
“Dear Match.com. I need to find a man to bang nails into wood for me. Thanks. Love, witty.”
Fortunately when I got there “L” the Hippy Chick had the space right by the front door, so I felt slightly better to see her there, since the old art show anxiety thingie was about to kick in. This place was about 50 times bigger than last week with about 100 more people. And live music. And the strange smiling dog from the last show.
Yeah, I think he sniffs art related chemicals too.
Anyways, I walked around the Factory. It had its usual wide range of art from the weird — the stomped on innards of a computer strewn on the floor –that was the art –to some much more traditional floral work by the wildly excitable Ecuadorian woman artist in my art class.
When I got to where my stuff was, she came running over and in her broken English said, “I love you naked woman body on your poster, witteee. Did you do that on purpose?” And I’m standing there going WTF? And then she started tracing her finger on the little poster I had made that has a photo of me looking all angsty staring at a canvas with some info about my show next summer. I had no idea what she was talking about until I later noticed that the glowing white background between me and the canvas looked like a nude woman with large breasts. Crimany! But you know how artists are. Its all about glowing white boobs, right?
So what was missing in the evening? Well, Charlemagne, for one. This was HIS show after all, and his nearby space had only one painting. Finally about an hour into the show I saw him struggling up the elevator with a bunch of his artwork and toolbox. What the hell? He has access to the building anytime he wants. Why is he coming in an hour after the show has already started? His girlfriend was with him, but she never helps him with his art stuff, so I went over and helped a little. He was drenched with sweat and all angsted out. He wasn’t even dressed for the show. I was really surprised and even felt bad for him.
Soon some other familiar faces came along from my class. Tall Skinny Guy chatted nervously and very fast like he always does. Like “Oh my god, I’m talking to goddess witty” I really can’t imagine anyone being excited about that. I feel bad that the feelings aren’t mutual. He’s a nice guy and all, just not my type.
I soon walked around the gallery about 233 times. Nervous energy I guess. Okay. I was in immense pain from my sciatic nerve and had taken some pain medication and was just trying to not fall to the floor writhing in pain and have people think I was doing a performance art piece and start applauding. Although if they started throwing money, I might have twitched a few extra times. I was really hurting though. I also really had to go to the bathroom after downing several bottles of water. Why was I reticent?
Two words: Unisex bathroom.
I went through this last Spring too. I have perhaps the shyest kidneys known to mankind. I can’t pee when there are other women in a public bathroom. And if someone I know comes in the bathroom with me, you know, like a friend?– 3000 extra bonus points for PAS (Pee-Anxiety-Syndrome).
So think now of how I was looking at the door of the Unisex bathroom on Saturday night…knees tightly locked together, nearly ready to go out in some alley and hide in some bushes to do my business. But I finally went in and checked the two stalls. No one there. I nervously went in. Sat down. One drop o’pee and suddenly…
LARGE COWBOY BOOTS — NEXT STALL — POINTED TOWARDS THE TOILET. tinkle, tinkle, tinkle.
Okay, I didn’t scream out loud, but I think my pee-hole permanently regenerated itself into a non-operational entity as I waited for John Wayne to drain the lizard in the next stall. I just thank God he wasn’t Republican Senator Larry Craig.
Anyways, he finally finished peeing and wouldn’t you know it, the damn fool also had to wash his damn hands! I did somehow managed to unclenched momentarily, mainly because I had two bottles of water waiting to rush forth…while he was still in there. Am I cool or what?
I almost felt like I should call “A” and tell him, “Hey, I just peed in front of a guy”, but he’d probably ask my location and send the cops to take me to the hospital.
After that I briefly watched a bunch of weird kids in horned Viking hats bang on African drums yelling random verbs before I headed back up the stairs to get my stuff and go home. I felt strangely comforted when I saw John Lennon photos tacked along the stairs with the words “You are Here” printed on his shirt. I think he, of all people, would have probably understood the evening. Naw, it was just the pain pills talking.
Tags: art shows