Morning came and while the cookies were far to sweet to bring down for the open evening, I had one for breakfast anyway, feeling groggy too (perhaps because I had two for dinner as well…) and because it’s non coffee day. I made the bus up a little later than I’d hoped, and while I busied myself warming up the gallery before opening, only a few minutes early, I thought about who might pop into today (anyone?). Time for tunes, Gwen Stefani’s ridicu-pop kicks things off.
After the second patron, each seeming to find the perfect time to enter the exact moment when I jet upstairs to fix a tag or to place the instructions on the sound pieces, I settled down at the white end table with my laptop and decided to amuse myself with recording the nature of the guests I received throughout the day, perhaps the week:
Enter – man with a beard:
"Do you know who JG Garratt is?"
"I have the original of a print he gave Margaret Thatcher, Provenance."
"First one in and I didn't buy anything."
Exit – man with a beard.
Enter – woman with a double buggy:
"I'm looking for pictures of boats for my nan?"
"I'll have to get this thing out the door now!"
Exit (with assistance) – woman with a double buggy.
Enter – short woman wearing old lady earrings and hair:
"Being an art gallery, I thought you'd have a lot of pictures."
Exit – short woman wearing old lady earrings and hair.
Enter – older, but still sharp and intelligent looking man, and polite:
"Where is the gallery, upstairs?"
"Thanks very much."
Exit – older, but still sharp and intelligent looking man, and polite.
Enter – (struggling though, because I’ve forgotten to unlock the door after a quick breather at lunch) man in a bowler cap with a Northern sailor accent:
“I’ve never been in before, and I live here, how long has this been here?”
“I’ll pop down again, three weeks you say?”
Exit – man in a bowler cap with a Northern sailor accent.
As the bowler cap man is leaving, I’m thinking about all those people who also field the question ‘what is that?’/’that’s not art.’ statement and feeling rather low. I am onto litre three, coming on four and through my tuna salad as well.
I spend a little time searching some up and coming gallery sites, having a read at what else is going on. It’s not as discouraging as it usually is. I often find myself labeling works in local white spaces and those generally across the countryside as ‘non-art’ and ‘crap’ while personally struggling with defying this label in my own work.
Some days I feel a togetherness with art and this ‘scene’ and others though I am Puccini, Kafka and John Adams, I think and do as Susan Hiller and Proust, Carlos Capelan, others I am just me and my mud rolling, running down hillsides covered in birch trees self, energetic to understand, if not, to just do. And these are never good enough, either by my standards or by those of the schmumpkins who I come across on those off days, who put me off and make me think – perhaps if I want to make money, I should do my treescape drawings. I can paint, draw and probably even sculpt in the traditional manner to a relatively high level of competency, but currently, that ability does nothing for me.
I am at a time, and I feel we’re all at a point where we need to ENGAGE BRAIN a little more often, and if that means that I end up making work, putting pieces in exhibitions where people walk in and say, “where’s the gallery?” then I guess that is where I am today.
Somebody someday might thank me for nothing making pretty-boats-by-the-seaside pictures and I’d like to think I’ll surely thank myself for not forcing the inevitable future to settle in too early (Wayne Zerck whispers ‘sell out’ in my ear).
I like what I do though, and if that means I have to grit my teeth and refrain from giving cold looks to people in an otherwise friendly seaside town then I guess I can do that. As sure as an Minnesotan can make you a Special K bar without a drop of Special K, I can accept that I’m currently trying to show ‘-work’ to people looking for ‘art-‘, though we both end up confused.
Two more hours before a walk on the seafront where I’ll consider why I might want to do a research studentship in London next year, or rather more accurately, why these places might wish to have me as a research student in their name next year in London. Tricky business all this.
I wish I hadn’t lost the first post, this one feels rather less inspired.
