The Reception

I'm writing tonight because there will be no time to write tomorrow. It is a work day with a hideously early start time. For me. For many, it would be generously late. But it has become my luxury to write in the mornings before work. And other things. Not tomorrow, though. I must rise and shine.

I went to the gallery reception tonight. I was part of a group show that included practicing artists from the area. They were familiar with one another and with one another's work. I was new. My work was late and ill-planned, but I was happy to be a part of it all. I was asked by one artist what I thought of another artist's work, and I said it did not speak to me particularly. I am generous that way. I saw another artist standing with a group who was looking at my images. I had to excuse myself from a conversation with a friend because I did not like the conspiratorial gestures and evil stance of the fellow I knew, another photographer, as he directed the group's gaze toward the wall. When I walked up, he said, "Next time, I'm going to just pin my art to the wall like that." "I wanted the curator to pin it to a clothesline," I said, "but he wouldn't do it."

Another fellow, one from the theater, an insipid fool I have never liked and to whom I have always wanted to demonstrate the effects of a physical beating, said something snide. I could only grin.

For the rest of my time at the opening, I stood where I could see my works hanging on the wall. They had transformed, somehow. I had made mistakes. Next time. . . . There was a misery in it all.

It is good to take a beating, though. You already know I feel that way. I am lucky to have shown with this crowd. They have all done it before. I am a good critic, a better critic of myself than of others, though sometimes I need a push. I saw things tonight that I will improve upon. No sweat. Everything, Frost said, must come to market.

But I don't know how much I want to get involved with this bunch. Putting up and getting criticism is good, but there is a cost. They are practiced at making things, of making believe and pretending, and so they have seen and heard much talk, many dreams and creative aspirations. And if I listen to their jaded voices, I know that I will produce nothing. Nothing at all. I would rather be foolish and childlike, naive and silly in my aspirations, making things that don't sound so hot while talking around the punch bowl with a congregation of artists.

I don't know which I prefer, the image with color or this one, so I will put them both up. I will decide, of course. Later. If you are sick of this mask, I can not help you. This is a blog, not an art gallery.