"It is a mistake for a sculptor or painter to speak or write very often about his job. It releases tension needed for his work." -Henry Moore
"What is this called?"
"Bubblewrap..."
"I just couldn't remember the word for it; the only thing coming to mind was 'popping paper.'"
Day eleven. Jean and I are packaging up pieces from the drawing exhibit to ship back to their respective artists. This means I have to work with both packing tape and massive rolls of plastic wrap, two of my deadliest foes.
I had spent the first hour putting all those rejection letters I mentioned last time in envelopes, along with the artists' work. It was a bit depressing. Not only did we not want their art in our galleries, we did not want the CDs of their work to clutter our filing cabinets. Or remind of us of our heartlessness.
"Cynthia, do you want me to just throw out these letters from the artists?"
"Put them in a folder. Then I won't feel so bad."
When Jean and I finish packing up the artwork, we sit around the office while Cynthia is on hold with Fed Ex. Apparently Canada has a lot of issues with getting artwork back in vast quantities. The three of us discuss grad school, Paris, automated phone operators, and Paris. "International shipping representative. No. InterNATIONAL shipping representative." Hold.
"Where were we?"
"Paris."
"Oh, right. Paris. I would definitely have an apartment there." This from Cynthia.
Jean laughs. "When you make your first million?"
"Before that, definitely."
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