A Total Stranger One Black Day

"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."

Enter No

"But that's what being an artist is - feeling crummy before everyone else feels crummy." -The New Yorker

April 14, 2010

Dear Mr. Alba,

Thank you very much for submitting your work for consideration. Unfortunately, we cannot accept it at this time, as our galleries are fully scheduled for the next two years. However, if you are still interested in a future exhibition, please...

Dear Ms. Kretz,

Thank you very much for submitting your work for consideration. Unfortunately, we cannot accept it at this time...

Dear Mr. Wynn,

Thank you very much for submitting...

Day ten. Another Wednesday, a couple extra hours, and a box full of artists to reject. Artists continually send slides, CDs, binders, huge envelopes of their work to the galleries on campus, all very earnestly requesting an exhibition, a wall, anythingpleaseforpete'ssakethankyouverymuch. And someone needs to tell them that unfortunately, we cannot accept it at this time, as our galleries are fully scheduled for the next two years.

It's been awhile. "Some of these are pretty old; they've been here since before I got here two years ago."

I open one of the envelopes. "Oh hey. 2004. I was going through puberty."

23 artists and 23 exhibits we will probably never see at Geneseo. That's not such a bad thing in some cases.

"These kind of remind me of Andy Warhol plus Van Gogh plus medieval Jesus paintings."
"Yeah, I don't particularly like them."

Dear Ms. Kim, Ms. DeSalvlo, Mr. Navarra...

Thank you very much for submitting your work...

Two Little Whos

"One of the best things about paintings is their silence - which prompts reflection and random reverie." -Mark Stevens

"Jean, the door to the storage room is jammed."
"Are you sure?"
-brief pause while our protagonists go the locale of said door-
"Hannah. This is the gallery. The storage room is over here."
"Oh. No wonder the combination didn't work."

Day nine. It's Wednesday afternoon and I'm doing a couple extra hours since Cynthia will be in New Jersey on Friday. It would seem that the doors in Brodie are all conspiring against me. It didn't help that I had absolutely no idea where the storage room was in the first place and spent a solid five minutes wandering around looking for a door with a combination lock. I have a sneaking suspicion that whoever planned Brodie was either addicted to Tetris or just deeply sadistic. The main point is that Brodie makes absolutely no architectural sense.

Jean and I are in the photography room, taking pictures of the collection.

"These are 1000 watt bulbs. Holy mother."

The process is pretty basic. There's a table covered with grey paper (neutral background), with heavy-duty lamps on either side. The camera screws in to this interesting elevator-esque contraption which essentially operates as a manual zoom. I simply line up the print and snap a picture. Unfortunately, this basic task has me standing on a chair in my socks, surrounded by very toasty lamps, and sweating profusely.

Poor day to wear a fashion belt. "Jean, the worst part of this is, I know if I take my belt off at any point during the day, I'm just going to have a ring of sweat around my middle. Which is both funny and gross."

Several of the prints were of our own dear Brodie, featuring students looking all chipper and college-y.

"Oh man. These are from the seventies. Look at that hair!"

The longer I looked at the photographs (i.e. the more pictures I had to take of them), the more I was struck by the thought that these cheery-faced students were my age when these pictures were taken. And now they are most certainly not. This seems like a fairly obvious statement, but to once again realize, oh hey, this doesn't last forever, is always startling.

I think that's another reason I love art. It never really ages. Don't get me wrong, I'm perfectly fine with growing older, but it's nice to know that art will remain constant. Well, art and frickin' Brodie.

In Just Spring

"Art consists of limitation. The most beautiful part of every picture is the frame." -G.K. Chesterton

10:54 am. I am standing outside Cynthia's locked door.

11:02 am. Still standing.

Day eight. I'm beginning to wonder if I missed the memo.

TXT To: Cynthia Hawkins
CB: 1-314-159-2653
Hey Cynthia, just wondering if I should meet you somewhere on campus!

11:08 am. Now sitting on the nearest bench, checking my email for some kind of hint. Time moves awfully slowly when you have no idea where anyone is and when you have zero notifications on Facebook.

11:12 am. Ring ring ring.
"Hello?"
"Hey Cynthia! It's Hannah-"
"Oh, Jean didn't email you? I'm so sorry. Last week was crazy, so I'm taking the day off. I knew I..."

Did I mention that it was 70 degrees and sunny out?

"...I'm so sorry about that. Well, enjoy your day off and this beautiful weather!"

I was approaching crustacean color by the evening. Day well spent.