"Surely nothing has to listen to so many stupid remarks as a painting in a museum." -Edmond and Jules de Goncourt
Day three.
I did not think it could get much more tedious than writing hundreds of condition reports on prints of dead cardinals' tombs. This thought was quickly overturned when my Friday afternoon was spent painting the trim of the McClellan House. Painting the trim grey, no less. Poor Minerva and Carinne. They had to stay for more than my two hours.
Day four.
I pretentiously stumble (if that's possible) from church to the 9th Annual Art Gala in excruciating heels I haven't worn since senior prom. Candles line the walkway, a string quartet is cycling through the same four or five songs in the hallway, and I'm assigned a tray of deviled eggs to pass around. Minerva is standing in the gallery, looking bored, and holding a tray of hors d'oeurves that include something wrapped in bacon and something with shrimp. When the tray of deviled eggs is sufficiently depleted, I sprint (well, more like quickly limp, with very good posture) to the kitchen, where everyone who wants to avoid Geneseo's elite is munching on appetizers and massaging their sore feet.
President Dahl begins his address and all the sophisticated adults turn their attention to the various speeches in the gallery. Minerva and I take this as our cue to steal apple cider and food from the tables, while silently cursing Lockhart's creaky floors.
The rest of the evening is spent alternately snitching cake, making pleasantries about the exhibit, and teaching an older man with a British accent how to eat a deviled egg. (Shove the whole darn thing in your mouth, turn your head away from polite company, chew, swallow. Lather, rinse, repeat.)
After saying my goodbyes and avoiding the distribution of leftover food, I head home. I decide that the next time I waitress for a gala, I will wear better shoes and force everyone to eat whatever foodstuffs I've got on my arm. I will also eat beforehand.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
How Naked, How Without a Wall
"I am risking my life for my work, and half my reason has gone." -Vincent Van Gogh
"You should probably put those pins back where you found them."
Day two. Minerva and I are attempting to scour the pinboards of Brodie to find enough pins to install an exhibit in the Bridge Gallery. We manage to convince ourselves that just going to the storage room and getting nails would be more work than hunting all over the building for stray pins. Which in the end, we have to return and go to the storage room for new ones after all.
"You know," Minerva says musingly. "Being a gallery assistant has made me really good at leveling and guessing measurements." It should come as no surprise that neither of us really needed the level for the installation.
After finishing up in the Bridge Gallery, we're instructed to hang up posters in all the other buildings. No sooner do I reach the corkboard in Welles then I realize I'm missing a crucial element: pins. So back to Brodie where I quietly steal thumbtacks and then troop to the rest of the buildings to hang the posters.
There is some framing and matting done and then we all head over to the Lockhart Gallery to paint walls. Apparently if you let paint sit for a long time, the color slightly changes and should not be used for touch-ups on the walls. Because then you will have large splotches of odd color. And then you will have to paint the whole frickin' wall.
Painting the trim was mostly uneventful, minus the parts where I got lost in the basement, spilled paint on the wood floor, and painted the wrong wall. So not bad. Could have been worse.
Did I mention there's a GALA on Sunday?
"You should probably put those pins back where you found them."
Day two. Minerva and I are attempting to scour the pinboards of Brodie to find enough pins to install an exhibit in the Bridge Gallery. We manage to convince ourselves that just going to the storage room and getting nails would be more work than hunting all over the building for stray pins. Which in the end, we have to return and go to the storage room for new ones after all.
"You know," Minerva says musingly. "Being a gallery assistant has made me really good at leveling and guessing measurements." It should come as no surprise that neither of us really needed the level for the installation.
After finishing up in the Bridge Gallery, we're instructed to hang up posters in all the other buildings. No sooner do I reach the corkboard in Welles then I realize I'm missing a crucial element: pins. So back to Brodie where I quietly steal thumbtacks and then troop to the rest of the buildings to hang the posters.
There is some framing and matting done and then we all head over to the Lockhart Gallery to paint walls. Apparently if you let paint sit for a long time, the color slightly changes and should not be used for touch-ups on the walls. Because then you will have large splotches of odd color. And then you will have to paint the whole frickin' wall.
Painting the trim was mostly uneventful, minus the parts where I got lost in the basement, spilled paint on the wood floor, and painted the wrong wall. So not bad. Could have been worse.
Did I mention there's a GALA on Sunday?
Thursday, September 9, 2010
From a Very Little Sphinx
"Believe it or not, I can actually draw." - Jean Michel Basquiat
Day one.
Fall semester.
After announcing myself with a lot of dramatic waving around and exclamations of "Oh hey! How's your summer been? I'm here! Let's do this! I'm here!" to Cynthia, I am directed to the Lockhart Gallery where I smugly retrieve the key from its hiding place and unlock the gallery rooms, basking in my elitist Gallery Assistant title. There is only one small damper on this glorious return; I haven't the foggiest idea how to turn the lights on.
And yes, I checked for all possible light switches.
I meekly jog upstairs to the Alumni Center and ask the kindly lady at the desk if she does have the foggiest idea how to illuminate the Esteemed Lockhart Gallery. I follow her, again meekly, to the locked reception room and then to a closet in the room and then to a cupboard in the closet (for real) where she turns on the lights. Except, oh dratsicles, most of the lights are still not on. So she meekly jogs upstairs to get another kindly person and I meander around the room facepalming and flipping the only light switch whenever I pass it.
The second, and more informed, kindly woman flips on the rest of the lights using a keypad the first thought was for the alarm system. And then she tells me I've only been turning the porch light on and off.
When Cynthia arrives and there is finally enough fluorescent lighting, I am assigned the task of peeling off painter's tape. Despite an embarrassing fear of heights (Anecdote: I once took so long to jump off the high dive that the lifeguard clapped when I finally did.), it's invigoratingly cathartic and even mildly amusing when I throw balls of tape at the walls. Unfortunately, it wasn't any of those things when I somehow managed to hit myself in the nose with the folded ladder.
The next task is to paint the borders of the walls in another room. Taking a deep breath and trying not to think about how I'm wearing my Explosions in the Sky shirt and favorite pair of jeans, I mostly focus all vacant thinking energies on the stupidity of the movie "Letters to Juliet" and how I would much rather do this instead of going to lab.
It's good to be back.
Day one.
Fall semester.
After announcing myself with a lot of dramatic waving around and exclamations of "Oh hey! How's your summer been? I'm here! Let's do this! I'm here!" to Cynthia, I am directed to the Lockhart Gallery where I smugly retrieve the key from its hiding place and unlock the gallery rooms, basking in my elitist Gallery Assistant title. There is only one small damper on this glorious return; I haven't the foggiest idea how to turn the lights on.
And yes, I checked for all possible light switches.
I meekly jog upstairs to the Alumni Center and ask the kindly lady at the desk if she does have the foggiest idea how to illuminate the Esteemed Lockhart Gallery. I follow her, again meekly, to the locked reception room and then to a closet in the room and then to a cupboard in the closet (for real) where she turns on the lights. Except, oh dratsicles, most of the lights are still not on. So she meekly jogs upstairs to get another kindly person and I meander around the room facepalming and flipping the only light switch whenever I pass it.
The second, and more informed, kindly woman flips on the rest of the lights using a keypad the first thought was for the alarm system. And then she tells me I've only been turning the porch light on and off.
When Cynthia arrives and there is finally enough fluorescent lighting, I am assigned the task of peeling off painter's tape. Despite an embarrassing fear of heights (Anecdote: I once took so long to jump off the high dive that the lifeguard clapped when I finally did.), it's invigoratingly cathartic and even mildly amusing when I throw balls of tape at the walls. Unfortunately, it wasn't any of those things when I somehow managed to hit myself in the nose with the folded ladder.
The next task is to paint the borders of the walls in another room. Taking a deep breath and trying not to think about how I'm wearing my Explosions in the Sky shirt and favorite pair of jeans, I mostly focus all vacant thinking energies on the stupidity of the movie "Letters to Juliet" and how I would much rather do this instead of going to lab.
It's good to be back.
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