"Painting is just another way of keeping a diary." -Pablo Picasso
Day thirteen. Last day.
Well, of the semester.
I'm helping install the winning pieces from the annual county high school juried art show in the Lederer Gallery. Holy crapola. I had barely legible handwriting in high school (it's even worse now) and these kids are doing oil paintings and ceramic chess pieces (modeled after a battle between Mount Olympus and the Underworld) and portraits and digital art and let's not even talk about the effing CHAIR someone CARVED...well, frankly, it's all a bit upsetting.
"Wait. So this kid is like...fifteen."
"Yeah. I know. Insane."
But I'm helping install an exhibition, which is the main thing. There are several moments of panic, like when Cynthia and I hung up a huge banner-esque work and I almost fell off the ladder. Or when I almost fell off the ladder trying to hang up another giant canvas. Other than that, it was mostly okay.
"Hannah, can you please sweep the floor? This place is a mess."
I occasionally forget that I am first and foremost an intern.
As we leave the gallery, all the sickeningly-fantastic artwork beautifully installed, we say our summer goodbyes.
"Thanks for an amazing semester, Cynthia."
"Hey, I get a hug."
Bags and bundles and tools down. Hug.
"See you in the fall! Have a great summer!"
"Take care!"
See you in the fall. Have a great summer.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
Now I Lay With Everywhere Around
"All art requires courage." -Anne Tucker
"So would you be interested--"
"Yes."
"--in an internship with Wadsworth Library in the fall? They need someone to help them catalog their collection of prints and watercolors."
"Yes."
"I'd help you in the beginning and show you the process and then you'd work on your own."
"Sounds fantastic. Yes."
Day twelve. I have barely sat down and I've already secured an internship in the fall. Clearly it does not get much better than this.
"Oh, and would you be okay with finishing early? I have to go to a couple senior portfolio reviews."
Never mind. It does get better. Especially since it's 77 degrees and sunny out.
Jean is out sick, which means that I am given the task of packaging prints solo-style. The initial stage is very validating and enjoyable. By "initial stage" I mean the part where I stroll confidently to the storage room, punch in the code, and then set up my music. After that, sweat beads start to form. Why? Because I have to confront a massive role of plastic wrap, easily my worst enemy in the universe. Not only am I totally alone in the matter, but apparently the scissors went on vacation and we only have razor blades to cut plastic and paper.
"Why isn't this cut-- oh, wrong end."
The brown paper that goes on after the plastic wrap has been rolled so tightly that I practically have to lie down on the work table to get it flat. After a fair amount of tussling, I'm able to put my Christmas-wrapping skills to use and I get a package that may or may not be somewhat rectangular. And by the twentieth print, I've got this stuff down.
Still hate plastic wrap.
"So would you be interested--"
"Yes."
"--in an internship with Wadsworth Library in the fall? They need someone to help them catalog their collection of prints and watercolors."
"Yes."
"I'd help you in the beginning and show you the process and then you'd work on your own."
"Sounds fantastic. Yes."
Day twelve. I have barely sat down and I've already secured an internship in the fall. Clearly it does not get much better than this.
"Oh, and would you be okay with finishing early? I have to go to a couple senior portfolio reviews."
Never mind. It does get better. Especially since it's 77 degrees and sunny out.
Jean is out sick, which means that I am given the task of packaging prints solo-style. The initial stage is very validating and enjoyable. By "initial stage" I mean the part where I stroll confidently to the storage room, punch in the code, and then set up my music. After that, sweat beads start to form. Why? Because I have to confront a massive role of plastic wrap, easily my worst enemy in the universe. Not only am I totally alone in the matter, but apparently the scissors went on vacation and we only have razor blades to cut plastic and paper.
"Why isn't this cut-- oh, wrong end."
The brown paper that goes on after the plastic wrap has been rolled so tightly that I practically have to lie down on the work table to get it flat. After a fair amount of tussling, I'm able to put my Christmas-wrapping skills to use and I get a package that may or may not be somewhat rectangular. And by the twentieth print, I've got this stuff down.
Still hate plastic wrap.
Friday, April 16, 2010
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."
"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."
Thursday, April 15, 2010
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...
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...
Friday, April 9, 2010
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.
"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.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Picasso You Give Us Things Which Bulge
"I always thought that one of the reasons why a painter likes especially to have other painters look at his or her work is the shared experience of having pushed paint around." -Chuck Close
"Who would use spray glue on a glass case?"
"This floor is disgusting."
"I don't actually know how to put in an L-bracket."
"This one is called 'Blisters'."
"I have this terrible fear of stepping on these sea sponges."
Day seven. Four of us interns are installing an art exhibit in the Lockhart Gallery. I'm so relieved not to have to write any more condition reports, I don't even mind installing the same series twice. (Note: It is generally a poor idea to put artwork behind a door.) Actually, I love it anyway.
I have a dreadful fear of accidentally destroying artwork. One of the pitfalls of my (hopefully) future career is that I will spend a solid portion of my day with butterflies in my stomach and limbs slightly trembling. I feel like it's a small price to pay. Well, that and grad school tuition. It doesn't help that Patrice's show has a ton of jewelry, much of which is awfully fragile. Thankfully, the only injuries sustained were a small metal pot that dented (Note: It is generally a poor idea to put round, roll-able artwork on rickety pedestals.) and the patience of everyone trying to install Plexiglas covers over the very 3-dimensional pieces.
No, the pot was not my fault.
Yes, I learned how to install L-brackets.
"Who would use spray glue on a glass case?"
"This floor is disgusting."
"I don't actually know how to put in an L-bracket."
"This one is called 'Blisters'."
"I have this terrible fear of stepping on these sea sponges."
Day seven. Four of us interns are installing an art exhibit in the Lockhart Gallery. I'm so relieved not to have to write any more condition reports, I don't even mind installing the same series twice. (Note: It is generally a poor idea to put artwork behind a door.) Actually, I love it anyway.
I have a dreadful fear of accidentally destroying artwork. One of the pitfalls of my (hopefully) future career is that I will spend a solid portion of my day with butterflies in my stomach and limbs slightly trembling. I feel like it's a small price to pay. Well, that and grad school tuition. It doesn't help that Patrice's show has a ton of jewelry, much of which is awfully fragile. Thankfully, the only injuries sustained were a small metal pot that dented (Note: It is generally a poor idea to put round, roll-able artwork on rickety pedestals.) and the patience of everyone trying to install Plexiglas covers over the very 3-dimensional pieces.
No, the pot was not my fault.
Yes, I learned how to install L-brackets.
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