A depressing evening punctuated by meatloaf in beer gravy
I keep imagining that with enough time and output, there is some great reward. I punctuate this of course by buying lottery tickets and thinking that I will save some heiress from drowning or marry rich (this last one I am most cynical about).
I was riding on a high for several weeks after my two entries into an exhibit juried by the curator of the Cotemporary Art Museum in Chicago was accepted. I have not entered or submitted anything in awhile as I concentrated on creating work and think through my philosophies.
For some reason, I had a failed bit of logic that I kept blocked in my brain to keep some sembleance of hope alive--that is, that I would win one of the six monetary prizes among the fifty accepted entries. I hurried home from UWM and quickly showered and changed clothes. Then I proceeded to upend my desk as I searched for the free passes to the event. I cringed at the thought that I would have to pay to see my own work on display. Twenty minutes later, I found them. I only needed the one, as I failed to produce anyone free to go with me that evening.
I would, however, see other people I knew there at the event, theoretically. Four other members of the Photography group I was affiliated with had told me that they too had work in the exhibit. I didn't feel so special after that.
Double-timing it to the event in the dark, my stomach began to feel uneasy. I wasn't sick, although the recent change in weather made my own body unhappy and had yet to adapt. I entered the old manison known as Charles Allis that had been converted into an art museum. At the front table, I found as I handed over my pass that since I was in the show, I could keep them for another time and anyone I wanted. I felt stupid that I spent so much time looking and wondered if I would ever use them, since anyone coming to see it will mostly likely come on gallery night when entry is once again free.
There was around 20 people in attendance at this time two hours into the event, and a loungy piano player in the corner, and a bored-looking bartender. The main hall was adorned with the largest pieces, and I quickly realized looking at the program that if I had won something special they would have told me already. I was just in the show and should be happy about that.
Then I began to hunt for my pieces, without looking obvious about it. Ten minutes of casual walking about, I found them on the second floor with many of the others. Only...mine were in a corner outcropping. Since I made my pieces 8x10 (11x16 with frames), they got hung in this side section with bad lighting. I was sad for them, like they were chickens I raised for the county fair being housed in the worst part of the barn. There was an urge to take them off the wall and carry them home.
In comparison to the other works, it seemed interesting that although the juror lady was from the Contemporary Museum in Chicago, most of the 2-D works were middle of the road when it came to commentary and complexity. They were all deserving pieces (well, most of them), but few struck me as significant. Most looked like the kind that would hang in the office of a doctor with good taste.
A better analogy would be rock music that you once rocked out to now played without bass, treble, or volume in that doctor's office so that it sounded like easy-listening muzak. The works were nice, but there were no "Elephant-dung Madonnas", if you know what I mean.
After 30 minutes, I felt it safe to leave. I eavesdropped on people walking around commenting on the works but heard nothing juicy. I shambled up the street, and sought out the Comet.
Since the remodeling, I rarely sit on the cafe side so that I can smoke and read at the bar. Tonight I realize that I probably do this now to either spread out newspapers at a table of my own, or to flirt with the bartender. She was not there that night, and the tables were pretty much filled with typical trendy bar patrons. I sat at the back booth of the cafe side, and collected local papers to spread out before me.
I order a rock juice and the meatloaf with beer gravy. It comes with a side of cornbread, a small yet diverse salad, steamed and grilled asparagus, and mashed potatoes in beer gravy. It was obvious that I was comfort fooding myself, but I couldn't help it. I was doing anything to avoid going home.
I was riding on a high for several weeks after my two entries into an exhibit juried by the curator of the Cotemporary Art Museum in Chicago was accepted. I have not entered or submitted anything in awhile as I concentrated on creating work and think through my philosophies.
For some reason, I had a failed bit of logic that I kept blocked in my brain to keep some sembleance of hope alive--that is, that I would win one of the six monetary prizes among the fifty accepted entries. I hurried home from UWM and quickly showered and changed clothes. Then I proceeded to upend my desk as I searched for the free passes to the event. I cringed at the thought that I would have to pay to see my own work on display. Twenty minutes later, I found them. I only needed the one, as I failed to produce anyone free to go with me that evening.
I would, however, see other people I knew there at the event, theoretically. Four other members of the Photography group I was affiliated with had told me that they too had work in the exhibit. I didn't feel so special after that.
Double-timing it to the event in the dark, my stomach began to feel uneasy. I wasn't sick, although the recent change in weather made my own body unhappy and had yet to adapt. I entered the old manison known as Charles Allis that had been converted into an art museum. At the front table, I found as I handed over my pass that since I was in the show, I could keep them for another time and anyone I wanted. I felt stupid that I spent so much time looking and wondered if I would ever use them, since anyone coming to see it will mostly likely come on gallery night when entry is once again free.
There was around 20 people in attendance at this time two hours into the event, and a loungy piano player in the corner, and a bored-looking bartender. The main hall was adorned with the largest pieces, and I quickly realized looking at the program that if I had won something special they would have told me already. I was just in the show and should be happy about that.
Then I began to hunt for my pieces, without looking obvious about it. Ten minutes of casual walking about, I found them on the second floor with many of the others. Only...mine were in a corner outcropping. Since I made my pieces 8x10 (11x16 with frames), they got hung in this side section with bad lighting. I was sad for them, like they were chickens I raised for the county fair being housed in the worst part of the barn. There was an urge to take them off the wall and carry them home.
In comparison to the other works, it seemed interesting that although the juror lady was from the Contemporary Museum in Chicago, most of the 2-D works were middle of the road when it came to commentary and complexity. They were all deserving pieces (well, most of them), but few struck me as significant. Most looked like the kind that would hang in the office of a doctor with good taste.
A better analogy would be rock music that you once rocked out to now played without bass, treble, or volume in that doctor's office so that it sounded like easy-listening muzak. The works were nice, but there were no "Elephant-dung Madonnas", if you know what I mean.
After 30 minutes, I felt it safe to leave. I eavesdropped on people walking around commenting on the works but heard nothing juicy. I shambled up the street, and sought out the Comet.
Since the remodeling, I rarely sit on the cafe side so that I can smoke and read at the bar. Tonight I realize that I probably do this now to either spread out newspapers at a table of my own, or to flirt with the bartender. She was not there that night, and the tables were pretty much filled with typical trendy bar patrons. I sat at the back booth of the cafe side, and collected local papers to spread out before me.
I order a rock juice and the meatloaf with beer gravy. It comes with a side of cornbread, a small yet diverse salad, steamed and grilled asparagus, and mashed potatoes in beer gravy. It was obvious that I was comfort fooding myself, but I couldn't help it. I was doing anything to avoid going home.