Story for performance #314
webcast from Sydney at 05:15PM, 30 Apr 06
Peeking through the gap, she surreptitiously observed the observers…
Mind you, if truth be known, these were few and far between. It never failed to surprise her (she’d worked through the anger stage with her therapist) that next to nobody stopped to take a closer look.
Most were obviously on a mission of sorts, marching past with a fanatical look in their eye; some gave a cursory backward glance, then kept on walking; others raised their eyebrows and snorted with derision.
Occasionally there would be outright laughter which filled her with compassion and love towards her fellow man; ‘Yes, yes! At last, you really understand what I’m trying to say’, until the crushing reality was too obvious to ignore: ‘What the fuck is that?! Is that supposed to be art? Ha!’
Yesterday a young girl had stepped tentatively inside the gallery space and was promptly ordered away by her parents. ‘Damn it; can’t they recognise their daughter’s desire to engage in some art and cultcha?’
She had longed to call out, ‘Come back, come back little girl! Let me show you the way’, but she’d thought better of it. ‘Heathens!’
Later in the day, however, she’d been thrilled when the girl had reappeared, nervously clutching a large book to her chest. Was she going to share something special; perhaps some art work proffered humbly for a critique; maybe some stories to read?
She was delivering the phone directories.
Cigarette smoke from god only knew where, kept permeating the tiny hidey hole of her voyeur’s lair at the back of the community gallery. She’d had a few last night (ciggies and reds) even though she’d sworn off them (the ciggies, not the reds) and she was feeling a trifle queasy.
Still, it was a bloody good night; the opening had gone well and wasn’t she pleased as punch to have sold some pieces? Over time, as her imagery had become less and less ‘lovely’ (why can’t you do something pretty dear?) she’d become accustomed to the fact that selling her work was in the distant past, so she felt quite chuffed with her turn in fortunes.
Indeed, Dave and Johnno had nearly come to blows arguing over a piece they both wanted. Thank goodness they’d sorted it out like gentlemen; wouldn’t have been a good look having a punch-up on opening night, then again, as they say, ‘there’s no such thing as bad publicity’.
Which reminded her of the disagreement she’d had with the photographer from the local paper. He had insisted that she have her photo taken—‘come on; it won’t hurt a bit’—she had insisted that there was plenty of art work to be photographed. He had then suggested that perhaps the article wouldn’t be published at all and she had said, quite calmly, ‘Fine then’. He’d walked off in a huff. On second thoughts maybe an all-in brawl wouldn’t have gone amiss; might have made the front page…
Catering had gone well too; she had deliberated for weeks over the choice of cheeses. Eventually she’d settled upon the more expensive supermarket brand rather than the ‘no name’ variety. Wine quantity had been a dilemma too; fortunately she’d provided three four litre casks with classy typography—all of them sucked dry in the blink of an eye.
Expecting ten people (mostly family) and having 50 turn up (her Aunty Marge had done a head count) was a bit of a surprise; she’d hardly reckoned on so many admirers. Of course there was a slight set-back when the power was mysteriously cut off for half an hour, but everybody seemed quite happy to mingle in the dark. The guests groped their way to the refreshments without too much trouble; probably followed their noses; the cheese was pretty ripe by the end of the night each mangled fragment mulched into the bed of lettuce leaves, not unlike the plasticine and crepe paper at her daughter’s recent play day.
She was blessed to have relatives living in the town who were happy to catch some of the rays of her reflected success; they purchased newspapers by the dozen from the local milk bar every time an article appeared. Sure, living an hour and a half out of town was a bit of a bummer and the drive a chore, but hell, whatever it takes, right? A favourite saying of her partner (or ‘agent’ as the in-laws liked to joke) was, ‘you never know when that lucky bouncing ball will bounce on you’. So true.
Really, all things considered, her first solo show had been a resounding success and she was feeling much better since the anti-depressants had kicked in. Tomorrow she’d ask the local restaurant if they’d like to show her work permanently. She’d happily give them a commission.