Straight from the event to the Internet. No neolithic scrawling with pen and paper while oogling naked women. Much to my dismay. Real Life, as it happens to intrude on my Ideal Life, sucks. Fucking errands. Huh? Oh, sorry. Rambling.
PEPPER GALLERY & STUDIO
As previously mentioned, I received via email a notice about Pepper's First Thursday show, which I found intriguing. Anyway, I decided to save this one for last, which in retrospect was a great decision. Most of the other galleries were filled with the same old, same old. It was all very nice, and very arty, and well worth my time (except for Zeitgeist, which had art comprised of file folder labels on paper. Being clever is NOT a suitable replacement for being artistic, damnit), but overall... Eh.
Then I get to Pepper. I pass by the young woman and young man w/ a Polaroid Land Camera standing outside the front window. One of them, I assume, is the performance artist in question: Ilima Considine. And again, I'm not sure which one is Ilima. Instead, I enter the gallery to see the artwork that accompanies this show. Surprise Kaebel: No Art. On the walls, either on paper (note paper, drawing paper, Post-It notes, letterhead, napkins, etc) or directly on the wall are words. Lots and lots of words. Covering the interior of the gallery are the unsent letters to ex-boyfriends. Again, no clear indicators of the artist's gend... Oh. Wait. She's a SHE. Mystery solved.
Cogratulations! It's a Girl!
This makes me more interested in participating. Granted, I have kissed boys, and might again for the sake of art, but honestly, they're just not my preference. Kissing girls, well... Where do I sign up?
Oh, and the me kissing boys: Another story, another day. Back to the letters.
I continue to read, and am aching by the time I'm through. Emotionally. These words, these letters... this, for me, qualifies as art. It evokes emotional response. More important, it makes me FEEL. By choice, I run around like a heartless automaton, but these letters... While not my exact experiences, still speak to me, of Loneliness, Longing, Agony, Lust, and of course Love. Here. Try this on for size:
"Every song on the radio is still about YOU.
Now. Tell me that you cannot, in the whole history of your romantic entanglements, relate to that statement at all. If you can, I don't know whether I'll congratulate you, or pity you.
So, I am moved. I am impressed. I decide, now that I've climbed around in the artist's head, that it's time for me to participate. I pop an Altoid (a Rat Bastard I may be, but I am a considerate one) and step out the door.
Now then. We are, I presume, familiar with the awkwardness that is the First Kiss. If not, bully for you. And go Fuck yourself. (Don't worry. I still love you anyway.) When said kiss is for posterity, that awkwardness is multiplied tenfold. I am asked politely by the young woman (who is actually SHORTER than me. I didn't think that such a creature still existed.) if I wish to "participate." Being the smooth operator I am, I barely manage to fumble out a Yes. The cameraman is poised, the artist steps close and tells me to "...pretend like you know me." My eyes close, lips touch, and a flash goes off. Done.
And now, affixed to the window, along with a dozen other like photos, is a picture of me and this stranger commiting an intimate act that is intentionally & completely fabricated. My friend Evil has been right all along: Pictures Lie. Afterward, I introduce myself and make small talk with Ilima, mentioning that I'd heard about the show from the mailing list. Which surprises her, pleasantly. She talks about how revealing those letters are, and how none of the people they are addressed to have ever read them, and I listen, simultaneously admiring her freckles and red eyeliner. (Shut up. I know.) I inquire as to what happens to the Polaroids, how does she plan on integrating them into the exihibit, to which she has no answer. Sort of. She's offered each one, for $5/ea, to every participant. And you didn't even have to choose yours. The idea was to allow the photo into your life, and see if it had any future impact. I opted not to take a photo, not because I'm a cheap bastard (no comments from the Peanut Gallery, thankyouverymuch) but because I'm more interested in seeing what Ilima will do with them.
Oh. Note to Self: Self, email Ilima and ask for updates. From Self.
I'm left with the impression that I have just learned an unusual, or at least unorthodox, way of meeting people. Kiss, then tell. I'm not sure yet if this is better, worse, or just as good as the tried-and-true method. Field testing may be in order.
Judas Priest. I also occurs to me that it has been... EIGHT MONTHS since I last kissed a girl. I think I'm much too tired to wander down that particular path of cognitive thought.
Wow. That was an awful lot for one show. That wasn't the bulk of my evening though. Afterward, I did stop by Ko Do Ku to see Frank. While there, I also ran into Kirk, who is showing his new works next month. And Frank showed off his massive head wound. Staples in someone's scalp is both fascinating and disturbing to observe. And I also got to talk briefly with Ezra Claytan Daniels. The who and how of Ezra will be a different post. In short, he's a local graphic novel writer/illustrator. Go to his website for the skinny: Dream Chocolate.com Frank once again reiterated that if I bring him art, he will show it. I need to get my ass in gear.
Alright. I'm burnt. Tomorrow is another day. It's Today, actually. Fuck. Off to bed. Thanks for reading.
PEPPER GALLERY & STUDIO
As previously mentioned, I received via email a notice about Pepper's First Thursday show, which I found intriguing. Anyway, I decided to save this one for last, which in retrospect was a great decision. Most of the other galleries were filled with the same old, same old. It was all very nice, and very arty, and well worth my time (except for Zeitgeist, which had art comprised of file folder labels on paper. Being clever is NOT a suitable replacement for being artistic, damnit), but overall... Eh.
Then I get to Pepper. I pass by the young woman and young man w/ a Polaroid Land Camera standing outside the front window. One of them, I assume, is the performance artist in question: Ilima Considine. And again, I'm not sure which one is Ilima. Instead, I enter the gallery to see the artwork that accompanies this show. Surprise Kaebel: No Art. On the walls, either on paper (note paper, drawing paper, Post-It notes, letterhead, napkins, etc) or directly on the wall are words. Lots and lots of words. Covering the interior of the gallery are the unsent letters to ex-boyfriends. Again, no clear indicators of the artist's gend... Oh. Wait. She's a SHE. Mystery solved.
Cogratulations! It's a Girl!
This makes me more interested in participating. Granted, I have kissed boys, and might again for the sake of art, but honestly, they're just not my preference. Kissing girls, well... Where do I sign up?
Oh, and the me kissing boys: Another story, another day. Back to the letters.
I continue to read, and am aching by the time I'm through. Emotionally. These words, these letters... this, for me, qualifies as art. It evokes emotional response. More important, it makes me FEEL. By choice, I run around like a heartless automaton, but these letters... While not my exact experiences, still speak to me, of Loneliness, Longing, Agony, Lust, and of course Love. Here. Try this on for size:
Now. Tell me that you cannot, in the whole history of your romantic entanglements, relate to that statement at all. If you can, I don't know whether I'll congratulate you, or pity you.
So, I am moved. I am impressed. I decide, now that I've climbed around in the artist's head, that it's time for me to participate. I pop an Altoid (a Rat Bastard I may be, but I am a considerate one) and step out the door.
Now then. We are, I presume, familiar with the awkwardness that is the First Kiss. If not, bully for you. And go Fuck yourself. (Don't worry. I still love you anyway.) When said kiss is for posterity, that awkwardness is multiplied tenfold. I am asked politely by the young woman (who is actually SHORTER than me. I didn't think that such a creature still existed.) if I wish to "participate." Being the smooth operator I am, I barely manage to fumble out a Yes. The cameraman is poised, the artist steps close and tells me to "...pretend like you know me." My eyes close, lips touch, and a flash goes off. Done.
And now, affixed to the window, along with a dozen other like photos, is a picture of me and this stranger commiting an intimate act that is intentionally & completely fabricated. My friend Evil has been right all along: Pictures Lie. Afterward, I introduce myself and make small talk with Ilima, mentioning that I'd heard about the show from the mailing list. Which surprises her, pleasantly. She talks about how revealing those letters are, and how none of the people they are addressed to have ever read them, and I listen, simultaneously admiring her freckles and red eyeliner. (Shut up. I know.) I inquire as to what happens to the Polaroids, how does she plan on integrating them into the exihibit, to which she has no answer. Sort of. She's offered each one, for $5/ea, to every participant. And you didn't even have to choose yours. The idea was to allow the photo into your life, and see if it had any future impact. I opted not to take a photo, not because I'm a cheap bastard (no comments from the Peanut Gallery, thankyouverymuch) but because I'm more interested in seeing what Ilima will do with them.
Oh. Note to Self: Self, email Ilima and ask for updates. From Self.
I'm left with the impression that I have just learned an unusual, or at least unorthodox, way of meeting people. Kiss, then tell. I'm not sure yet if this is better, worse, or just as good as the tried-and-true method. Field testing may be in order.
Judas Priest. I also occurs to me that it has been... EIGHT MONTHS since I last kissed a girl. I think I'm much too tired to wander down that particular path of cognitive thought.
Wow. That was an awful lot for one show. That wasn't the bulk of my evening though. Afterward, I did stop by Ko Do Ku to see Frank. While there, I also ran into Kirk, who is showing his new works next month. And Frank showed off his massive head wound. Staples in someone's scalp is both fascinating and disturbing to observe. And I also got to talk briefly with Ezra Claytan Daniels. The who and how of Ezra will be a different post. In short, he's a local graphic novel writer/illustrator. Go to his website for the skinny: Dream Chocolate.com Frank once again reiterated that if I bring him art, he will show it. I need to get my ass in gear.
Alright. I'm burnt. Tomorrow is another day. It's Today, actually. Fuck. Off to bed. Thanks for reading.
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