Monday, June 20, 2011

Memory Bank

No one likes being a complete dork all the time and I am no exception. I have these moments in my life when I have, in my naivety, been a complete an utter dork, in ways that remain visceral in my memory bank. I will tell you the harder I try not to be a big dork, the more glaringly apparent it is that I will always be a big dork. You would think I would be immune to the embarrassment I cause myself. But alas it is not to be. And to add further insult to injury, I am incapable of hiding a single emotion. My face can turn approximately twelve shades of red, depending on the severity of my ignorance. I say ignorance, because with me there is never any malicious intent. My ineptitude has reached epic levels of success that others merely dream of achieving. My mother always said, “If you are going to do something, do it well.” I am not sure how proud she would be of me about this, but at least she can console herself with the fact that I took her wise words to heart.
I didn’t know squat about art, the etiquette reserved for the art world or what it all meant. I knew an artist at the time of this story. He was a lovely creature with a big heart and sharp wit. Art was his world, not mine. He did sculpture. He had tried to explain to my young and empty head the intricacies of his work, but in truth, I usually just stared off into space like a deer caught in headlights. More on him later in the chapter.
Sometime after he and I had lost contact with each other, I found myself drifting into a college art gallery. I was killing time, more than I had an innate curiosity about what the gallery contained. It was cold outside and I was waiting for a friend to come and meet me. It was dark, early evening, when I saw a glow of lights coming from a windowed building. To be honest, I really don’t remember which friend or even where I was, which college I was at. My friends were scattered all over the state, so I drove to see them whenever I could.
So there I was dressed very casually in raggedy jeans with large holes in them, a t-shirt and a jean jacket, surrounded by people who wore dress clothes, suits with ties, cocktail dresses and name tags. Evidently the show was of some importance to the artists who were exhibiting their work. Most of what was on the walls and in the gallery were abstract pieces. Not knowing anything of their world, I had little appreciation for their efforts, or the deep meaning of the pieces they had spent a considerable time creating. I walked slowly in front of each piece, some paintings, some sculptures, and distractedly gazing, wishing time would pass and my friend would hurry and come get me. In the center of the room there was a metal sculpture, a large leaning piece of metal with a patina, lacquered finish shining perfectly smooth. It caught my eye, so I went in closer to have a better look. I had never before seen a metal sculpture that wasn’t outdoors. This was the first time I had witnessed a piece of such weight and magnitude, indoors on display. It appeared warm to me, as if glowing from its own heat source. I stood before this hunk of metal that had been welded, chemically altered, shined to a perfect finish mesmerized by the scale and curve of it. It had a feminine quality to it. It had great sweeping curves, a large rounded piece at the top, almost like a head. At first, it looked reminiscent of a praying mantis. As I stood there my mind wandered to the friend who I knew did metal work also. I pictured him making something like this extraordinary thing of beauty that hovered over me. The distant hum of low toned conversation could be heard as a white noise somewhere behind me, but I was transfixed as I stood grounded to my place next this thing, this weighted, glistening thing, I could not take my eyes off of. I was completely absorbed, unaware of my surroundings as I continued to stare. Time seemed to utterly stand still for me. Without thinking, without even knowing why, I reached my hand out and touched the sculpture. As I stood with my hand gently placed on the largest curve of the melted female, I suddenly saw out of the corner of my eye some guy, some very infuriated guy storm over in my direction. As if glued to my position, I didn’t move and I didn’t remove my stray hand; I stood cemented right where I was.
In an instant he slapped my hand away, off his work and began screaming at me. “Are you some kind of idiot?” He was yelling at the top of his voice. I felt the blood fill my face. My eyes wide as tears began to build up, I stammered and stumbled backward. “Don’t you ever touch my work again!” He spat at me. I watched, horrified, mostly at my own stupidity, as the tiniest string of spittle connected both sides of his mouth. He then proceeded to pace around his piece mumbling to those around him what “fucking moron” I was. I had bumbled my way several feet from the incident when an older gentleman came over to me as I stared at the floor, realizing I no longer knew where the exit was. Once I again I was glued to my spot, but for reasons remarkably different than before. “I have been watching you” the man said. I looked just high enough at him avoiding his face but seeing his name tag that said “Dr.” something or another. Immediately my mind knew he was a professor, a faculty member of this world I was such a foreigner to. “Everybody is watching me, sir” I said directly to the ceramic floor. Not looking up, I had no idea of what his reaction was on his face or where this conversation was about to go. I envisioned myself being dragged away to art jail, for committing unspeakable crimes. I pictured myself standing before a beret wearing judge who sentences me to life, cleaning paint brushes, barring me from ever entering another gallery as long as I live. The well dressed professor, in a warm tone, then said the most amazing thing. “In view of the fact that you now know not to touch the art, your response is quite a compliment for the dickhead that created it.” Relieved and grateful for not having been arrested, I stood still for a moment as the professor took his leave. I wanted to giggle, but my fear superseded my humor. The angry dickhead came over to me again, only this time he asked leaning in, “What did he say to you? Did he mention my work? Did he say if he liked it?” Motionless, I said nothing. I found myself smiling as I made my way out, quite literally backing out of the gallery, making my exit back out into the cold. I stood on the sidewalk, breathing in the cold, trying to get my heart to stop racing. A few moments later my friend showed up. “Have you been waiting long?” “No”, I said, as the blood had finally started draining from my face. We exchanged hugs, as he said, “You know if you were cold there is a gallery right there you could have gone in. I hear there is a show tonight. A friend of mine is showing their senior work there.” We were walking away from the scene of my crime when I turned to him and asked,”What kind of art does your friend do?” I silently prayed that this anonymous friend wasn’t the dickhead sculptor. As I pleaded in my head, “Please,please,please…” I heard my friend say,”He’s a painter, oils, I think. I am not sure. I don’t know much about that stuff.” As we continued to make our way downtown, I thanked God or anyone else willing to listen that I hadn’t just embarrassed and humiliated myself, but inadvertently taken my friend with me down Alice’s rabbit hole.
Since that time, I have never and I do mean never touched another piece of art, regardless of how engrossed I became. Alert the museums, sound the alarms at the galleries, all art work is safe from the infamous art toucher.
Did you hear that? I swear it sounded like a collective sigh coming from the museum district.

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