First things first a few
corrections. The windows of the gallery aren’t frosted, the blinds were simply
down. Huge difference! The stream of visitors to the show has been constant and
contrary to my expectation it has been a very engaging time. But at least once
a day I am baffled by a misunderstanding or misjudgement in a conversation
which often leaves me wondering ‘Am I the weird one or are you?’
Here are some of those moments.
MOMENT 1
I put a large sign in the window
‘Artworks made from Dust and Ash’. Thought that was pretty succinct. Then a guy
comes in…
“Hey, I saw your sign in the window,
so do you like make that with spray paint?”
“Um no. I made it from ash and dust”
“Yeah I saw the sign”
“Ooookay”
He leaves. I reconsidered the
wording of my sign, evaluate the conversation and conclude it’s you not me.
MOMENT 2
Around the corner of the gallery is a construction
site and every day clusters of workman walk passed on the way to the deli. 90%
of them stopped, watched and pointed. Now I’m sure that at least some of you
are thinking they were looking at me and not the work, and I don’t think it
would be too arrogant of me to confess I wondered the same thing. But one day
Im in the back room and I see a few of them looking in the window pointing and talking so I hesitantly
invite them to come inside to look, still slightly unsure if they’re about to
try chat me up. But it turns out I am resistible and construction workers in
New York like contemporary art. They also like swearing. A lot.
“We’ve been watching all week, and you’re really
making that with dust?”
“Yes”
“F*@! Me! That’s f*#!ing awesome!”
“Hey Stevie. You hear that. She made it with dust”
“You’re s*#!ing me! That S*#!s dust. That’s F*#!ing
amazing!”
And on it went every day. One of them would come in
with a new bunch of guys to show them the exhibition.
“She made it with dust”
“Holy C*#!! Wow!”
I have never had so much positive praise via
profanities, and certainly never in the lofty halls of academia have I ever
heard a critique session compacted into the singularly expressive word that New
Yorkers so love. It was quite a nice change to have such a gobsmacked excited
audience and perhaps we are a little weird with our cautious wordiness.
Conclusion its me not you.
MOMENT 3
Another day my friend M and I were sitting on the
couch in the gallery talking through the possiblities for a performance at the
closing reception, some type of walking talking circular cleaning action, when
a guy walks in, doesn’t notice the work, comes up to us and asks
“Are you the work?” Not a completely foolish thing to
ask in a contemporary art gallery, but no. We point to the work.
“Are you going to interact with it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well you could walk around it like this”
He commences stomping around the artwork
“Or you could go the other way around”
He changes direction
“How long should I walk around it for?”
“Until you get bored of it I guess”
“You could stand on one side and wave”
He waves
He thanks us and leaves
Conclusion. He was definitely the crazy one. 100% no
doubt. Accept for the fact that what he had done was very very close to what we
had been contemplating doing for the performance, so guess that makes us crazy
too.
MOMENT 4
“I really think this work is beautiful, I mean it
really speaks to me. I really get it. You know you would love this video its
exactly like your artwork” He hands me an iphone and plays me a youtube video
of a toddler sitting in a kitchen sink full of water and playing with toys and
a breast pump. Conclusion: It’s you, not me.
MOMENT 5
Trying to locate dust in this city
of perpetual decay and construction was easy, but the ash was much harder. No
bushfires, open fireplaces, or fires in general, and no cats in trees either
which makes it doubly strange that I have to dodge a screaming speeding fire
truck almost every day. There were
two solution; the first option was to become a fire truck chaser but I might
risk third degree burns and worse still I’d have to run down cobbled streets in
high heels, the second option would necessitate me getting into an awkward
conversation that would undoubtedly leave the proprietor perplexed and looking
at me like I was crazy. I like where possible to keep my strangeness under a
bushel but alas my long term commitment to avoid running resulted in me sitting
on the subway carrying two gigantic cooking pots and locating the nearest wood
fired pizza restaurant where my all out strangeness would be publicly
displayed. Sheepishly, I approached the counter with my prepared speech and a
folder of visuals to offer clarification as proof of sanity and authenticity.
“Excuse me” I start “I know this
might sound like a strange request, but umm… could I please have some of your
ash”
“Sure. You must be an artists”
“What? umm, yes, why?”
“I sometimes have photographers
asking for ash, so I keep a bucketful aside”
CONCLUSCION
God I love this city. Normality has
fled to New Jersey with the receding tide of Hurricane Sandy and only the weird
and wonderful remain. Please let me stay.