I have a piece in a show that opens this weekend. Until today, well, until this evening, I was pretty excited about it.
What happened was, I went by the gallery where the show was hung. I walked in and every piece in the show was immediately visible. Mine was not even there, or so I thought. Then I saw it was tucked away in a corner behind a large sculpture. My first instinct was to be a sport about it. I've dealt with this before. Every piece I have submitted to a Nashville show has been hung at knee height or behind flats full of other people's work or not at all. ("We made a mistake. Thanks for understanding.") I think it's kind of funny.
So I initially shrugged it off. It will hang in the gallery for a month, then I'll pick it up and give it to whichever relative wants it.
Here's the thing: When I went by the gallery, my mother was with me.
Her faith in my work is inverse in proportion to every curator in the city. I fear the day is coming when she will ask me to cut off the top of my ear because, well, you get the idea.
Back to the gallery and Mama...
As I said, I think it's funny. Mama does not. She is a lady of a certain age, and God help us all, she is Southern. Right now she is in vengeful Old Southern Lady mode, so it might be a good time to hide my hockey sticks and ritual goods. Did I prevent art crimes from happening this afternoon? Possibly. She still wants to go to the gallery and take my picture down and walk out with it. She says the curator should be yanked ball-headed. She was not placated by Chess Pie. I have to keep her busy and away from East Nashville for the rest of the month.
Then again, maybe the most peaceable solution is to accept that this art thing isn't for me. Being a redneck at heart, I might disappear somewhere this weekend to search the internet for Dacron bowstring and fletching supplies with breaks to write a retrofit of "Deliverance" set in a large Southern suburb with an all-toddler cast featuring Sugar and Spike and the baby who flashed his little stink-tooter at diners at a Memphis vegan café. Hand me my banjo, Babyface.
I could also move to the P.O., but the people who work there might object.
copyright 2017 Jas Faulkner and Zen Dixie.