Four Photographs and An Unrelated Fantasy about Art, Galleries, and Artmaking

Above Images starting at the top: Paris Metro, Jardin du Luxembourg, Brancusi's Studio, The British Museum




A Teeny Tiny Art Gallery

Long ago (in the late 1950s), as if in a fairytale, there was a teeny tiny art gallery in a teeny tiny place known as an "art world". The itsy gallery had what was called a stable of "Artists", which numbered a few too small to count on both hands. It was as if each of these empty, doghouse sized spaces with white-washed walls, was a fancy dog kennel. Every so often postage stamps would be licked and slapped upon postcards. These mailed cards and phone calls was how an aggressive person, calling herself or himself something other than "gallerist", would drum up the small group of aficionados for what was known as a vernissage, the varnishing of the paintings, which meant: "I, the talented artist do now apply a coat of varnish over my artwork, signifying that no further alterations shall be made, as these are the bonified masterpieces which you may now acquire, should you have exquisite taste and sufficient funds".

The starving eyes of doctor's wives, white gloved, would be there, in the teeny art gallery to be seen by the other wives of doctors. Who else would attend such social functions? The other three artists in town will not attend, busy working on their craft, upcoming exhibitions, you know? The choir would have attended, if there had been no rehearsal already scheduled. A few stray artists hoping for gallery representation might be counted upon to pop in, hoping to be recognized. What cheap red wine there was at the start would be drained early on. As the beverage vanishes, so does the sparce crowd.

A few red dots may be seen. The teeny tiny show is considered a success for the very small gallery. At least that is the way it was in the olden days when only half the population was permitted to sling colors. Now, every vacant, former BLOCKBUSTER is painted white and has a cute name, something exotic, such as: KITCH-EN-FRIDGE, where the next Frida and Pablo would be displaying fun things they had concocted using A.I.

Art happens in the area between an Artist and a blank space. I always resented stopping to clean up, photograph, frame, and let others look over my shoulder. Pausing to wipe my hands seems such a waste.

Filling the void is my job, as it always has been.

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