Itchy Mustache Finger, Speedy Pigeons. Faces Optional.

Virtual Mom was right: things feel better come morning. Steaming coffee bowl, more headstone papers with fixative drying out back, a little This American Life*  and now some Benny Goodman. How could it NOT be a good day?

*PLEASE do yourselves a favor, take two minutes to listen to the skit from the Neo-Futurists at 24:41-- one of my favorites EVER

So. To hop back a week to some more People's Art Fair . I really fell down on taking photos, didn't even take one of my setup, nor any crowd shots, friends, favorite artists. But I'll share what I have.

To start, when I looked up, this was what I was looking at, from my wobbly director's chair:

What you're looking at is a portion of the Russell industrial Center, one of a couple buildings, reclaimed from past manufacturing, to house artist studios. We were told that one unit  contained a medical marijuana growing set-up, which certainly answered our questions about that intermittent faint sweet smell, which was not quite the sweet smell of burning. Those of you who partake would have identified immediately, but Heaven Sent and I were a bit clueless and noticed customer comments in our booth ("It smells SO GOOD in here!") before we actually noticed the scent itself.

Shifting my gaze down to booth level, here's what I was treated with, all day for two days, when I forgot to NOT look over 6 inches. Joy. Insert here (hah!...unfortunate) my disclaimer

A preponderance of asses

 that a.) yes, I'm certainly a feminist and b.) I also appreciate a well-done nude. Some of my favorites were painted by Modigliani and Matisse though an artist pedigree is not needed for them to be acceptable. I think there needs to be a sense of respect there, even as, yes it's usually a welcome invitation for the viewer, right? I don't buy that only men are visual creatures. I think the body was made to be beautiful and pretty much all of us look. Whether in the straight or gay world, we assess, we appreciate, we dismiss.I guess what gets me here from the get-go is the preponderance of asses. Seriously? Textbook objectification, even moreso than a usual study of the female form.  Aside from the middle one (and a couple others, the painter shifted them around between the two back panels throughout the day), faces rarely made the grade. So many g-strings, so little time! Hard not to conclude that these were painted from magazine spreads or online softcore. Especially nice when guys came around (and some couples) and stood by me, to gaze at them throughout the day and evening. 

The painter (short guy/short pony tail/insert joke here haha!) and I chatted enough to establish civility (gorgeous weather, couldn't be better! One aisle over, there is no escape from the sun for those vendors, wow the parking lot is crazy-windy).

Later on I caught snippets of him talking about his "racier" paintings, something to the effect of them originating from photos that non-professionals took/had taken, online, in different cities. The tail-end (unfortunate punning is proving unavoidable) of the exchange was a remark along the lines of: "...Yeah, there's an interesting trend, more women are showing their faces in the photos. Which, fine by me, but if you were doing something like that, would you want people to see your face/know who you were?" Dude, if you think you're a rebel, that position couldn't be more traditionally aligned. Desire + denigration of the desired object. And yes, I know, as long as the photos were on the up and up, the subjects were adults and gave full consent, I got it, I got it. Ugh.

To extend the theme of gazing, so very much time was spent by glorying in the passing parade. It is motley and meandering, with the good-hearted, the appealing, the obnoxious, and the unfortunate (fashion choices, life, etc.) This parade was rich. There was an outcropping of  Theater Bizarre folk, with some strutting their gothy/steampunky/freaky glory and others not quite carrying it. The latter individuals were trying rather hard, their posture rigid with a simultaneous desparation to be SEEN in their freakiness and adolescent horror of same. 

Isn't she cute? So happy, funny. She has two mustache tats.

A wealth of tattoos, also running the usual gamut of quality, beauty, contentedness, rebellion and a dated need to have fake beastie claws ripping fake tears from the interior of one's rib cage. A pale, shirtless guy strode past, with the words "My Beast Is ME" tattooed down the right side of his torso. Upside: no need to buy a pet. 

I watch an extremely thin woman shuck off her shirt so she can show someone a detailed black-work tattoo covering 3/4 of her back; a guy sporting a utilikilt holds her clothes. 

Gazelle-like women wandered past, with their hair in curlers. Which was confusing until we figured out they were models for the fashion shows scheduled through the day.

one of two crazy peace-pants guys.

Ginger, one of my best friends, drops by midway through the day. I expect him to stay for 15 minutes, because usually his craft event visits are brief, but this time he stays for a good long while. He checks out pony tail's paintings and parks his nasty soda near my feet while he ventures out. I already know most of the artists he will drool over; I know him very well. He tells me about a prohibitively expensive rabbit shaped cookie jar he almost bought for me earlier in the day; I momentarily mourn not having this gem. He knows me very well. He returns to contemplate how much the health of his credit cards should be tested. Ginger loves spending money. We settle into watching the parade.

She wears the lashes every day, different colors.

One especially thin, leggy model with shorter platinum blond hair, short bright purple shorts and hot pink high heels can not stop walking past (not pictured). Is she practicing for the runway? But the walk is lacking in attitude. I label her "Pink Heels," while Ginger prefers "America's Next Top Model." "How can she be everywhere at once?" Ginger wonders. I'm sure I have seen her at least 20 times by fair's end.

A very large bearded man wearing a front-facing pack with a tiny dog in it comes into view. "Look at this guy," Ginger murmurs at my elbow. Seconds later this is followed up with, "Oh my god I *know* him!!" Ginger hops up and I join them. Ginger introduces me as his ex-girlfriend, which completely throws me, since we haven't gone out for 3?4? years. I grimace at him, wth?? And he backpedals. The dog is a 13 year old blind chihuahua, with one visible tooth. He bites his tongue when distressed. He docilely hangs in his pouch. The man is an old work friend from several lives back. 

Our attention is caught by pigeons repeatedly settling on some of the studio window ledges, high up. "Oh," says Ginger, "Someone's probably racing pigeons."


"Racing pigeons? People don't race pigeons. They keep them, they don't race them."

Ginger is otherwise convinced. "People do, they race pigeons." I can't remember the term carrier pigeons at the time, but this was what I wanted to reference.

Heaven Sent: "Mike Tyson raises pigeons!"

Ginger: "See!?!

Me to HS: "Racing, he's saying racing." And to G: "She said raising not racing." 

Both: "Oh."

This happily travels into the fact that her 13 y.o. son tries to get out of tutoring so he can watch his beloved Ellen talk show. Apparently Mike Tyson -- now sober and vegan! -- was recently on the show. 

Stand-out Tyson quote (approximation), uttered while gazing at old photos of himself projected on the stage screens, "Oh Ellen, there's nothing worse than a fat cokehead. You just don't think of cokeheads being fat, but some are and that's what I was. Nothing worse than a fat cokehead..."

Ellen, nodding: "No, there's nothing worse. Nothing worse than that."


And really, this is an odd note to end on, but the second Benny Goodman CD is done and if I don't hop in the shower, I'll be late for volunteering. The weekend was a fun one, definitely! The unexpected always arises, and usually I am glad for it. 

Happy Saturday, Everyone!

People's Art Fair

Hi-ho, Virtual Folk.

Another too-long break. Work was a bit less hectic, though still stressful: and then the compatriot received a fresh batch of True Blood from Netflix, so obviously we had to loll about on my sofa, chortling over campy/clever dialogue and leering at the gorgeousness.

The People's Art Fair last weekend took the stuffing out of me. I mostly packed it back in, but you know how it is, it's like after your Mom tossed a stuffed animal IN THE WASHER and then one arm grew to  twice the width of the other and it's not like it was a stoopid Popeye doll: it couldn't carry the look. You had to invent some story about how it became all addled and less favored; and the nose melted slightly in the dryer, to boot. Well, not like I'm that fragile, I'll pop back obviously (I *know*, you were SO concerned, right?), but I think such things are inevitably a mixed bag: a blast and a half!... and boring. And really gratifying! ...and demoralizing/irritating/exhausting.

And with each event, more possibilities open up: fellow artists/crafters/customers lean in and say,"Oh, you know what event you SHOULD do, you will do SO WELL at X, the contact person's name is and you can mention me~~" I love this. I love how much people care to share, want to help you along, are hopeful on your behalf. This really is heartening and sweet. I never used to do this with other people, but with all the generosity coming my way, it's higher up on my radar now and I try to pass things along. Mostly what I wind up doing is being really vocal about talking people up, when I love what they're doing. It's little, but it's something.

So one show begets another, leading me to wonder how often I should really follow up. I can see how people get sucked into this show/festival life. And I don't necessarily want to spend my days sitting in a wobbly director's chair, trying to look open, but not hovery. Developing a thicker skin than I sometimes have. Occasionally falling into really fun or really random banter with people and happening across deeper connections; other times wandering off like it was never my booth in the first place. I'm not a huge seller and I won't lie that it never gets to me. Should I be altering what I'm doing? But nooooo, that way also lies madness. These daily affairs always stir me up.

I was pretty glad I brought a framed version of this along. Quite fun to see people look over, laugh at the first panel and either a.) laugh harder at the second panel or b.) kind of pull back, grimace, or look around for a friend to mouth, "creepy!" I'm a fan of both reactions. I love when people laugh/snicker/snort or seem surprised; and then bring friends back, pointing at the image in question. It also cracks me up when one member of a couple is clearly a fan of my humor and the other member is clearly not on the same wavelength: Folks, you are doomed.  Ahem.

I am sharing a booth with the sweet, warm-hearted Sara of Heaven Sent Crafts; she sells journals and jewelry, using only recycled materials (game boards and old book covers, for the journals, plus a cool assortment of different kinds of paper within each; and diecut pop cans for the jewelry). She does quite well (as demonstrated by the link to her etsy site -- 1500+ sales!). We both keep our customer patter going, though she is more outgoing with it. After a few hours, I think the feeling I give off is: "I'll be slumped in this chair here, if you need anything. Maybe I'll get up and show you a woodblock. No? Ok, No."

While the idea of music throughout was cool, I hadn't really accounted for placement. From where we are, we can vaguely hear two bands performing at opposite ends. Let's call them Rage Against the Russell and Gaia Folk. Clearly, Rage wins out, though Gaia floats through in wisps. To be fair, I couldn't hear any band properly, so toss back some salt with my two-bit dismissal. Rage sounded like a Rage sibling, though. Add to the mix the decision made by several vendors to play boom boxes for their little area, which obviously included us as well. Yay! Simultaneous mishmash=Rage + Gaia + classic rock + baseball play-by-play. Oi.

As the day eeked into night and drinks flowed more steadily (and WHOA the bartenders provided strong pours at the rum tent. by golly.), browsing definitely took on a different character.

A middle aged woman with a poof of greying hair flipped through Sara's journal selection. We think she may have been juggling drinks with mental issues. She was accompanied by another more stoic woman, who didn't bother interacting with us. The first woman turned to Sara and myself, "We have to go on this MAZE and REFLECT and WRITE ABOUT THINGS~~" Her tone is outraged and she appeals to us to agree about its absurdity/idiocy. She waves a hand up by her head, a half-shrug. Maybe we can somehow help her avoid it? The woman in the background remains there. She waits for this exchange to end.

"Oh," says Sara.

"And my father is DYING, so I want something to reflect him." She looks down at the table. "But I don't see that here."

Oh, we're sorry, we say. Well, good luck~~

"OH!! Smurfette!!" She seizes on the diminutive journal. We momentarily think that this will be the one she gets. We exchange startled glances. She puts it back down and they walk away.

Ahh people, bring out your wild cards.

Even later -- less crazy, more drinkie -- three younger women come in. They coo over Sara's journals and finger the earrings. They are pretty, somewhat polished, chatty. One turns to my side of the booth and squeals at an older framed print,"OH MY GOD!! That's.THE.CUTEST.DOG!!" She turns to her friends, "Look! The dog's holding a cupcake!" 

I hadn't run into this one before. She turned to me, "Did you make this painting? It's SO.CUTE."

"Oh, thanks," I say,"Yeah it's a woodcut. It's actually a mouse." I don't know why, but my tone veers on being apologetic.

"I thought it was a dog." She peers at it and slides her fingers through her hair. "I guess it could be a mouse."

"Thanks!"

*****
Naturally the weekend held way more, and I have a piddling handful of photos, so I may return to this. Regardless, I will always return to people watching. Should I have the good fortune to live a long life, I'm totally going to be in neighborhood business, sitting on the porch, twitching my curtains aside for a peek at unusual activity. And hopefully telling someone about it.
   

Pipelines are Also Suspect

Wow, you can tell when you get on an earlier work schedule when you're completely outraged by an incoming phone call before 10 P.M. The call happened moments ago and the outrage was immediate. I shouldn't be on the computer at this point, I should be in bed for an hour or so, but I don't think I was good at going to bed 9ish when I was....seven. So, good luck to me, I guess.

Tonight and last week were (hopefully) a bit out of the ordinary, because I had work at both ends of the day. Plus work in the middle. And a work annual meeting (see also: we gotta be soldiers! ...but we have a good pipeline. Do you have a good pipeline?) So: long days, pretty much. But I realize I haven't posted much. And I don't want this to become some lackadaisical affair. I don't call unless I'm...feeling snackie. And you have those Pickle Chips or that addictive peanut butter ice cream that I can't keep in my own freezer. And then, sure, I remember where you live. In that cul-de-sac, right? Got it. So. Not like that.

So. What with the People's Art Fair coming up this weekend, I have been mildly obsessive. There are, of course, things I have yet to try out. I *bought* pegboard to hang on one tent wall, but I have no idea which frames I'll hang, or how much I should bring; I intend to hang up a bunch of penguin prints (it's all good, Gil, it's all good), but I haven't found the bag of clothespins. I made spicy caramel corn to share with my tent mates, but still need to get the pesto vermouth dip going. This past weekend, I was 75% craftier than I am in any usual weekend (which is still 30% craftier than the baseline of the population. Maybe? Maybe.)

 Cards usually sell well. And for the most part, they are collages of print details that didn't eek it into proper editions. So I made a hella lot of cards this weekend. Not sure who will want my downtrodden human figures, but hopefully some hip folk will grow fond, on some ironic level. I cracked myself up by slapping suspect across neurotic man and the demanding goose.

And then somewhere in the weekend, when I had been too long away from other people, it became imperative to make a jerry-rigged card display stand from old hoarded cardboard boxes. If you remove those cards, you'll see how very jerry-rigged it is (and where does that expression come from, btw?), but it makes a nice impression, doesn't it? Such pretty paper from Hollander's. Glue gun burn:check.

And then, as periodically happens, I felt compelled to make some signs which would be hard laminated. I really fancy lamination. I mean, I don't have a factory or anything, I go to Kinkostaplemax and they warn me it may have bubbles because I'm giving them a paper with bits glued to eachother, I say fine and then we wait. So. Pre-lamination state.

I was pleased by this, though it belatedly occurred to me that I may have caused Sarah Palin (I mean, McCain, I know, but don't you think it's more Palin in the public consciousness?) to be mentioned to me. Please don't. I may pretend I haven't heard you. You know those flighty vendors, flighty artists. they can't really pay attention.

Some rogues, as it were. First time I have packaged experiments up. But I do have a certain fondness for them.

 Gussied up the table sign. 

 

And then! Just pulled a bunch of skeletons from my Calcium print, what the heck! Maybe for cards. Mybe I'll fiddle with them while I'm sitting around for hours this weekend.

Spraying noxious fixative on my obnoxious deck. Deeeeeck, I didn't mean it. A powerwash and a new coat of paint and you'll be good as new. Xoxo.

This connects back with the headstones: trying out aqua acrylic with a transparent medium. Am liking it. Will likely put on top of headstones, above.

Even more past time for bed than when I began! Shocking. There's simply no avoiding the need for sleep. Or the necessity of rising early-early.  

Good night/good morning.