This past weekend I voluntarily signed on to participate in a touring art show called “Pancakes and Booze Art Show.” As far as art exhibits go once again the artists stood in line to pay for the event. I wandered around from 8 PM till nearly 1:00 AM and don’t believe I saw a single transaction. That’s not to say a select few actually sold work, it’s just that I never saw it.
I paid for and exhibited three sculptures and soon found that I was the one and only 3-D person out of approximately 75 artists that participated. Given most exhibitions charge $35 – $65 non-refundable entry fees with no guarantee, at least my spot was assured!
Amateur hour best describes the entire process of set up and take down which was by the way all done the same day. THIS PARTY IS NOT FOR SCULPTURE, as there were no loading and unloading areas available leaving me to Double Park on Broadway, one of Denver’s busiest streets. In the process I broke (repairable damage) something off each piece getting it past the hordes coming out of downtown Denver’s many bars and through a narrow entry way into the party, and finally stuffing the back seat of my car. Shit. This included two sizable pedestals!
As far as a party goes it was fabulous! Body painting, live bands, three bars ($10 bucks a shot), and a boatload of artists wondering why their stuff doesn’t sell, made for great entertainment. Of course there was a never-ending line for pancakes! For those attending, the $5 cover was easily made up in pancakes & syrup….and no doubt represented an early breakfast for many.
For the two or three of you still reading this cathexis you might appreciate the fact that someone of my advancing years would subject themselves to such aggravation. I’m hip. I’m reasonably sure I’m not the only 60 – something who thinks like a 19 year old. In my squirrely little brain I envisioned being carried away on the shoulders of youngsters praising me and my work; making hundreds of new fans!
The reality of it was of course the complete opposite. Instead of being adored I was mostly ignored! Not a single person offered to help me load up when clearly I was over my head and letting hope overcome reason.
But finally loaded up and the cops threatening to ticket me in the rear-view mirror, I was able to take a breath and mentally inventory my body and soul. It didn’t take long to discover scraped knuckles, torn pocket, bruised thigh, and a mysterious paper-cut on my lip. When I allow my 19 year old side to make decisions this sort of thing happens leaving me in extra pain for the next 48 to 72 hours; swearing never to do it again.
Unless I have something I can hang on a wall, I’ll probably not participate in pancake art next time the party comes through Denver. But having said that though, I’m glad I went. Both of my sons and their significant others came and stayed awhile making the whole thing worthwhile, perhaps one could even say I was paternally wise— a rarity no doubt.
I love the pain!