I managed to secure myself an art show at a local coffee house (through a combination of luck, more luck, and “knowing people”), and frankly, the news couldn’t make me happier–or more neurotic. And unfortunately, the very daunting prospect of people actually seeing my artwork didn’t occur to me until the morning I showed up, bright & early & sans coffee, to hang my paintings. The fellow behind the counter directed me to a stretch of wall, my stretch of wall, and I stood there, hammer in hand, jaw somewhere in the region of my knees, ambushed by the realization that people are going to see my artwork–it seemed that nothing could be worse, really, than the morning crowd arriving, cooly ordering their uber-grande no-foam irish cream triple shot nonfat lattes, and then turning to the art display, where my paintings would hang exposed, awaiting judgement.
A week ago, that very prospect seemed thrilling–my paintings would scoff at their judgement, cry “Who are you to label me? I am art,” with an air of true feistiness, and I would say nothing, knowing that my art could defend itself. Hmm. How not like that “having an art show” has turned out to be. In fact, it’s turned out to be not much of a big deal, either way. I haven’t been fielding calls from art critics, who are heralding my work as “the next Van Gogh,” nor have I been cowering under the bed as strangers storm my house, demanding to know why I ever thought such crap was art.
Having an art show hasn’t been bad at all. It’s not like I have to stand there and listen to every comment made, every “Huh,” my paintings solicit. Getting over that first moment of hanging the paintings seems to be all there is to it, aside from, well, painting the pictures in the first place–I’m starting to think maybe I can do this display thing. It’s not so bad, after all.
(And yeah, these are samples of my artwork. Please don’t take them.)