Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Finally, I have gotten back the first of the photos from Dad's art exhibition. (And for some reason, I can't post them. Will fix later.) They gave his paintings great play, and it was a nice show. But the road to this show was a little twisted.
A couple of weeks ago, dad showed up at the converted cottage on the former military base, Fort Tilden, where the show was going to be held, freshly mounted paintings in tow. He'd read the instructions from the show organizers, Rockaway Artists Alliance, and they said to drop off his paintings on that date, between the hours of 1 and 3. Well, when Dad stepped into this house, no other artists were there, and he said the place looked like a joke. A guy doing renovations tried to get him to leave his paintings, but Dad refused and took off in search of the offices of the artists alliance.
Awhile later, after driving up and down Beach 116th Street in Rockaway, a mailman pointed out the right building to him. He went upstairs, simmering with rage, and found three doors. The first two were locked, but the third was to a bathroom. He was happy about that. On his way out, he scribbled next to the door, "Rockaway Artists Alliance is bullshit." Artists always carry pencils -- you never know when they're going to be required to execute a little street art.
He dragged his paintings all the way back home and told me the story. We both felt dejected. I'd been the one who suggested Dad fill out all the paperwork, pay the modest fee for the showing and spend $240 to get his paintings, which are large, stretched and mounted. He was already thinking about the gallery representatives who might just drop in and recognize his work for the genius it is.
But a few days later, someone from the alliance called, apologized for the mix-up -- it turns out he was supposed to drop off his art the NEXT day -- and asked that he reconsider his decision. So Dad put his stuff back in the show.
We all trooped down there the day of the opening reception. Dad nervously smoked a cigarette in the parking lot before going in and said, "I'm not gonna to talk to nobody. I'm not gonna tell anyone who I am." But there, on the wall facing the entrance, confronting all visitors, was one of Dad's paintings, "The Source." The other, "Portal," also had a great spot, in the middle of one of the walls.
The theme of this show was holes, and except for a surrealist sketch of female genitalia, it was filled with fairly calm art: photos of arches, paintings of doorways, abstract marble sculptures with holes in them. Dad's stuff leaped out and grabbed you by the throat, both because of the colors, and the space-y, cosmic theme.
Dad lurked around, peering at the art and sneaking glances at how his paintings looked hanging on the wall. I'm pretty sure he was pleased.
A couple of weeks ago, dad showed up at the converted cottage on the former military base, Fort Tilden, where the show was going to be held, freshly mounted paintings in tow. He'd read the instructions from the show organizers, Rockaway Artists Alliance, and they said to drop off his paintings on that date, between the hours of 1 and 3. Well, when Dad stepped into this house, no other artists were there, and he said the place looked like a joke. A guy doing renovations tried to get him to leave his paintings, but Dad refused and took off in search of the offices of the artists alliance.
Awhile later, after driving up and down Beach 116th Street in Rockaway, a mailman pointed out the right building to him. He went upstairs, simmering with rage, and found three doors. The first two were locked, but the third was to a bathroom. He was happy about that. On his way out, he scribbled next to the door, "Rockaway Artists Alliance is bullshit." Artists always carry pencils -- you never know when they're going to be required to execute a little street art.
He dragged his paintings all the way back home and told me the story. We both felt dejected. I'd been the one who suggested Dad fill out all the paperwork, pay the modest fee for the showing and spend $240 to get his paintings, which are large, stretched and mounted. He was already thinking about the gallery representatives who might just drop in and recognize his work for the genius it is.
But a few days later, someone from the alliance called, apologized for the mix-up -- it turns out he was supposed to drop off his art the NEXT day -- and asked that he reconsider his decision. So Dad put his stuff back in the show.
We all trooped down there the day of the opening reception. Dad nervously smoked a cigarette in the parking lot before going in and said, "I'm not gonna to talk to nobody. I'm not gonna tell anyone who I am." But there, on the wall facing the entrance, confronting all visitors, was one of Dad's paintings, "The Source." The other, "Portal," also had a great spot, in the middle of one of the walls.
The theme of this show was holes, and except for a surrealist sketch of female genitalia, it was filled with fairly calm art: photos of arches, paintings of doorways, abstract marble sculptures with holes in them. Dad's stuff leaped out and grabbed you by the throat, both because of the colors, and the space-y, cosmic theme.
Dad lurked around, peering at the art and sneaking glances at how his paintings looked hanging on the wall. I'm pretty sure he was pleased.
