La raison d'être
("In Search of Lost Time" with the risk of being seen as a shoplifter)
On the counter resting on white tissue were faux white upper dentures about a foot across. The teeth were loose if you wanted to pull one and look at it. The sculpture was made of a cross between chalk and porcelain. Fred, the owner, a man with sleek European lines and Medusa hair wore avant-garde glasses -- rectangle and black. He reminds one of the cross between an architect and a mad scientist with a metro-sexual thing going on. I once showed him some work about ten years ago and he announced that he would have a show then he reneged. The action was disconcerting, but he knows what he's doing with the store.
I went in today and I was swept up with emotion as always. It is a series of wishes. First the cards, furniture, books, candles... I can't remember all the items. Fred stared at me or at least, I could feel his thoughts. I get to Odes To Common Things, a book by Pablo Neruda, and it reminds me of the transition a writer makes, from relative child at a party in Honolulu, where I met the Chinese Attorney, who loved Neruda and to whom I read stuff I don't even have any more. One piece was a metaphor about peanuts and the stacked bodies of Holocaust victims that I printed in a tight square of text and then over-laid the image as red color key or "Air India: Venture into the recesses of the mind, where wisdom sits/alongside cow dung,/where languidness is petrified/in mud and/desolation is blank,/where destiny meets/starvation and will./Come to India,/the stagnant primordium."
I had a crush on the attorney. She was older, had a boyfriend. She was the manifestation of my dreams, both in terms of her profession and as a potential mate.
By the time I read a few poems, I felt the same way a man feels when he explains that he is an artist when what she wants to know is how much money he makes. I wasn't Neruda then and I am not him now.
I cut the reading short; walked out. I've grown sensitive over the years to that repeated experience, which is not to say that I never read poetry again, just not mano y mano. I am Philippe Noiret in Il Postino. (I like champagne, but I can't afford it.)
As I started reading Odes, I felt the separation of self that comes with time. It is no longer about the "I," but about that which is outside of you. My creative writing instructor explained it as "showing" not telling. "The reader has to be shown, so he can pass his own judgments." As old as I am, I realize, just as Neruda did that the God of things is everywhere.
I was listening to the music in the store and it too had a charm that helped me drift despite that I could still feel Fred, as beautiful as he is, scrutinizing me. Perhaps, he feels trapped and he's only projecting. You can only look at that much beauty in a store like this and not want for a Mac and Cheese?
I remember at 10 as the son of a Stanford-grad urologist with his own practice as we ate charbroiled filet mignons at a restaurant, named after a bird, that I never ate simple food. My mother was a gourmet, and so at a point in time, all I wanted was cole slaw.
Once the artist amasses work, and it's on every wall, it feels cluttered to him. He needs the blank canvas to paint. Fred stood behind the glass cases and the register, pulling the teeth out and putting them in. I wanted to say: "You are showing your teeth," but I dared not. He seemed on edge even though at one point I heard him wax poetic about what was old and new. Perhaps he was talking to the woman who was doing a waltz and then said to him: "Fred, I could lay $500 down." I knew what she meant. We were like the very rich in a gallery with work you'd actually buy, not LeRoy Neiman's, who does horses at a racetrack.
He mentioned he had worked all week.
There were teacups to distract me, white with red retro designs; the colored clear glass tumblers, and the black painting on the wall reminded me of an Yves Tanguy at SFMOMA, the silver one.
Everything seems to reflect what I love in the world. Still, I could not imagine myself in the thin-green-and-black-squiggle-lined-on-olive-green pajamas, although I loved them. I wanted the most masculine of the shirts with insides as interesting as the out, but they were $125. This week I am working three days at the restaurant. I am healing from an injury. I drive a 1981 Mercedes.
Scarves that made me question my manhood with lures of lines and design interludes drew me into an artist's catharsis. But, I dared not. What I wanted in that moment was to be left alone. I was in a museum and the security guard was rattling his chain. read more