Today I went to the vernissage of
an art show, Monstrosities; fibre work from Concordia undergraduates. My friend
Taters McBeastly was there. He was
sitting on a little stool, next to a shredded paper cast of a doorframe and a
wall full of decorated children’s boots. Across the room from him was Colleen,
his knitted soulmate monster. He seemed
just fine there, but the room was white and windowless and filled mostly with
people who didn’t know me and a few who did but didn’t come over to talk to me.
There’s only so many times you can circulate a room of a dozen art works,
pretending to be deeply contemplating their concept and construction.
Galleries
make me feel tight-chested. I keep my eyes low, my breathing shallow. I restrain
my hands, when all I want to do it to touch the rough, soft, silky surfaces; I
begrudge the gallery space for denying me this. I feel blessed to have been able
to participate in this show, to have my work validated as art in this
traditional sense -- congratulations, you’re showing in a real gallery, even if
it is only a student show -- I must have done something right, as far as this
art business goes. But I found no joy in that space. Every once in a while I
will, I will find something in a gallery or museum that makes me want to split
open with happiness, or cave in from the weight of mutual understanding, but
that is in spite of, rather than because of, the space. The things I love about
art, the things that drive me to make make make stuff, are found outside these
spaces, and when you put them inside galleries and museums and put up the red
tape, the do-not-step-over-the-line, the
please-do-not-touch, they usually die. If I want to continue to make stuff --
and oh, I do – I need to accept that these spaces are not for me. I need to
focus on play and joy and discovering, touching and interacting and connecting
with others. I need to make it accessible and public and unpretentious. I can’t
imagine anything I want to do more than make art all my life -- whatever that
means -- and nothing I want to do less than spend it enduring social
claustrophobia, mincing words in small white spaces.
When you all said you didn’t
want to make art anymore, my heart broke, but I think I’m catching up to you,
starting to understand what you may have meant.
My biggest regret of the day is that I did
not put a ‘hug me’ sign next to Taters.
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