We recently went to a gallery Meet The Artist event to see my cousin and her latest work. Both she and her paintings are wonderful, but I often feel a little out of place at such high brow events. For some reason they make me want to speak in an English accent and gesture gregariously.
And when she introduces us as screenwriters to the other artists I feel as though I have to apologize that we have not yet sold anything. It’s as if all the work we’ve done doesn’t count because we’ve not been paid for it.
Wayne reminded me that most of the artists there have probably never sold a thing, (my cousin excluded, she is quite good), yet they have no problem acknowledging their title. But I still end up saying something awkward like, “We haven’t won an Oscar yet, but we’re writing the speech.” Chortle, titter, gesture, holy crap be careful of the sculpture on the pedestal behind you.
I have to give Wayne credit though; he always has a little gem to smooth things over: “We’re thinking of just selling the speech.” Laughs from the water-color lady and guffaws from the charcoal guy.
Later, after I’ve exhausted my pat arty banter on Renoir’s ear and Picasso’s soup, I get anxious for something to talk about. That’s when I get a little desperate, especially if I’ve had a little wine. And you know I had a little wine.
Abstract guy (I think he was a guy): “Everything is art don’t you agree?”
Sip, think, sip: “Yes quite, in fact that’s what I keep telling Wayne, the dishes piled up in the kitchen are a study in still life.” Chortle, snort, sip, gesture, correct balance, giggle.
Wayne to the rescue: “Yes and when I wash them it’s called performance art.”
They loved that, if only I had let it go there. Switch to French accent: “He wears a beret and recites poetry as I keep a beat on the bottom of a pot.” Back to English accent: “Oh the dishes, always the dishes…”
You wouldn’t think you could hear crickets deep within the bowels of an art gallery, yet you can. Oh well, at least my cousin thinks I’m funny bless her heart.