Gallery Talk
Doors open at 6. Admission is free. The Huthendale Community Center art gallery has an exhibition every Wednesday night, except in March. I consider myself a regular patron of the arts, by way of the “Give What You Can” initiative started by our beloved board member Margie Christensen. The exhibition changes by week as well as the artists (except for Ryan Foundling, he makes sure his work appears every week). Complete with a mini charcuterie table (compliments to Margie) and a first come first serve on the Sauvignon Blanc Bota Box, the gallery works both sufficiently and beautifully. With free standing walls and sparsely spread benches, I take a different route through the gallery every week. Tonight, I’ve decided to go through the back door and seek a way into the gallery without signing in at the front desk. This isn’t for any particular reason but I like to keep my entrances to myself. Though once you do reach the doorway to the gallery, a vast clearing of stuck-up individuals sipping from 9 oz plastic cups washes over the eyes. But who am I to judge? I already have cup in hand with a shitty piece of magazine collage work to glaze over until someone comes up to ask what it makes me “feel.”
On this oddly pleasant Wednesday evening, Paul Sutherland finds the need to speak to mea nd speak to me he does. I don’t mind obliging. We’ve been sitting next to each other for a veryl ong and very quiet 15 minutes. The piece that totally has both of us in artistic awe is Ryan Foundling’s newest contribution to the gallery titled “5 mg.” To Paul, this piece is something extraordinary, something that is worth speaking about and most definitely needs to be spoken about with me. If I haven’t been clear up until this point, Paul and I have been sitting shoulder to shoulder on a four foot bench staring at an 8.6cm x 7.2cm Instax Square polaroid of a five milligram prescription to Lexapro.
“Quite something isn’t it?” He remarks.
“I would say so, yeah. Seems a bit familiar to his Prozac ten milligram piece last week,doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but this is way different. With Prozac it was ambiguous, it was animalistic, it was provoking. With Lexapro, it’s more downstream. I would say it puts us more in a directed headspace. Now, sure. It isn’t what ten milligrams was last week but it’s one in a series, remember?”
Oh yes, I do remember. Ryan Foundling’s long-running series titled “Cabinet” has been a regular installation here at the gallery ever since he moved last April. So far it’s purely been what’s in his medicine cabinet but I can’t foresee how much longer the series could go on for. I mean, you’ve gotta run out of shit to photograph in your medicine cabinet eventually right?
“I can give you a sneak peek at what next week’s piece might be if you’re interested.”
Why yes Paul, I am interested.
“I’ve heard it’s an 8.6cm x 5.4cm Instax mini of a bottle of Sildenafil.”
Obviously, Paul is trying to be nice here. I’ve only had dinner at his house about four times and yet our conversations only get more dull. I try to expect more out of Paul when I see him every Wednesday, it’s the most I can do. He’s a good man with a decent moral compass but he is falling short in the polls of our friendship and the campaign managers aren't too happy about it. I think I’ll come back to him later in the show, I’m sure a fresh social canvass is in order.
I hadn’t been lingering for too long at the cheese tray when I decided that the Bota Box needed a bit of a top up. When Margie puts together the work to be displayed every week, an email is sent out for people to take care of refreshments. Margie, of course, locks down her own name for the charcuterie board but utensils, cups, drinks and perhaps some extra refreshments are up for grabs. I usually volunteer for the alcohol subsection of the drink category, I find it easier to shop for an effective time, not an enjoyable one. So, when I feel the show pace start to dwindle, I sneak 10 mg of MDMA into the wine. Yes, this is illegal. But how else am I supposed to engage with individuals whose heads are so far up their asses, they are calling fiber art the “resonation of material arts.” To be perfectly blunt, these people are miserable. Wealthy white widows and neighborhood kooks gather and make a social mockery of themselves in an environment they bathe in. You think I enjoy coming to this god forsaken showroom 48 weeks out of the year? It isn’t a valiant position to hold, it’s necessary. Someone has to be the coupling on this barreling dumpster fire of “fine art” and if anyone is up to the task it’s me. I don’t like playing the Jesus card but I have to save these people from prosocial art critique suicide. Take me out of the equation and we have a down spiraling clique of fervent art speak wannabes drowning in their own analyses. May I save us all…
When it’s time for me to enjoy a nice water buffet, I like to scan the room. This time I notice Stacy Remus staring at a blank wall in the south east corner of the gallery. Stacy isn’t all there and hasn’t been since her husband strangled himself on Christmas Eve while putting some lights on a Christmas Tree. I heard she went ballistic on Margie during her weekly book club last Tuesday where they happened to be reading The Scarlet Letter. When questioned by the authorities, Stacy cited some “past differences” between her and Margie. Within the community it was well known that Margie was sleeping with Stacy’s husband Gregory. And I don’t blame her, I would hate to find out that my husband wasn’t really working overtime on the night Jesus was born.
“Stacy, what brings you to the gallery tonight?” I ask, “Surely it isn’t these horrid little
cheddar cubes.”
“Don’t you find it strange that roadrunner never tried to kill that coyote fuck Wile E.?”
As I said, Stacy has been on a mental vacation for a hot minute now. But yes Stacy, I do find itstrange.
“If I was that roadrunner I would just stop running and kill that coyote. I mean my god,
you have to at least consider that life might be a bit fucking better if you killed the person trying
to stop it.”
I directed Stacy to the Bota Box, she’ll find sure company there.
With everything that has been going on so far, I decided that it was time for me to stop hovering and get knee deep into my own artistic curiosity. I’ve never actually submitted a piece myself but I find the joy in critiquing another’s work far outweighs showing off your own creative process. The first piece that caught my eye was a dastardly charcoal self-portrait created by the resident court sketch artist Ignatius Collins. Now, I am not doubting the artistic talents of Ignatius here. In fact, Iggy is a very gifted artist whom any judge would be lucky to have a portrait of themselves done by him. The problem of the matter lies in Iggy’s condition of having eisoptrophobia (a fear of mirrors). To describe his work would be to imagine an epileptic hamster soaked in ink strapped to a 16” x 20” canvas and the breaker in the basement is starting to act up. Every other week Ignatius will bring another attempted self-portrait, each more demented than the last. Last month I asked him why he even bothers bringing in self-portraits if they can’t even be attributed to himself. His response? That bringing in professional work would bring ruin to the gallery’s feng-shui.
Our socially deficient sweetheart Paul surprisingly brought in a piece today without even telling me, a first for our relationship. I saw its title on the program for the evening and had to hurry over to see it for myself. Titled Wrong Time, Right Place, Paul took a selfie at a Pro-Life rally in Pittsburgh, PA by the Holiday Inn on South 10th Street. His artist statement is as follows:
In 2022, I attended a mass in my hometown of Cicero, NY. There I received a divine
message by way of deep prayer in which our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ commanded me to
take a spiritual journey to my mother’s birthplace of Pittsburgh located in Pennsylvania.
Through a long arduous drive and many E-ZPass charges, I made it to the hotel I booked
midway through a rally for the Pro-Life movement that I was unaware was occurring at the time.
The self-portrait you see here today was evidence to my wife that I had made it safely to the Inn.
My god Paul, you had me scared thinking that you had been lying at all of those dinners. Though it begs the question if a selfie can truly be considered a self-portrait. Paul’s wife, Samantha Sutherland, serves as an usher at the local parish God’s Chosen and has been an ardent board member among the community for the last eight years. Dinner at the Sutherland’s usually consists of a mixed bag containing strange greetings, a slam-dunk roast beef stew and finally a wonderful dessert baked by Paul himself. If a fine respectable individual such as myself receives an invite in the mail, there is no turning it down. With a few knocks on a very well-polished cedar door, Paul commands you to remove both your shoes and socks. On my first visit, I inquired about such an unusual request. Samantha quickly butted in saying “The Devil doesn’t lie in the details, he remains within the threads.” For every new guest, the Sutherlands give a 20 minute cool down. They leave to the kitchen, tending to the dishes of the evening and instruct you to “take it all in” while they are gone. While stranded in their sea of leather and sharp-edged glass tables, I was able to take a quick mental snapshot of the Sutherland lifestyle. Above the fireplace (where one would expect a Renaissance Pet Portrait) sits a mounted copy of Warhol’s Marilyn Diptych. Just underneath sits a digital picture frame cycling through pictures of only Samantha. I asked Paul about it and he called it his own “personal screen test.” I seemed to have finally found myself in an unkept Garden of Eden.
On the seventh day, God didn’t rest because His work had been completed, it was because Margie told him to. Margie Christensen (70 years old in heart, 81 on her tax forms) rules over the Huthendale Community Center art gallery with an iron fist wrapped in a velvet glove. Don’t want to submit work this week? Too bad. She will eagerly be waiting for your emailed photo proof of your next piece. Hounding down a community member doesn’t break a sweat on Margie’s brow, it only encourages a more tightly fastened grip on it all. As mentioned earlier, infidelity is more a suggestion than anything to Margie and she will be seeing your husband for dinner by week’s end. You may wonder how I’ve managed to masterfully evade such a violent predator among a whole gallery of prey and the answer is amusingly simple: money. Now it would be too easy if it was just money but more specifically it is an excess of it. One shouldn’t forget that Margie runs a community center art gallery. Money flows into our quaint establishment as fast as Margie can keep the pecuniary hose pumping and you can be sure she never misses her utility bill payments. I’m not a material artist by any means but bring me a social canvas and I’ll become the next Piet Mondrian. When I enter the gallery every Wednesday, Margie doesn’t just see a devoted member of the community, she sees an angel investor spreading his wings, brilliantly shining a divine light on every daisy white gallery plinth in sight. No need to submit artwork when every week is a bye week. I thoroughly enjoy being a patron of the arts if I’m being honest. I’m a hands-on donor who loves seeing his money in action; no gloves necessary when I’m already playing in my obscure social sandbox. Who wouldn’t want to be greeted by a warm smile and grateful intonation every time you enter a room?
Another piece on showcase this week was a sculpture figure done by Hugh Peters. Hugh is a semi-regular creative publisher here at the showroom, usually taking his time with his work. Of course, this pushes Margie’s buttons like none other but you can’t really say no to a convicted felon such as Hugh. Charged with armed robbery and assault, Hugh did a ten year stint in
Huthendale Penitentiary where he discovered a newfound love for the physical arts. Hugh’s contribution for the night is a scaled down replica of the Lincoln Memorial using aluminum cans and plastic wrap. Hugh is a natural born artist as seen in his sculptures but each piece is always missing a very key element: a head. It’s not every day that I am able to witness a beheaded Abraham Lincoln, nonetheless one made from my neighbor’s recycling bin inventory. I had a lot of questions (mostly one, just the head thing) and needed to locate Hugh. Thankfully Hugh was talking to Stacy, who at the moment was running some tight and short circles this time in the northeast corner of the gallery. I beckoned Hugh over, I’m sure he was happy to abandon that sinking ship.
“Hugh, I love the work but I’ve got just a few questions for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Sure, um where’s Lincoln’s head?”
“Ah, he didn’t need it.”
This is a very important part in our conversation where I need to ask the appropriate and correct question in this scenario. Let’s hope I am correct for my own head’s sake.
“Yeah, was there a head before or was the head out of the equation entirely?”
“Hm good question. I originally did have a head. Made it out of some Green Giant vegetable cans and some aluminum foil.”
“That sounds great man. Um, what uh, what happened to it?”
“He didn’t need it.”
“Ok, so a creative choice-“
“He didn’t need it.”
“Yeah but-“
“He didn’t need it.”
Hugh never fails to make me smile uncomfortably. Even someone as dedicated as I am to pulling the strings in conversation has to admit when they are utterly bested in combat and Hugh reigns champion today. It’s not often when I need to withdraw from the conversation, especially one I initiate. Take Paul for example. He’s a man where speech is purely derivative, always based on another conversation I’ve had in years past. I’ve met many Pauls before and I’ll meet many others, none giving more trouble than anticipated. Hugh breaks my system entirely. He slips past my idiomatic dialogue based firewalls and faces me down in a discussional arena he unknowingly created. I don’t like Hugh very much but he doesn’t need to know that. My cup of pre-spiked wine was starting to dwindle and I was not feeling a refill. This week's show didn’t prompt or deserve one anyway, though some have in year’s past. I glanced over to see Margie righteously nursing the Bota Box, she earned it tonight. The community center open hours were coming to a close and this year’s second show was hopefully a success. I made sure to see Paul before closing, I’ll sadly be joining them for dinner on Saturday night but I’m sure it’ll be alright (his Baked Alaska is to die for). No one knows where Stacy went but that is a force of nature that no one wants to get in the way of. I hate this community but I hate it with all of my heart. Each week is penance for some grave sin I’ve yet to commit but thank God these people haven’t dipped into textile art just yet.