Condition Report

Biggest headache on getting this Impressionism Show out, three weeks away, had been filling out the Condition Reports on all the paintings, but now a bigger headache, that we have to store the show for a month before the next place, State Gallery, in Columbus, can take it. They have no storage space and we have precious little. Clean and organize the big vault upstairs tomorrow, needs doing anyway. 63 paintings, might get half of them in the vault, probably close off one of the small galleries in the permanent collection. Logistics. 3.3 million in paintings, we can't just rent a storage shed. Remove hanging hardware, patch the walls, where the school show was. Can't remember the name of the blue paint on the wall we painted for the wine-tasting, need more, semi-gloss for the signage walls downstairs, the color of the day, D comes through, indicating cigaret break out back, I ask him, he doesn't remember either and we make up blue names for a few minutes, Utah Dawn, Whirlpool, Lover's Quarrel, Bad Sunglasses, Bruise, She Left, Dead Dog And Train, Suede Shoes, then D remembers, either Rain or Raindrop, probably Rain, have to ask the Deputy. Truck's in the shop, yes it's the lower ball joints, yes we can fix them, next week, $300, yes it's safe enough to drive, don't hit any big pot-holes and don't drive too fast. Thanks, I guess. Thank god it's trash day and I can clean the bathrooms, get the garbage out (12 stations), and mop. The Mop Master at Janitor College was a compact Hong Kong native, his politics were strange, as were the mantras he muttered as he executed a perfect six-foot herringbone with a 22 ounce cotton mop. His technique was as close to perfect as will ever exist, you wanted it to stay wet, so you could see the individual quills in every feathered stroke. I mop well, as good as I know, actually, but Dr, Tazi, was as far beyond me, as I am your average houseperson, the difference between amateur and professional. I do this for a living. So after the news about the truck, knowing I had dinner prepared, quitting time, I went below the floodwall, we need more stumps to use as pedestals. Interesting. There are people that fish for large catfish late at night, I see them rarely, but they leave a kind of camp, a set-up that I recognize: they find a stump, as seat, and a broken-off crotch to support the rod, they seem to drink and smoke a lot, and their seats are my pedestals. Who'd fucking eat a bottom feeder from this sewer? But I need their stumps. This sand-blasting thing could become important, what happens to the wood. I wish I had some control, but I don't.