Judging Day

Comes down to this: one man's opinion. Everyone has a different view, but, as with Venn Diagrams, there is overlap. Dennis H, from Cincy, didn't like things that weren't framed, -not finished- he said several times. Also he likes folk art which neither D nor I brook, so a couple of things that I wouldn't have picked. He pointed out that non-glare glass actually distorted colors. These juried shows are learning experiences. Lunch at Sara's which is always fun because she and Clay have so much nice stuff, two new Ron Issacs pieces, trompe l'oeil, a child's dress in the downstairs bathroom and an incredibly delicate flower/arbor piece over her bed. There may be someone who does this kind of work better, but I don't know that for a fact. I love his work, and Sara collects him. Good art strengthens the soul. And there is good art in the show, now officially "Cream Of The Crop" because it has been winnowed, maybe 270 pieces down to 94, one-third survive the cut. D and I at the museum early, to spread everything out in one layer against every flat surface, hallways, board room, library, main gallery, so Dennis can see everything. The opposite of the judge (or is he a jury?) two years ago, who eliminated, Dennis picks the best pieces out first. I think I like his way better, though I would also eliminate the worst in the second pass (the first pass is just to see, to get a handle) because it bothers me visually. Of course, I'm just the janitor and my opinion is a lot like a wet mop. All three of Carma's pieces survive the cut, and one of them is a ceramic dream of my life, the fox, the crows, the frogs (in stages, starting as eggs), the tire prints, it's all there. The fox is perfect. I wish I could afford to buy more art. I bought two paintings this year and I could ill-afford them, but had to have them. I can eat beans. I like beans. Thank god. A long day, much walking, and at the end, Dennis and his daughter are gone, we do the paperwork on what's in and what's out and we can't get the numbers to balance. D and I become empiric, we count the pieces that are tagged four times, the numbers are the same, therefore the problem is in the paperwork, we get it straight, finally, D does, really, because he wants to go, get home. Sara has to stay, get the accept/reject notices out, I'm wasted, take one beer from the museum fridge, a Pub beer that didn't sell Jim had given us, and stopped at the lake on the way home, to decompress. Got in a conversation with a guy fishing for stocked trout with whole kernel corn, fucking dumb fish, man, would go for that. I tell him about fishing for cut-throat trout above the beaver ponds, 10,000 feet, in the San Juans, and his eyes glaze over, native fish. Jesus, my father calls, because it's Sunday and I didn't call them this morning, and they're fine, the two of them almost making one person, as long as my brother is there, to do the lifting. Mom is better, getting downstairs more often, the back-brace is a good thing, as are the lift chairs. Dying is tough. Attitude is everything. What is the last thing you'll say? Parting words. -Is that eggplant gone?-