Well Packed

Anything done well is a joy to behold, and this show was beautifully packed. 62 pieces in 17 crates, 2 to 6 pieces per crate, cradled and separated with clearly marked ethafoam blocks. Some of the pieces are large, some are quite heavy, some are in crates that are quite deep. They range in price from $1,200 to $7,000. By the (early) end of the day James and I are completely exhausted, physically and mentally. The level of attention is very high. D and I agreed long ago to never handle art after 4 o'clock, unless absolutely necessary, and if then, we talk through every step, to avoid stupid blunders. Tomorrow, setting the show with D, we'll handle every piece two or three more adventures. Show Time, the major perk of the job, handling art. And I do love installing shows. It's theater and it's problem-solving right at the pinnacle one's ability. Mine, at any rate. Not that I tend to judge myself, but I do hold up certain standards, as a matter of course. It's hard (but not impossible) to imagine a show I couldn't install, this isn't hubris, I just know who to call. You don't have to reinvent the wheel, you just have to have the number of the wheel guy. I could actually bid on building a bridge across the Ohio, wouldn't be that intimidated really, just need to hire an engineering firm, a bridge designer, some barges, and several construction crews. I could do it with a phone, one hand tied behind my back. I feel beat with a stick, the climb in tonight was at the limit of what I can do. Breaking through the crust on every step, carrying a pack with books and tangible food. Answer the call. I don't know why I'm here, put one foot in front of the other, in snow this deep you step in yesterday's track. Tramp a path to the woodshed. I have brooms everywhere, to sweep away the drifts, the stuff that accumulates on my boots, the layer of wood-chips that adhere to every single billet. D called, on his way home from University, and I had him in hysterics, recounting what was done and where we stood. There is this woman, at The Market Street Cafe, where we get our coffee for free because we provide the sleeves for their hot cups of coffee. The whole economic equation I don't understand, we still pay the old price for scones, like we're a grand-fathered clause or something. A pea for a brain, yet something we understood. I have to go to bed. I'm tired.