Unhanging Art

Late yesterday, one of Pegi's moms came in, bringing a tot for an "Alice" rehearsal (many events planned for this exhibit), and she, Melissa, is going through a divorce and needs to sell the house. Seems that boxes were going to cost several hundred dollars, and I'm holding a lot of boxes. She volunteers to unfold the remaining units, but they're still standing and quite high, higher than the light rails, so need to fall in a certain direction. She, Pegi and I manage a controlled fall that is a thing of beauty. I keep pressure against the tallest row, so that they can only fall where we want them to, and they pull columns out on the off-side. The resulting jumble is a very pleasing installation. The Box Take-down. Today I unhang the rest of the wall art, paintings, rubbings, photographs; patch and repair the walls, disassemble the video installation, busy as a church mouse after communion. The next couple of weeks is scheduled rather closely. Anthony calls, just at quitting time, to suggest we meet for a beer, which is fine with me, still enough light to get home before dark, and D joins us, with the bad news that shipment of the "Alice" show is delayed. This has never happened before, and I don't know what to make of it. The show was supposed to arrive tomorrow, Friday, and now they're saying Tuesday. A large difference. Sara and I had already agreed to work Saturday and Monday, to get a leg up on the coming crunch. Two shows and huge fund-raiser on the 12th of November. The shipper is the art division of Fed Ex, and they are very good, climate controlled vans, always a little early, a driver and an Iowa football player that didn't quite make the NFL to help with the unloading. So the problem has to be with the company that controls the logistics. There are many of these, they package shows and plan the itinerary. Just like theater, I've done this half my life, and I never remember a show not showing up on time. We'll never do business with these people again. FOUR DAYS! What are they thinking? We've mailed flyers and post cards, set dates, these things are not, now, negotiable. We're paying thousands of dollars for this show, we're flying the illustrator in for a lecture, from fucking California. I'm not upset. Though the gall riseth. Pretty sure we're still ok, I just have to hang "Alice" in a day, stay late, sleep in the Carter gallery, and stay out of the Maker's Mark, which I know is in the vault, because I put it there. Hard to resist a shot of Maker's Mark on a couple of cubes when you're trying to order your priorities. No excuses, we'll have the show mounted, and I'll probably serve wine at the fund-raiser, cool and collected, wearing a sports coat, which I almost never do. Once a year, maybe, the rest of the time, I wear pants and a shirt, usually jeans and a denim shirt. God damn I am a creature of habit. The name tag, over my pen-pocket, says Frank. It's a bowling shirt. I picked it up at the Good Will. I'm pretty sure I can make this happen, I had factored in several possible points of view, an early snow storm, high winds, whatever. But you responded correctly. Emily is fucked. Whatever is meant. I rest your case.