Fairly Abstract

Heavy lifting. Days that D works we need to get many things done that I can't do alone. The awkward and heavy. Place is a mess, serious work to be done. Take down the Alice show, pack it in the ridiculous crates, the heaviest one is 303 pounds. Stupid. Get those ready to ship. The modernism show arrived, on schedule, during the reception for the student show. Well packed, we unload the truck, there are four of us, in twenty minutes flat; all through the back door, didn't have to use the loading door, which was a good thing, because the alley is a sheet of ice. Good test for the re-finished floor. Put that show in the main gallery, which is closed and newly secure. Big show, 53 painting, can't wait to see them, hold them, hang them, look at them for a couple of months. One of the cool perks of hanging art is the degree of intimacy involved. We get to wear the white gloves and handle things. First though, after unhanging Alice there will be 90 or more holes in the walls. The next show for upstairs Brent Lee glass, will be coming in next week. Rapidly becoming a warehouse. Keeping everything away from the walls so I can do the patch and repair. Crazy amount of damage this time, so many anchors, and the next show will be the same. Wall anchors generally, by their nature, are permanent attachments; but in museums, they're temporary, fleeting even, a one-night stand. Several lists started in broad outline; projected needed hardware, schedule of daily events, painting projects, keeping an eye at the market for more of those mussels. Pegi, with a co-worker and six kids are going on a retreat (a yearly thing) where they listen to music and consider what Cirque dance stuff they might do in the coming year. In a paranoid frenzy, Pegi asked me to be the person someone would call if something went wrong at the museum, asked me to stay in town for another couple of nights. Sure, I said, it's heated, and there's hot running water. Being a "B" writer is OK, a minor regionalist, I'd take that. I'm not much, really, other than minor regionalist. The problem is if I stopped writing, I wouldn't have anything to do; then, I'd already b a problem. I've done the math. If nothing you ever say counts against you, you might plead simply dumb. These these Wal-Mart gals are perfect. I rest my case. What I thought I meant.