Object Lesson

Deep into stern-wheelers and side-wheelers, it doesn't matter what you study, everything is really the same. Consider bridge failures, boats that burned to the waterline. How much can you compress into a sentence? A weekend of research coming up. I'm imagining a stream of factoids for the liner notes. We matched up photos with frames and mats today, didn't have to cut a single one, which gives you an idea of how many mats D has cut over the years. There are hundreds of them; and we use standard frames, in several different sizes, so all the backing material is cut to size. A cake walk, really, and I expect to frame all 20 or so tomorrow, cleaning the glass takes longer than framing the print. I get to use the 'archival spit' line, because I'll be hinging photos in, with moisture activated rice tape. It's rampant in the framing community, we all just lick it. It's that human touch, and the easiest way to do something that requires three hands. If you're one of those people that live alone or like to work by yourself, and there's no one else within earshot, and you have to make do. Not unlike castrating baby lambs by yourself; moving an entire print shop, fully equipped, a mile down the road; or cutting a huge red oak tree, that produced three saw-logs, that provided the three 6x12's I needed, and over a thousand more board feet of lumber. I work well with certain others, but there's a vetting process that I'm not sure I understand, but I won't work with just anyone. I just can't do it. If you haven't read "Moby Dick", and all of Proust, I'm not sure what we could talk about. A question for tomorrow, is how many times I'll be pulled off the framing. I don't care, I've got this show in my sights. A week ago, I was concerned, I knew there was a show, but it hadn't been advertised, and I was still unsure what the hell the show was, now I see it; we tweak it, matching photos to mats, charting a timeline. I should have gotten into this earlier. Fabricating reality, it's not difficult, I know a few people in the business, make a few calls. We actually just talk about sweet-corn. But it creates a calming effect, oil on water, whatever. You know what I'm talking about, the way your mind is set at ease. So hot today, that it was hard to breathe. After work I stood D to a draft at the pub, Lindsey was still there, from the day shift, counting out the till, and the new person, a strikingly handsome woman, Leslie. The owner sat with us, Barb, and we talked labor relations and D goaded the barkeep. An interesting relationship we strike, the staff at the museum, and the staff at the pub; a work in constant progress. I know my house is going to be hot, so I avoid it as long as possible, go the long way around, stop at Dave's to talk about my truck, wend my way, slowly, up the creek. It's 92 degrees inside my house, when I get home. Flip on the AC and strip, pour a gallon of tepid water over my head. Life, as I know it. It seems a tad strange, but nothing I can't deal with. Was that a double negative? We went to the pub for lunch, and demanded that they switch the TV to ESPN so we could get the Top Plays of the day, it's the only sports we get, and we depend on it, in the interest of staying current. Hope Solo is really hot when she lays out, horizontal, to block a shot. Just saying. The best catch of the day is always a treat, an impossible meeting of glove and ball that can't be predicted. I admire a great many things outside my canvas. There isn't room to talk about them all. Steam engines. God damn. Who would have imagined boiling water could lead to such excess. Maybe that's the nature of things, success leads to excess, bling; a light comes on, one of those low-watt (James Watt, 1/746 of a horsepower, one volt times one amp) bulbs and everything becomes clear. It's magic.