Pro Forma

Another breakfast, the same as the last, this batch of Ronnie's tomatoes are perfect. An egg on toast and a sliced tomato, with a squirt of white balsamic and a dash of hot sauce. A tinge of yellowing. Summer winding down. I wrote in two sessions yesterday, the last quite late. A knocking at the door and B is over for a visit, wondering if we might meet for a beer and conversation, neutral turf, maybe the bar at the pub, maybe Friday afternoons. I readily agree, missing the literary talk. Funny scene, yesterday, the gallery was a wreck, from packing up the last show, and we were unpacking some ceramic dolls shipped in from overseas, packing peanuts everywhere, balls of tape, wads of newspaper, egg cartons, boxes within boxes. All this between hanging dolls. When the one lost her leg, I carried her down, and placed her in a board room chair. The museum was deserted, as the parade was going on, and Pegi was at the desk. We'd examined the wound and assembled a tool kit. I braced a box against the back of the chair, so it wouldn't roll, then lifted the skirt and petti-coats so D could attempt reattachment. This was a moment that should have been photographed, the two of us with our heads buried in a doll's crotch. What we do for art. I only consider, as close friends, those with whom I might undertake battlefield surgery. A pretty good list, actually, at this point. I know a surprising number of people who could reattach a larger than life-sized, badly engineered, doll's leg. In a way, I think that makes me special, not in a special way, but that I'm lucky to know such interesting people. Glenn should have been there, filming, or Liza. It was so interesting, and so revealing, at the same time. We'd trick out the hanging hardware and I'd hold the doll up, taking the weight off so D could make the attachment (that word again); often with my hands up the doll's skirt, so I could grip the actual skeleton. Docent Cops Feel, the headline could read, if the video were made public. And I tend toward making everything public. "Bridwell responded to criticism, that he had misused his position as janitor, preparator, whatever, to fondle objects of art, saying only that someone had to take the weight off." His words exactly, because I remember saying them, feeling an ass that was merely wood and foam. You find yourself in interesting situations, might as well get a drink and roll a smoke. Let the 'real' world unfold. Wait, what's real? I actually hung the dolls, that's true, with D, curator of this show, but you only have my word for it. Looks like a lynching, all those dolls held off the ground, a suicide, or worse, a spectacle based on an execution. Don't go there, don't dream, don't imagine you're somehow exempt from the ravages of time. It's already September. Into the fall. Don't say anything, none of this ever happened. What you think.