Striking Shows

We worked on the schedule for taking down the shows, in the three galleries where work changes, last Friday, and I made some notes. Mark Chepp is picking up his work, because it's in another show next week, and D is taking Art's print show back to Athens on Friday, and finalizing the big print show, from The Kennedy Museum's massive collection (everyone is represented), that we'll install in the main gallery in March. Means that on Friday I can un-hang a million dollars worth of Carters and get them in the vault. Probably all I'll do that day, wear cotton gloves and move slowly. Pegi is going to take all of the panels from one of the two storage closets (it's physically impossible, spatially, to use more panels than are stored in one closet) and that's going to give us some seriously needed storage space. Moving the panels over to the studio is problematic. They're very heavy, and awkward. A sandwich of framing, with a sheet of three-quarter inch plywood on each side, carpeted, with oak trim, and a base that's a six-inch cast iron pipe welded to a flange, which we marry to the floor with set screws. We use them to divide space, create bays. Pegi can use them to create dressing rooms in the basement of the studio. I want to get these shows un-hung, because there's a huge amount of damage, and I want to patch, repair, and god knows, everything needs painting. I'll paint more, in the next eight weeks, than you ever will in your lifetime. And cutting edges, Janus, Jesus, excuse me, the pilasters are Gallery White but the flat surfaces are Cubist Gray. So do you wait a day and tape the line of demarcation, or do you just cut the line by hand? Anymore, I'm good enough with a one-and-a-half inch tapered brush, if I want to get the job done, I just cut it in by hand. A pain in my right heel, a stone bruise; I was very careful, walking in tonight, shortened my stride and considered every step. I have to re-awaken to this routine. Considerations. And did I mention it's cold? 14 degrees when I get up from a nap (sleeping is all naps, below 20 degrees, because I have to get up and rekindle the fire, stay awake long enough to stoke and damp down the stove); roll a smoke, get a wee dram of whiskey, and read an excellent article about a pickpocket in the New Yorker. I go back over what I'm writing here, take out a few commas, aiming toward transparency. Language is so slippery. Trish said today, that "she didn't care to work Saturday" which meant that she would work, as in 'I wouldn't mind to' but sounded like she couldn't possibly. Colloquialisms. I've lived so many different places I'm not shy about asking someone what they meant, even if I come off looking like an idiot. If I'm carrying something heavy with someone, I really need to know whether they're saying yes or no. We just need to work out a Cargo Speak, a Patois, that allows at least limited communication. Starts with sign language, point to something, then mimic the act of lifting, then say "lift". 1, 2, 3, LIFT. In some ways, this is the entire history of civilization. You have the 1, 2, 3; the meme toward a vocal utterance, and the collective horse-power to move a very large rock. You don't need zero until much later, nouns are easy. Verbs and tense are the logjams. "I will have done that by this time tomorrow" is a fairly complex concept. At it's most benign, language emerges as a help-meet toward getting things done, at the other extreme it emerges as a battle-axe you use to behead anyone who doesn't agree with you.