galleries and grenades

I've been having feelings of sadness and existential futility. The patrons are cranky, the house is full of restless people, and the cat is still dying. He's trotting around well enough right now, but looks to be on track to need a compassionate end just in time for Christmas, which will break Gavin's heart. Then I'll be making payments to have a dead cat until the vet bills are paid off. It's all no good.

Mjolnir smooching up Droopy

So this week my old bronze instructor, who is active in the downtown galleries, posted a call for 15-30 artists to do a popup gallery show, and I sent a message to say I'm in. Opt for adventure, etc. Maybe I could sell enough to pay off the vet bill. But it’s been a few days and she hasn’t replied, so I’m wondering if they’re waiting to see how many cool kids sit at the table before deciding if there’s room for me. The Honolulu art scene is dominated by pop graffiti, abstract textiles, and surf/dolphins - while my art has been described (not unkindly) as, “old stuff my nana would hang in her kitchen”. I'm not on tenterhooks, but I have mixed feelings about this stuff. 

Whatever. 

Please like me.

I went down to the studio (basement), half considering throwing all my old shit into a garbage bag, and found an egg hidden behind my still life drapery. Evidence of a chicken burglar breaking in, looking for paint to snack on. We call these old eggs "grenades", because after a month or two they fill with gas and become incredibly light and fragile. The slightest touch might cause them to pop and fill the area with rotting egg stink. The kids lob these into the gulch behind my mother's house when the wild chickens leave them around her patio, but at our house we have neighbors on all sides. I'd love to lob them at the screaming kids across the street, but there are too many security cameras on our block to get away with it. So I put the grenade carefully on the garage shelf to wait for garbage day. This morning I heard the garbage truck rumbling around the neighborhood and ran out in my pajamas to get the bin to the curb, saw the egg, and gently tried to place it on top of the garbage bags. It rolled off and exploded. Dropped the lid down and ran the bin to the curb in a cloud of rotten egg gas, where of course the garbage truck has still not picked it up. It's just sitting there, oozing stink. If anyone goes jogging by they will drop dead in front of my house. It is not good for our curb appeal.

Bonus content: here is Droopy invalidating the return policy on our new set of dishes.

Edited to add: just after posting this I got the word that I’m in. I get a gallery spot in Honolulu for a month. Take that, crippling self doubt!