The recent extensive fires in the Salt Lake City area filled the sky with ash and debris. As soon as I landed and up until I left, I felt like someone was squeezing my lungs, hacking and coughing as though I had never quit smoking. It's strange to long for the sunbaked Phoenix air.
Onto the show. Everything went off perfectly, or as much as one could expect. Everything arrived on time, the setup was fast, and Kenny even loaned me a frame when I said I was going to try to find one at a thrift store. Kayo Gallery was the perfect space, with it's high white walls, white ceiling, and dark black floor. In other galleries, my black on white stuff has to compete with all of the more colorful decor, and it often loses out, but at Kayo, with its clinical sterility, it looked wonderful.
The sign, "You may gently interfere with their lives," was viewed as another piece, and a couple of people inquired about purchasing it. But I simply couldn't justify selling a bad ink jet printout, and told them to just make their own.
More children than ever showed up this time, though, and the way they behaved was telling of the way they were raised. One kid wouldn't stop kicking things until I asked him and his mother to leave. Children are terrifying to me. You can't actually stop them from doing stuff unless they're your offspring, and sometimes those progenitors are reluctant to do any stopping. For the most part, though, the children who were there were very well behaved. One little girl, when given permission to touch the pieces, looked terribly confused. It seemed that gallery and museum etiquette had been drilled into her, and now here I was, undoing all of those lessons. So she and I talked about how it's ok to touch things in galleries if someone first tells you it's ok.
Brian Staker wrote a nice piece about the show, which came out post opening, so maybe it will drum up some more sales. Hug This
The catmen have hair in their little vials, and as always, I was asked many times whose hair it was. "The Russian's hair." I would answer. "Where's he?" to which I could honestly respond "Russia."
Salt Lake City at large:
We had brunch at Broken Record Bar and Grill, formerly Todd's Bar and Grille. It seemed near scandalous to me to be in a bar so early in the day, even if I wasn't drinking. The most debauchery was Matt getting a Bloody Mary, though, and the music being too loud.
Atop the light fixture suspended over the pool table, was a tiny plastic rabbit. And I pocketed it. And then I tried out the macro setting on my new camera.
Four of my friends have bought condos since last I was there. Condos are the next step in being a grownup, but I'm hoping it's a step I will skip. Matt showed off the newly installed harwood floors and took us on a tour of the grounds, the repainted walls, yet to be grouted brick walkways, and we stood on tiptoe to peer over the barricade at the pool, mid refurbishment and with signs warning about the toxic levels of chlorine currently in the water. The doors have high tech peepholes.
The space that Kayo Gallery used to occupy now is home to Nobrow Coffee. The only coffeeshop I've ever been in that actually has consistently good art shows. This time, there was an installation, with columns of beans and wire, and little yarn bouquets on wheels on each table.
New shoes from Frosty Darling, that I tortured extensively over before purchasing them.
Saturday evening, we reluctantly went to a BBQ. Despite the hostess thinking that chicken wasn't an animal, it was pretty fun and I never got hassled for my nomeat burger. Two of the guests were these pit fighting or cage fighting guys. They're job is to beat each other up in front of a crowd. They discussed the economics of this profession, how they refuse to fight one particular contender because they'd lose, and the participation money wouldn't cover the cost of stitches afterwards. I tried to engage one of them in a conversation about the Ultimate Warrior (the old WWF wrestler) but he's more interested in talking about actual fighing, and I realize that I prefer fiction over reality in most situations, and excuse myself and start a hulahoop contest with his daughter instead. Later, I taught them all how to play Cowboy/Ninja/Bear, and consider myself very clever for thinking of a game that can be played by both drunk cage fighters and 6 year olds without anyone getting terrible bored or confused.
I've lost some friends since I left SLC, and I don't know why. One simply won't acknowledge my existence. I'd really like to know what happened, what I may have done or failed to do. But if he won't call me back or answer the phone, there's not much I can do about it than realize there's one more reason besides the air in SLC to kill the nostalgia. But, I did find that someone who I thought disliked me does not, and even danced gracefully and prettily next to my awkward jerking motions.
Baby hobo super fast illustration for a satirical article about running away from home. Drawn from a photo of my newest nephew.
Did I tell you I'm trying to get into illustration more? Well, consider yourself told. Should you need an illustration of anything, then you should contact me.
And now I'm home, and getting back to work and trying to calm down the people who want their floggers right right now, immediately, maybe even five minutes ago, and finishing up piles and piles of belts and dildo harnesses.
