Thursday, September 08, 2005

How It Works


There are four old-fashioned but transparent cogs devoted to each human and some of the animals clomping around Planet Earth.
Hovering in clanging dis-concert above the head or at times around the feet, these cogs grind, spitting grease and grit. They are all wired up with a split Romex line jacked into the base of the skull and into the chest, causing us to lurch in this direction and that. Each gear can represent Family, Work, Romance, or (Alternate) and rarely work well all at once. At least one cog will languor in rusty, guilty neglect or else spin in oily overuse leading in either case to complete mechanical seizure. Said cog is then ejected only to rest and rotate unevenly about the ankles.
Sometimes, however a very precious sometimes, the machinery all trips into place with a thunk and an echo and a hot arch of sparks.
To wit: you get an email from a curator at the Whitney Museum saying she is interested in your work and would like to make a studio visit. The eff-word, made holy in this instance, is jubilantly and liberally released and the Romance cog thuds into place with a single phone call, setting free more eff-word, and now the Family cog gets its varied tiny notches in place with much dancing and to-do and amidst those flying sparks, real happiness is ground out.

Then a week passes with no word from that curator. Then a few more days. You reluctantly realize that Planet Earth is still Planet Earth and there are floods and temper tantrums to be weathered and twenty or more undone paintings to be resolved and nothing but curling Smart Dogs in the fridge.
And so. Cogs reset and jam and fall. And the work grinds on.

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