Art Isn't What it Should be These Days

I went to a gallery walk Saturday night. You know, one of those deals where a few galleries in close proximity open their doors for a weekend night show. They always get really good turn-out in Tucson and I usually really like any event at an art gallery, even the ones who only serve the standard-issue Trader Joe's focaccia and yogurt dip which, served together? Makes no sense. I will never understand why Tucson galleries can't put a little more continuity into the snack-lets that they choose to serve.
In fact, I think the spread should match the show. This was a very pop-y show and sort of referenced WWII, but not quite. There were like three artisits but the main show, the one with the book, was kind of wartime eclectic, which definitly does not include Kalamata olives. It would have been nice to see some sort of reference to the art in the food.
Like maybe little Hershey bar squares and some kind of Spam-gourmet. The art used lots of seemingly old coloring book images, so maybe the food should have had the veggies arranged as if they were in a Crayon box.
Why quit being creative once the art is hanging on the wall, you know? You could still pick it all up at Trader Joe's. I just think putting out spanikopata when the art on the walls is Mexican is undermining yourself and your show.
No offense, of course.
But really?
On Saturday night?
I was bored out of my mind.
I met my famous ex-rock star out and we didn't make it to any other galleries from the first one we hit. And admittedly, the pita chips and brie were really good. Mostly, we sat on a bench and talked about ourselves. Paddle brushes, her cheeky outfit, my shoes, her bag, my tan, and the stellar job I did on my eye-makeup. Oh, and lest I forget the twenty minutes on hair dye.
It was truly consequential.
You're bored already.
I've set the mood well.

For some reason, Saturday, I was BORED OUT OF MY MIND the second I walked into that show.
I didn't even look at the art.
Okay, I scanned it. I didn't really need to look very far before I am pretty sure I figured it out.

Oh. Look. Pop art. Penis. Deconstructed retail items. Prozac, three of them, with the one in the middle going a different way than the other two.
God! Put me to sleep already! I'm not even enjoying this lemonade spritzer, sans vino. Couldn't there be some grape juice, or some cranberry, or something that isn't so BORING as LEMONADE?

And to how many people can you announce your boredom while you're AT the show? Multiplied by the number of people who will mention that you are a very rude person and who will not respect you for at least having an independent opinion.
Zero, multiplied by the person that you're at the show with is zero so… none?
You have to stand there and look pretty and try not to be obvious while you are laughing on the inside about some girl's outfit, the same girl who must be VAPID to think that this is "really insightful". It's prozac, honey. And while you're over there? Could you go ahead and hand that piece to me.
Oh, it's fine, really, I know the artist. Just take it off the wall. He'll understand because I am BATSHIT CRAZY.
Yup. Just like that.
Ahhh, sweet relief. I'm going to feel better in about 15 minutes here.

So where was I?
Oh yes, I'm on the bench I mentioned before, talking with my ex about bad moods, high heels, and a fruit fly story that I heard last week. We'd wander over to the food, I'd pretend to look at the work, some other friends of hers showed up and when they arrived, my boredom increased 19-fold because Simon? He doesn't pay too much attention to too many people and I hadn't seen him in a long time, so I was expecting some kind of compliment or something and… nothing. I blame this on the setting, of course. You can't hear anything once a retail gallery fills up. When I told him that I got a puppy, he thought I'd said hubby, and we all choked on the focaccia because... ewww. Let me bw clear: my desire for a make-out partner in no way means that I am seeking a husband. Once Simon had offended me, all remaining attention was for my ex, by whom I can't believe he is still so entranced..
Early after his arrival, and the puppy/hubby thing, I decided I didn't really have anything to say that was nice, so it might be better for me to go outside and watch the Avenue.
Nothing doing there. Smelled like beer throw-up and smoke. Sounded like cars whose brakes needed attention.
Looked in the windows of the drawing school next to the gallery.
I hate drawings that are not already famous.
They remind me of a sketch book of me, every page - front and back - drawings of me that I found once in Steve's house.
I found it and when I showed him my discovery, I was thinking he'd be all proud and shy and show me what he'd done in his drawings of me because this was well-into our relationship.
You've already jumped ahead to the reality of that scene, whereby it was forcibly removed from my hands. I never saw that man move as fast as he did to take the sketch book away from me.
But it's me!
I don't care. It's private.
Not if it's PICTURES that you DREW of ME.
Maybe it's not you.
Shut up. It's me. That's my hair. That's my tattoo on my ankle.
Well it's not FOR you. He was shaking with anger? Embarrassment? Anxiety?
So what! That's me and I don't really see any CLOTHES and so I NEED to see those drawings. NOW.
Too bad.

I never got to go through that book the way I would have liked to - to see how someone who knew my body would put it in a sketch book. Hopefully, his wife will find that book right after their honeymoon.
You know, say what you will, but a little bit of vindictive wishing feels great and I am 100% confident that ill-will has been wished toward me often from that camp.

But I digress.
When I finally wandered back into the gallery, my ex and friend asked me if I'd been in the bathroom the whole time.
No. And this is why I am leaving. I am bored nearly to tears and now you're not going to be paying any attention to me and I'm not going to be able to get in on whatever Simon's private little joke is so I'm…
Outta here.

When I got home, I started reading a Hunter S. Thompson biography and confirmed to myself that the spinster life is pretty sweet next to many of the options that are available as alternatives.
Abusive boyfriend?
Not in the Spinster handbook.
Stuck at boring activities because you came with someone?
Nope. Spinsters walk alone.

And thank god, because the next time I see some Prozac in a piece of art, I am not going to be able to restrain myself. I am going to find a polite way to tell the gallery owner that this is so boring, WASPY, uninspired, and mute that I am taking that piece with the Prozac and I am going to turn it into performance art out in front of the drawing studio next door.
The performance will be something along the lines of me fighting off an abusive boyfriend in my twenties and turning to Prozac and very white-washed art in my thirties in a vain attempt to restore order to my life when really?
I prefer disorder, taquitos, and talking about everything I'd learned about composting earlier in the day.

God I was so bored.
And that feeling?
It hasn't gone away except for the times when I'm reading the Hunter S. Thompson biography and guess what?
You're not allowed to read novels at work or while you're driving.

Great now my eyeballs itch.
What the crap could that be? Hold your collective breath, angels, there's could be something happening that is remotely interesting over here.

arizonasarah at 10:00 a.m.

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