Joys of artmaking, continued.
Went to the framing woman's shop to pick up the empty frames/fields of cherry red. She began explaining how blocks of wood would have to be used to hold the pieces and longer screws and ...
anxiety rose and just then (of course) someone calls from the newspaper undoubtedly to ask me for something.
Do you have a minute? No. No? No. etc. etc.
After that went back to framing catastrophe (in the sense that it would be involving power tools, a diagram she prepared for me) and then she said You know what? I'll do the affixing, just bring me the stainless steel pieces.
Halle-fucking-lujah.
Brought them to her at 930PM or so after poly-oly-urethening my last two pieces, wrapping all the work, saying goodbyes to my new printing pals - and vowing (perhaps in a fit of post-polyurethene idiocy) to return for more silkscreening madness.
Oh and then. Before the newspaper call in the framing summit I received casual word that the gallery has cement walls. No artist on this dear planet wants to hear the words cement and wall in the same sentence, especially the week of their art opening.
This means war.
This means jackhammers and hardhats and determination and holes and runs to Home Depot and swearing and molly bolts and promises of touchups.
If art wasn't so beneficial, so balancing and a non-choice it would be called punishment.
Love.
And more love this 9/11 commemoration day.