Art Dealers of America, please note that I am presently in negotiation with the nefarious forces that administer all art tolls of America. I am sitting in a hard chair in the center of a steel room surrounded by a gruesome, surly lot of well-dressed thousandaires. I will deal my life, my soul, a stack of hot pancakes for an invite into their paying society. A gavel just pounded and all humility just flaked off my skin. Immediately I felt a whole lot better, if not as good, as the next guy. Several more rumbling grumbles, gesturing smiles from gleaming white partials, and a tall, thin woman in black suit asking if both the pancakes and my soul come with real maple syrup.
“Yes,” I lie, and suddenly a thousand small birds of modesty shoot out my mouth circling the room in sound and fury. Then silence and I stand up on the chair to wax poetic about the virtues of making maple syrup. “I tap the trees on Valentine’s Day and wait for freezing nights followed by warm days. I collect the sap in five gallon buckets and boil at the ga-honk of V geese after the second robin sighting. I break branches over my knee, brave wind, rain and snow, stoke a crackling fire, watch the boil for hours and more, then pour the golden syrup in jars, and give it to you. I do it for nothing, and I am great. Now reach into your wallets and masturbate.”
“Oohs and Ahhs” call throughout the house seats. Offers and deals. This one will pay for shipping and installation, but another says her outfit has a room in Soho where me and the wife can make pictures all day. Mr. G. has a private plane, but won’t let me ride in it until someone is bribed to say I’m the best there is. The tall woman in black gets on her tip toes, calls out “Me!”, and finally, I am represented by a gallery.
I am a working painter seeking representation in a big city gallery. There must be some market I can crawl into besides the snow blowing over snow one.