'Featured Artist'

Brought out 'the collection' to the public for the first time since only child was born.  Most of it had been rolled up in bubble wrap not unlike an unfinished puzzle, until I finally brought them out to look at again after years tucked away.  I was grateful they had remained intact.  There were many opportunities for them to have become lost; they surfaced at the right time.  I felt like asking for forgiveness for not taking better care as to their whereabouts and keeping them closer.  My child was and still is more important. 


They were and have been comfort objects in the absence of a childhood that took place in part elsewhere.  I was forgiven; they looked no different than when they were stored originally, even though at times I couldn't say exactly where they were during too many transitions and traumas.


Some were sold for amounts I didn't want to know about, at charitable events where I couldn't dictate their value or what they went for.  There were no photos taken.  Each was unique and could not be duplicated.  Sturdy, and assembled to withstand the test of time, the artistic appeal and uniqueness went to new owners that I can only hope will continue to cherish them.  Each was special, when they were made, and when they were passed on to 'the greater good'.


The first showing was a holiday event.  There was much appreciation in ways that could not have been anticipated.  They are priced as low as could be competitive in similar markets for popular items that have not been made by hand, with components that have no copies.  I was happy for the exposure and reception of the concept, though holiday shoppers went for lower prices and more novelty, which left the day not as productive as had been hoped at the time.


That day paved the way for a more mature artists only event, to which I was invited personally.  I didn't respond at first, caught up in more immediate concerns.  After a few days and being reminded of the event, it felt more appropriate than not to follow up and actually commit to at least an inquiry as to if participation was still an option.  I was quite welcome was the response, not knowing what happened between the time of the agreement and the event itself.


I was affectionately 'scolded' for not identifying as a 'real' artist, having shown up sans business cards. All inquiries for custom commissions were entered into phones or scribbled on paper.  There was a purchaser, for more than the previous event, for which one sold also for its asking price.  I was again pleased for the positive recognition as much as the appreciative patron, and for those that expressed interest in becoming patrons.


What I didn't know was that the curator had declined other artists who produced anything similar to what I was doing.  For this medium or genre, it was me only, a 'winner' in a category I only found out during the event had been represented by a single artist, with others representing other mediums of one or two each.  I'm so non competitive I may not have committed had I known there were others in the running, and that my work was favored and selected by the curators.


Even with a fine arts degree, it's still considered 'outsider art', as the actual medium was self taught and developed apart from the discipline of performance art for which I had been in a formal curriculum.  The common theme is simply knowing what art is supposed to be, following the constructs that turn feelings and expressions into different forms to be seen and observed by others for their separate interpretations.


In what is by comparison a very short journey in the world of visual art from personal perspective, I've been objective enough to recognize what I produce is actually art, and that what is termed art by others is comparable, even by 'established' artists whose work fetches much higher value in the 'more sophisticated' art world.  Sometimes it's simply a matter of exposure and strategy, or connections, not only in terms of people.  In series of events.


So I've been donned with a certain identity in a certain environment.  I've been through too much to have any arrogance whatsoever about what I seem to be merely an instrument for, having been informed some 'artists' are more 'challenging' to work with.


Those who have become 'first patrons' did so as much as from liking me as much as what was produced that only I could do, or 'finish'.  Other artists have said in the same space their art sometimes if not always creates itself; they are only the ones who make parts into a whole form, as if guided by a separate inspiration not of themselves.  I can't disagree. 


I've never really gone to any great lengths to be liked by a particular 'audience', and once of a certain age some find authenticity attracts it's own followers.  I don't even like the term 'followers', unless most of them have accomplished what I still look forward to being able to do at some point in the future, not far away.  Many follow as what they see appears we are equal, or complimentary of each other.  I can only hope to fulfill that expectation more often.

Manicure

He wanted to do my nails. He had picked out an electric blue at the store we were in together and asked for the polish. He knew from our already expansive collection the benefits of nail enamel as paint. I asked if he wanted me to put it on myself. He said yes. When I had arrived he said he liked a similar color I had on; had taken a chance he might not like it.

He had asked before, though we were always so pressed for time it was too difficult to have that moment and get to where we wanted to go in time for the next hour when our time would be over. This time, he asked, and I was happy to be able to oblige. It may or may not be the last time. Not because there won't be an opportunity; he's just at the age where one never knows what he might want to do, especially if he might not think it's up to an image he's decided to emulate for the day, experimenting with many as his identity as an older boy evolves.

He came over to where I was and took his first shot; I helped by coaching a little on technique. He had asked me before during an earlier trip if I would do his: the kind of clearcoat he saw sports celebrities wearing in the news during press conferences. That was fun, too. Now it was his turn; we had time. His accomplishment was almost as pride producing as the model vehicles we had created together to date, with more planned. They were his creation, on me, to remember him by every day for as long as it would last. He asked me to take the rest to our place, for future manicures or other creations that polish did a better job of than other paints.

He said words in combinations he'd not said before, unsolicited, out of the blue; no one could ask or wish for sweeter expressions.

I wonder what he will remember or what will stand out when he thinks back on moments like these when asking to do my nails will no longer be a first choice activity. There are so many photos I can't look at now from earlier times, and lately there aren't enough photos for all of the precious moments actually seen. Like me, he doesn't like to pose for pictures nearly as much as when he was smaller, and I have to put the camera away when he objects.

It may not be the last manicure, though many moments are irreplaceable. The homework that's actually fun that he saves for us to do together; the decks are cleared until it's finished, and all finished projects and accomplishments are a celebration, as is being together. Every day is a special occasion and lately he puts it into words out of nowhere much better than I can. It's one of his gifts. He's managed to know his worth, or be able to express it without coming across as arrogant or overly confident. He just knows or seems to know he's validated, though it's as fragile as a day of bad weather that makes a triumphant day seem far in the distance.

I hope I'm wrong; the effects last a lifetime from what we've been through together that have crept into the subconscious and surface again when shared bliss seems too far away or inaccessible when the world isn't so friendly and there's no one who understands within reach. The peace is missing when in those moments when we're apart it isn't known when those feelings come and if he would know what he could do, especially when there's less time to think, and something must be done. Those precious little moments are the glue that binds the thought process that leads to security and an ability to act. The uncertainty is an unannounced storm with an undetermined date, with an unknown inventory of survival supplies or training. There can be no real peace for a child in such an existence.