Bringing Back Friday Exhibitions
Wrapping up my year long volunteer residency at the Art Association. I will complete grant expectations, paint Christmas tree signs, write a farewell to the Board of Directors, then descend to my basement lair of artificial light and pretend woe to paint the inside-out of my mind. I’ll need a new shtick, though, to make ends meet, because after the doors close and the snow blows, entitled old men like me become loud cry babies if not entertained well by new toys and noise. No quiet desperation here. Plenty of expressive complaining, choice verbal and hard copy whinings from a stale Tostito® dip-chip at the bottom of the bag. A recluse life, lived Americanly, for another day at the supermarket gathering limp California produce in a cloud of back up sewer stink.
What can I do, to stay above in the below?
Poor, poor chickens, ceaselessly slaughtered to perpetuate Oswego malaise. Human dormancy. No green, no water, no sunshine. We’re Anchorage gray and Portland sad, but at least they have artisan cheese shops. And an Uber® app that will take you there and back, again. We have Uber®, but it cost more than thumbing a body drag from a panhandler.
In November the sun swears to god it will never shine again.
Ugh.
January, February and March
Vegetable, meat and starch
Nothing else, something more
and another trip to the grocery store
This winter I long to live a life out of a sack with guaranteed shelter, food and fuel. Is this asking too much from a sick society? Sure, I want the shelter to be private and cozy. Of course the food must be fresh, diverse, and sometimes imported. And yes, National Grid can thaw my extremities with underground fracked gas magic, whenever I ask it to.
Life is beautiful.
Nature bountiful.
Lift the veil, it’s a ton of lead.
Don’t get ahead.
Some old Buddhist, (or was it me?) said get a small child if you want to live a worthy life. To fall in love without conditions. I just can’t get that joy anymore. I have grandchildren, but not the power for them to need all of me, all of the time. And it’s against the law in my state for unpaid painters to adopt human beings. Some of you might touch upon this wisdom caring for a dog, no matter how artificial, totalitarian and devastating to the environment cross-species love is with the human in charge. But you’re one up on me, no doubt about it. Stay there. Giving is the only regular joy, even if it’s just the latest exhale sent back to an atmosphere that keeps you, its small child, unconditionally.
Clean out the basement.
Ego erasement
A new start
Stop art.
It can’t be done, so it won’t.
Now about Friday exhibitions…
Beginning in late October, I will open my door every Friday at 3:00 p.m. for a Ron Throop Stuckist mini-exhibition. I will hang the week’s work up on the four walls of our dining room and set out some bread and beverages. Stop by to look. No purchase necessary, but there will be a table centerpiece tip box. When you’re ready to leave, I’ll ring a bell for a reminder to toss in a few bucks. Musicians welcome. There will be a few guitars, harmonicas, and an upright piano present. But you can’t own the show. We must pay respects to my work first.
Then it’s your turn to whine. Have at it!
For now, let us suffice with a Monday exhibition online.
A strange week. The lake is turning.
