Fame, not fleeting, just hard to chew
I was talking with Marta Gartengiggel down at the Tea ‘n Scones over demitasses of Turkish coffee, what we call Expresso now in the caffeinated Evergreen State. Marta was working on a biscotti the way my old dog Dr. Gonzo used to grind on a knucklebone. With intense fervor. I wanted to suggest she soak it in the Turkish bath a minute or two to make it chewable, but I knew from Gonzo any input would probably be met with a low warning snarl. I let her gnaw while I watched the crème de la crème of Stanwoodopolis society savoring their morning Darjeelings and dainty pastries. I felt as out of place as a fart in church.
Marta had asked to meet me to discuss the possibility of some of us South End artists donating work for a Garden Society fundraiser this fall. It would give us exposure to their ‘patrons’, she said, meaning, the fat wallet folks, who, being sophisticates, enjoyed ballet as much as a hydrangea … and presumably, might throw some crumbs our way after seeing our artwork sold on the auction block at firesale prices. Right ….
“Mrs. Gartengiggel,” I said, finally wearying of watching her genteely gnawing on her biscotti that must have been baked in the last century,” we get asked by everyone from the Happy Tot Daycare School to the Uff-Da Club for art donations. If we gave something to everyone who asked …..”
“It is hard, I know,” she interrupted with a dismissive wave of her molar-marred biscuit. “Art is difficult. I myself paint so I understand absolutely.”
A better man would have asked what, exactly, she painted. Shown some interest, feigned or otherwise, but I’m too old and way too cynical. That question is mostly a dead end street. Talking about art with an artist is like debating religion. Why would you bother? On the South End we’re all artists, near as I can tell. Since there’s no one to sell to, we barter among ourselves, a kind of third world economy, but somehow it works. Even if we don’t.
In the end Marta left half a bone on the china saucer. I promised to ask around among my art cronies if they’d consider a donation. And, of course, I ended up with the check. “Tank you, Mr. Daddle, we love your glass vases.” I started to mention she had me confused with the hotglass guyz, but thought better of it. Fame is a tough chew down by me.
Hits: 53