12,163. RUDIMENTS, pt. 828

RUDIMENTS, pt. 828

(nothing just 'happens')

One year I showed in the

NY Studio School Alumni

Show. I can't remember,

stupidly, what year it was;

early 90's? I'd never before

even entertained the thought,

but that year, when the mailer

came to me with the entry form

and all that, I filled it out and

went willingly. I remember

computers were new, for me,

and I wasn't even sure how to

properly show the images,

all that 'jpg' stuff or whatever

it was. I wasn't even sure what

I felt right about submitting

but I finally did choose one;

fairly uncharacteristic for me.

There had always been a certain

'Studio School' style, and this

was not it. Nonetheless, I

braved on and they accepted!

then I had to do the rest  - 

wire it for hanging, decide

for framing (or not), even

an asking price, if desired.

I titled it, did all the things

needed, and one day just

strolled in to there and

dropped it off. Like a pro,

as if to say, 'Oh, yes, this

sort of thing goes on all

the time with me, dropping

paintings off for exhibit.

Ho-hum; I'm so jaded.'

It was, in its own way, quite

funny  -  as were they and

their reactions within the

school office  -  accepting

paintings, a few questions 

each, how to hang, storage, 

to arrange pickup, etc. And,

then, so typical of me, the

opening night occurred, the

usual cocktails and finger food,

again, and I chickened out.

The entire duration of the show,

maybe a three-week hang, I

managed to slip in one day,

just to see where I was hanging,

among what others, etc. And I

went right back out. All was

good, I was pleased. My own

personal reticence, however,

 had killed the whole thing for

me. After the conclusion of

the show, some time later, I

strolled in and picked it all

up. Not a word was said.

-

It all got me to thinking about

exposure, procedure, the ways

and means of getting one's name

about, etc. I realized I  was nowhere

bound; the good ship Lollipop?

When Woody Guthrie wrote and

entitled his book 'Bound For

Glory,' he sure had one way up

on me. I could hardly talk to those

people; everything was always

in character, part of plan, in line

with the expected outlook. How

in the world was anyone to break 

away when caught up young in

any of that. I thought I'd just

left all of it, and was determined

to keep it that way. Vainglory is

as vainglory does. That was never

a saying, no, but it could have

worked as one. Actually, I knew

I was missing the old times I'd

never lived; I was off by probably

three or four decades. Everything

in what was around me then, in

1967, was pomp and froth. I

just couldn't make it work. I

wanted desperately to find the

rock or the doorway where,

behind, or under, 1924 was. It

seemed a much better time for 

me to enter. There were currents

and things on then that bore

a far finer fidelity to my own 

ways and thinking. The streets

and buildings, the languages and

odors, were still more raw and 

stronger; definitions were up for

grabs. I was stuck, fairly so,

in a time not of my making, nor

of my inclination  -  motorcars

over streets, rents and rules,

regulations everywhere, lights

and whimsy. I so badly wanted

the old. I think it was at the

time, facing that crossing, that

I really did become very strange

and aloof. Segmented in my

alliances, I went about seeking

entry to places that no longer

existed. It was the sort of

decision old wise men made,

ancient seers, shamans and

shape-shifters. I'd tapped into

some real feel.

-

My friends and those around me

knew nothing of this. To them

I think I came across as just a

young kid with a foot in two or

more worlds, not yet sure of

himself or of the worlds. It

wasn't bitter, but it wasn't

sweet either  -  and, oddly

enough, 'bittersweet' didn't

work either. More than 

anything else, sunrise to 

sunset, day after day, I

was 'displaced.' And as sad

as it is, there's also a hell of

a lot of freedom in being

displaced. I think those pop

jerks trying saying something

like that with 'When you ain't

got nothin', you got nothin'

to lose,' As ungracious as it

all may have sounded.

-

And then I got sick;  I mean

really sick  -  exposure, lousy

food, deprivation, cold, bacteria,

whatever. You can probably name

a hundred things. I just collapsed,

like you see dead people do. I

was living, as I've gone over

in these chapters numerous

times, right then in the 

basement of the Studio School,

a sort of nice, half apartment,

studio-sized, and workshop

which they'd extended to me

for being there as a sort of

night watchman guy. Sixteen

bucks a week, keeping on eye

on things, making sure doors 

were closed and locked, no 

one lurking, etc. I had made

myself a little wooden sleeping

platform in the fire part of an

old fireplace in the room, and

that's where I stayed, probably for
a day or two, sick  -  no one really

even checked. When someone 

did, they were aghast, calling in

help and treatment. I did recover

but probably lost 20 pounds

more  -  resembling a skeleton.

It was still a long dead Winter.

But I made it through. It was

part of what made it all so

amazing, those 20 years later,

to find myself in the Alumni

Show. A truly retrograde element

of regression to not much, but

something. Heck, I impressed

myself if no one else.

-

Magical thinking will tell you that

things just happen : the big break,

the lucky situation, the great

timing. It's not true at all.

Lighting never strikes, and

if it does, it hits a tree. All

things need to be worked at,

arranged for, and put in place

by sequence. It's just the nature

of life. When you hear differently,

that something happened by

grace, or felicity, serendipitously  -

don't believe it. It's all part

of the machine that made what

happened happen. Even if they

say differently. I refused
to enter the machine.