Recovering from Vacation

A few things I did on my summer vacation to Chicago and Michigan:

• On the plane from Albuquerque I sat two seats behind actor Gary Farmer. An odd coincidence, as I was already planning on his being the subject of my Meme of Fame 4/7. (I'd last seen him a couple of summers ago when I helped him hang a large painting on the wall of his now-out-of-business gallery, a block from our own. There you go: Meme of Fame 4/7 is now complete.) We exchanged awkward pleasantries in the O'Hare terminal, then went about our separate misadventures.

Farmer and Johnny Depp in Dead Man.

• My spouse got his suitcase locked in a turnstile at the El station. The turnstile would not budge. My spouse therefore became locked in the turnstile. He would not budge. An attendant had to disengage the luggage, and thus my spouse, with brute force. The attendant broke a sweat wrestling the steel bars in their death grip. We haven't a clue exactly how it all happened. Just lucky I guess.
  
• My spouse excused himself for a restroom engagement during a performance of The Enigma Variations at the concert pavilion in Millennium Park. He simply vanished. It was truly enigmatic. Then again, I might want to disappear after that turnstile stunt. Come to think of it, I never saw that man before in my entire life.
  

Everyone was whispering,
'Where did Bennie go?'

I went searching for him...

...only to find him napping on the sculpture terrace
of the new wing of the Art Institute.

• In Michigan I was caught trespassing on the grounds of a private residence I'd mistaken for a funky collectibles shop. I mean, how many antique birdhouses, disintegrating farm implements, and sculptures of giant hands cradling the planet Earth does one family need? Shove your rusty hay rake. Take your vintage sausage grinders. Please.

And call your dog off.

• Upon arriving at the steps leading down to Cherry Beach at Lake Michigan, a panic-stricken family was coming up, slapping at their arms and legs. They shouted warnings of a proliferation of giant and hungry flies. They weren't kidding. Here's Bennie coming back up the stairs, pursued by a swarm of famished flies.

Don't let the smile fool you.

Those insects mean business.

• Arriving at Club Lago on West Superior in Chicago, salivating in anticipation of fried calamari and linguini, we discovered a big sign at the entrance, explaining that the restaurant was closed due to damage incurred by an exploding chimney next door.
  

They say they'll be back.

And so will we...

We just love vacations.

From Rags to Bitchin' (Meme of Fame 3/7)

Bleeding Heart, acrylic on canvas, 24" x 48"
private collection, Lafayette, Colorado

OK, for starters, this time I have an excuse for not posting in a while, not visiting your blogs, and not responding to your generous blog comments. My sister had a total hip replacement and I flew to visit her and my mother. She's coming along, but what an ordeal! The surgeon delicately described the situation in the vicinity of her pelvic bones as "a train wreck," but he does avow she is on her way to being far better off than before the procedure. Yes, the indicators are this is the case. Please nonetheless send healing energy in this direction:


What we're aiming for is for things to stay in place long enough for Donna to heal, regain some strength, and be back on her feet (literally.) I have faith. She's tough and determined.

I am now going to pick up where I left off in the Meme of Fame series, although in today's installment I have altered the name of the (somewhat) famous party so as to avoid litigation.

Kevin L, Marty Award Winner, Best New Menswear Designer on the West Coast. Purchased a series of small male nudes from our San Francisco gallery, along with one in-your-face, larger-than-life, male nude. Kevin was up for the fashion award when he bought these. Confided in me he was pretty sure he would win and wanted his house to look fabulous for the celebration party. He won. The house looked fabulous. The revelers adored the colossal painting of the naked man.

Then things began to reverse themselves. Kevin's clothing company's earnings began shrinking. Kevin had an artistic soul which yearned for an outlet other than sweater vests. Kevin himself crashed and burned out at the age of 30. Put his house on the market, told me he wanted out of the "rag trade" and to move back home to southern California and pursue a career in photography. His real estate agent said the big naked man had to go before he began parading prospective buyers through the house. Kevin asked me to buy the painting back. I refused. Where the hell would I hang such a thing? In the children's playroom? I advised Kevin to store the painting until his house was sold, then haul it to the new location. (I'd been trying to get rid of that thing for better than a year. It was a beautifully accomplished painting, yes, but the market for male nudes is limited, let alone six-foot-tall male nudes.) Enough time had lapsed since the transaction that Kevin didn't have a leg to stand on. He pitched a hissy fit, tried to read me The Wright Act. I stood my ground, much to his annoyance. He stalked out of the gallery and I've never seen him since. His parting words: "Your shoes are fabulous, but your attitude is sheer frump." *

And for the record, Keven did re-invent himself as a photographer, and he still does a little fashion designing too. I've seen his stuff in the big department stores and it does have flair. If I were a man, I would wear it. Truth be told, I have worn it. I've been known to rifle through Bennie's side of the closet, searching for his one shirt by Kevin. It's, if you can imagine such a thing, inspired by bowling shirts AND the paper cutouts of Henri Matisse. High-brow culture meets low-brow culture. And the buttons are to die for. Kevin, he always had a way with buttons.


*Not really. I made that up. But, God, I wish he'd said that. How I wish he'd said that.

Debbie Does Art (Meme of Fame 2nd Installment)

A bubbly 60-something blond woman, quite pretty, a little on the plump side, stood by the gallery door fingering the merchandise with her graceful hands. "Oh, how CUTE!!!"

The little bottle vases hanging on the door were cute indeed, but take it from me: the gushers do not buy. They expend their energy gushing, lead you around the gallery, toying with you, fingering the merchandise, gushing. They gush over your outfit, gush over the art, gush over your perfume. Oh, they might ask if the chairs in the back room are for sale, or the sales desk. (No, I'm not kidding.) They want to know the source of your accent, how long you've lived in Santa Fe, and "Where's a good place to eat around here, one with no tourists?" Then they walk out the door, headed to the next shop. And there you are--penniless, defeated, drained of life, drowned in bullshit.

This particular gusher was accompanied by four teenagers. One extremely good-looking fellow who looked like a very young Robert Downey Jr. One totally likable overweight guy who proclaimed the art in the gallery "awesome" (without gushing). With earnestness he confided he wanted to be an artist. Two gorgeous blondes, one friendly, one dripping with cynicism. The older woman--let's call her Debbie-- announced she wanted to buy a bottle vase for each of the girls. They just had to pick a color. The friendly girl happily chose a magenta. The cynical one frowned and said she didn't want one.

Debbie was becoming less bubbly. She INSISTED the young, cynical blonde choose a color.

"But I don't know what color I want to paint my wall," whined the blonde.

"For cryin' out loud, pick a color and let me buy you a bottle vase. It's not a big deal!" I was beginning to like this Debbie. She was evolving from gusher to customer. She was putting her dainty little foot down with Ms. Cynic. I was totally in her corner now. She was going to make a purchase! Ms Cynic relented and picked a yellow.

While I was totaling up the bottle vases, Debbie began walking around the gallery. She started gushing again, this time over a painting of chickens in a chorus line. " THAT IS SO CUTE. THAT IS SO FUNNY. I JUST LOVE IT."

I hung the painting in the viewing room for Debbie. I talked up the marvelous qualities of the festive headgear of the party girl chickens. Debbie was beside herself. I asked her if she wanted me to wrap the painting for her to take, or would I be shipping it.

"NO. I would hang it in my kitchen and I would never pay that for something to hang in my kitchen." She had gone from gushing to cantankerous in the blink of her big blue eyes.

"Okay," I said. " What would you pay?"

She low-balled me.

I tried to meet her offer at a respectable distance.

She wouldn't budge.

I tried again.

She was unflinching.

I coaxed.

She refused.

I cajoled.

She began walking away.

"Well, I'll think about it," she said, in a huff, swinging her hips, headed towards the door.

I'LL THINK ABOUT IT is the death knell for an art sale. Art purchases come from the heart, not the frontal cortex.

I ran after her.

(This is a trick I learned through the years, a skill I've lovingly honed, a skill to which I attribute my longevity in the business. That trick is: When they're walking away from the deal, run after them, pleading. It is such a tremendous ego boost to certain people. I mean who doesn't enjoy someone running after them, begging? Especially when family members are watching?)

"OKAY. OKAY. You are tough! You are tougher than me! You win! Have your price!" I said.

"She's tough," I reiterated to her youthful entourage. They looked at the floor.

She beamed and handed me her credit card. I have a habit of reading the name of the person on the card. It said Connie Stevens. Yes, the Connie Stevens. That tough kitten had been around the block. Connie signed her Visa receipt with a flourish, said she wanted to return to the hotel but that someone would pick up the painting later. I wrapped it in bubble wrap and printed a bio of the artist. I placed the bio in an envelope with the name CONNIE in large letters, and I embellished it with a big red heart. I wonder if she appreciated my little gesture.

Later that day I entrusted the painting to the Robert Downey Jr. lookalike. He told me he was Connie's nephew and acknowledged it was "pretty cool" to be Connie Stevens' nephew. I acknowledge: It was pretty cool to sell a painting to Connie. I only wish she'd ponied up a bit more.





Connie, circa 1963.













Connie, one tough kitten.














Connie, the businesswoman. She now owns a beauty products company and a spa, and recently directed her first film. She also heads an organization which awards scholarships to young Native Americans. And she will gush whenever and wherever she pleases, thank you.

Meme of Fame (first installment)

A Typical Day in My Glamorous Past

Several months ago Bruno tagged me with the 7 Random (or Unremarkable) Things About Me meme. Yes, several months ago. I'm a master of procrastination. Having done that meme a few times already, my cache of about-me things was spent. You already know, for God's sake, the distance from the top of my wrist to the base of my forefinger. You know about my lackluster childhood in the circus. You know my shoe size. What else could you possibly want to know? So I thought, hey, I’ll do what Moody did a while back. I’ll turn it into the 7 Famous People Who Almost Knew Me meme. After all, I've been within spitting distance of Robin Williams. (No, I didn't spit on him.) I've urinated in a public restroom in Berkeley in the stall next door to a National Book Award-winning poet. (Her urine did have a bouncy anapestic rhythm as it hit the water.) A highly respected actress known for her eclectic supporting roles has sat beside me, and we've chatted amiably--in a punk club in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco. No less than Gene Hackman, I kid you not, has parked in my loading zone, right here in Santa Fe. Twice.

But did I follow through with my intention to post the Meme of Fame? Hell no. Too busy hanging with luminaries. Oh, and did I mention I procrastinate? Then too, there's the narrowing factor. Too many lucky famous have crossed my path. Whom will I omit? Whose feelings will I hurt? But now Paschal has had the same idea. And he's tagged anyone reading his Seven. How can I not follow through now?

I will do my damndest to pick and choose seven of the most fortunate individuals of fame who came that close to knowing me.

1. Summer, 1986. I'm minding our gallery on Union Street in San Francisco, six months pregnant with my firstborn. An attractive middle-aged woman, elegantly dressed in a tailored suit adorned with a sparkly brooch, comes in. We strike up a conversation. She asks me about my due date and tells me about her own "babies," who are big kids now. She then takes interest in an oil painting of a pink bathrobe on a clothes hanger. "I really love it," she says. "I'll admit I have something of an aversion to the associations I have with the color pink."

"You must mean...the wimp factor?"

"Exactly. But something about this painting appeals to me. A lot. I'll be back with my husband. He's a television actor and is in a meeting right now."

"Oh, have I seen the show?" At the time I really did not watch TV. I didn't know what else to say.

"Probably," she said. I was so out of the popular culture loop, I didn't even recognize the words spelled by the configuration of stones in her brooch. HILL STREET BLUES. (If you're old enough to remember that show, you know it was a hugely popular police drama and was produced and written by Steven Bochco, who has subsequently produced a string of quality hits such as L.A. Law and NYPD Blue.)

Hill Street Blues cast, circa 1985

That afternoon the woman did return with her husband, James B. Sikking. (When I began watching Hill Street Blues shortly thereafter, I realized Jim played the commander of the SWAT team.) After several minutes of his interrogating me about the artist, he agreed that, yes, the painting was worthy of being purchased. As I was writing up the sale, Bennie showed up, did a double-take at the tall gentleman standing beside the desk, and said, "Oh, I know you, don't I? You're on Hill Street Blues, aren't you?"

The Sikkings became wonderful clients of the gallery. That same day they purchased a small surrealist etching by a German printmaker. The etching was called "Schwanz Pot" and depicted, yes, an intriguing penis-plant growing in a flowerpot. This was a gift for Mr. Bochco. "That is SO him," Florine said. (Another time Florine and Jim honored us by coming to our gallery on their anniversary and purchasing a realist painting as their gift to each other. How is that for sweet?)

Several months later I was home with my new baby Flannery. My parents were visiting. Bennie called from the gallery to say "a few Hollywood people" were, as of that moment, riding in a cab to the studio of an artist we represented. Since we lived near Bill, the artist in question, he suggested I meet them there--after all, my mom and dad could babysit. Correction. He had already informed the Hollywood people I would meet them there.

I began to panic. Not a thing to wear. I was getting my body back into shape and nothing fit. My maternity clothes now swallowed me whole, but I was way too fat for my pre-preggers skinny jeans. When I did pull together an outfit that was vaguely passable--cotton knit pants with a coral top and a sage-colored cotton sweater to wrap around my various lumps, the only pair of shoes that would go with it were these jobs I'd grabbed from the sales rack at Mervyns. Brown sandals with, God forbid, synthetic wedge soles. And talk about a horrific hair day!

Clipping my frumpy, growing-out-perm into a sad clump on the back of my head, I climbed into our VW Golf and raced to Bill's studio. Jim and Florine had arrived and they'd brought Bruce Weitz and his girlfriend Valerie. (At least I think that was her name.) By now I was a fan of the show and so I recognized Bruce right off. He looked much more elegant in person, without that most unflattering knit cap. Everyone looked casually elegant. Even Bill had gotten cleaned up. I was the odd one out, me and my marked-down footwear.

Bill began trotting out his paintings. Everyone oohed. Everyone aahed. Milk began leaking from my nursing breasts. I pulled my sweater as completely around my post-partum body as was feasible. Bill trotted out more paintings. At one point a huge dog ran into the studio, pursued by the tenant from downstairs, Kathy. "Bad dog, Bubbles! BAD dog!" Jesus Christ, was Bubbles sporting a kerchief around his affected neck? I'd never seen Bubbles in such a get-up. I'd never seen Bubbles come bounding into Bill's studio for that matter. What a transparent ploy on Kathy's part to get a glimpse of the Hollywood people. How embarrassing.

Suddenly Jim focused on a charcoal study of a piano that rested on the floor near my feet. "Tell me about this," he said. For one godawful moment, I thought he was asking about my brown sandals.

"Well," Bill said, "That's a study for an oil I'm getting ready to paint."

"I like it," Jim said. "Do you like it, Florine?"

Florine liked it.

So it was agreed that when Bill completed the oil painting, the Sikkings would buy it. We talked about palette. Jim is partially colorblind, so we wanted colors he could perceive. Lots of Matisse, Nice-period blue. We talked about dimensions. We talked about price. We came to terms. Jim and Florine would now return to the gallery and put down their deposit. Bruce and his woman would tag along.

Done deal.

"San, could we get a ride back to the gallery with you?" By now the milk was ready to splash onto my brown sandals.

"Sure," I said, then added casually, "Of course I'm in a Volkswagen Golf. It'll be a little crowded."

"Great! We can sit in one another's laps."

F'in' great. When would this sad ordeal end? I pictured my desperate folks at home, wearing a groove in the parquet floor of our bungalow on 30th Avenue as they walked in circles, passing a starved, red-faced, screaming Flannery back and forth. The milk spurted.

As we walked to the VW, Florine was chatting with Valerie. "When I came into that gallery last summer, she was pregnant and she was just radiant!"

Wow, I thought, what she means is, "What in the hell has happened to her now?" (Now that I'm older than Florine was then, I realize she was empathetic to my situation and was wanting to make me feel better. She'd been there. She knew. She is a genuinely kind woman.)

Everyone packed themselves into my little car and I headed down 19th Avenue, through Golden Gate Park, through the Presidio, and towards the Marina. Coming off the Marina Boulevard ramp, I had a little trouble merging in the mid-day traffic and got honked at by an irate motorist. Well, several irate motorists. I couldn't help myself. I uttered the s-word. I was chagrined to have done so. My passengers remained unperturbed. Then again, they were used to L.A. motorists. They were used to Hollywood directors.

When we arrived at the gallery, I'll admit, despite myself, I felt a measure of pride walking in with the Hollywood people. A little crowd gathered on the sidewalk in front, murmuring "That's him, isn't it?"

And, "Look. That's him too!"

And, "But who in the hell is that one in the bad sandals?"

Just kidding.

(OK, I've written this much already and I'm still on my first Famous Person Who Almost Knew Me. Whatta ya say I make this a series? More to come...six more...at least...I'll get around to it...)

Right.