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.

Happy Springtime from the High Desert

Yes, we got more snow yesterday and last night. Flannery, who's home this weekend (Oakley too!), stood in the back door and took this picture earlier this morning. You may be able to tell that the sun is just starting to creep across the field. The shaggy contours of the junipers are starting to reveal themselves once more as the spring snow melts. Such is the speed of transformation in the high desert. Just last week I had the gallery door wide open and the happy tourists were walking by in their shirt sleeves. Today I imagine they're bundled up in down jackets and snow boots. The lucky ones anyway, those who looked at a forecast before they packed their bags.

I'm enjoying a quiet day at home with the kids. A fire crackles in the woodstove and I lift my French roast in a toast to (what I hope is) the last snow of springtime.

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.

Feel-Good Friday--Bob's 500th Post!

I just got back from the 5ooth Post bash for Bob T. Bear, (esq). He's asked me to spread the word: you're invited! Go ahead. Run over to Bob T. Bear, (esq.)'s Diary. Delectable cakes are waiting to be eaten. (I believe Mummy is pulling the second batch out of the oven right about now.) Ginger beer to go around! Chocolate of course. And biscuits. (What they ever-so-oddly call cookies in the UK.)

And how could I forget the joke competition and the pole dancer? Warning: You have to be 21 in bear years to watch the dancer. But, hey, who's counting?

Shake the World

OK, so I got this email from one R. Bryce Milburn. Did any of you? I was expecting one of those messages with a subject line along the lines of "My Beloved Child of God," one that begins something like this:

I am Mrs. Rose Mkama from Benin. I was married to Manfred The CEO Veekrol Benin Sarl, a seasoned Contractor In West African Region...

You know the rest. Wire ten thousand (10,000) dollars within ten (10 days) and you will have a fortune at your disposal. Spend it on the world's less privileged, yourself included.

This, however, is what R. Bryce Milburn had to say:

My name is Bryce Milburn and I work for Shake the World, an independent film production company, and we are working on a new interactive not-for-profit documentary that will showcase simultaneous events taking place all around the world at the exact same time. We are having everyone from all around the world record themselves or whatever they want on april 11th, 4pm pacific time for one minute.

Cool, huh? If you're interested, go to Shake the World Pictures for further instructions. If they ask you to send money, tell them you already gave. To the grieving widow Mrs. Rose Mkama from Benin. If they just want you to send a video of yourself doing whatever at 4 p.m. Pacific Time on April 11th, by all means, be my guest.

Get your teeth whitened and do your Pilates, folks. Hollywood talent scouts will be watching.

Just kidding. But I kind of like the idea. It's world-shaking.

Where the Woolgatherer Lives

Where the Woolgatherer Lives
acrylic on canvas, 48" x 36"

Don't you love the sound of the word woolgathering? And don't you love to do what it means? Daydream. Stargaze. Muse. Waste time. Build castles in the air. Contemplate the light falling in a corner. Imagine if. If I had a billion sheep. Weave wishes. Spin fantasies. Count sheep. Gather wool.

Where'd they get that--woolgathering? I looked it up on The Hindu:

This is an expression that has been around for several centuries. As for its origin, it comes from the world of sheep farming. In the old days, when farmers allowed their sheep to graze, they always sent a couple of women or children along with the animals. When sheep grazed, sometimes tufts of wool got caught in the bushes and on the branches of trees. It was the job of the women/children to gather the wool and hand it over to the farmer. The original `wool gatherers' were actually gathering wool! Since the job of wool gathering didn't require much concentration, it was possible for the individual to let his mind wander — in other words, he could afford to daydream! Hence, the activity of `wool-gathering' became associated with daydreaming!

Woolgathering has a bum rap in western culture. Spend an afternoon contemplating the light falling in a corner and what do you have to show for it? After the sun goes down, a dark corner. And yet...I read somewhere that the theory of relativity was revealed to Albert Einstein in an intuitive moment as he regarded birds migrating across the winter sky. Is that a myth? I dunno. But almost everyone who's taken a junior-high science course knows the story of James Watson going to bed wondering about the architecture of DNA, only to dream of two intertwined snakes. He got his answer (Elementary, Watson. It's a double, my dear, helix!) after counting sheep.

The approach to the place where I gather wool.
(A double helix. Kind of.)

I propose a World Woolgathering Commission whose function will be to encourage the gentle art of woolgathering in every corner of society. Artists will be commissioned to stalk mayors and governors and senators, catch them in dreamy moments of staring idly into space, then capture their likeness in bronze or marble or paint. These likenesses will be erected in public plazas from Grand Rapids to Mumbai to Hobart, Tasmania to inspire all citizenry. Every nation's Gross Domestic Product will include hours logged woolgathering. Particularly dedicated workers will receive daydreaming plaques. These plaques will decorate the new heart center of every home--the WC, or, Woolgathering Center. Televisions will be banished from the WC. As will computers and vacuum cleaners and file cabinets. Small businesses will be granted tax credits for bringing the dreaming infrastructure of their facilities up to code--workstations will be positioned so as to allow employees ample time to regard the hummingbird feeder just outside the window. Every county fair's main event will be the Pie-in-the-Sky Bake-off. Schoolchildren caught woolgathering during lackluster blackboard presentations will be singled out and recognized for their efforts--in the form of a huge glitter-encrusted gold star bearing the daydreamer's name. The star will hang from the classroom ceiling, maximizing serious stargazing opportunities for all students.

No child will be left behind. No wool will be left ungathered.

Feel Good Friday: More Juicy Lemons, Superior Scribbling, & My First Award from a Non-Human Blogger!

Lori of the tranquil Skoog Farm Journal has seen fit to bestow this Sweet Tart of an award on me--the lemonade stand. A few months ago Suki honored me with the same and I passed it on to several bloggers who are adept at transforming those mouth-puckering lemons that life throws their way into delectable, thirst-quenching lemonade. And today I would like to add another name to that list: the lovely Kaizabella of Finding Mad Dog. The "mad dog" in question is her birth father, who, you guessed it, would prefer to remain lost. I will also invite any other reader who would like this one to grab it by commenting. Pipe up and it's yours. Yes, I mean you!


Then lovely Mary Ann of Blue Sky Dreaming wandered over with this adorable thing. The Superior Scribbler Award. I'm to pass this on to "five others whom I have found to be thoughtful, creative and most importantly, entertaining." Only FIVE? Then again, so many superior scribblers already have this award. So I'm going to pick five relative newcomers to my blog, five bloggers whom I'm becoming acquainted with. And if you already have the award, my apologies. Here are the five, who now have their work cut out for them. They are to link back to me, and pass the award on to five others, linking to them of course, who will link back to them, and link to five others, and on an on an on and on...before we know it, every single writer in Blogland will have the Superior Scribbler Award. What the hell? We are one superior, scribbling bunch. The five:

Clarissa Alverson, who writes The Curious Hazards of Being Human. Uplifting, heartfelt reflections on what else? The curious hazards of being human. It just gets curiouser and curiouser.

Janette of Contented Colour. The title of Janette's blog says it all. A color-infused spot in Blogland, a place to wrap oneself in a comfy blankey of color and feel...well...content.

Adaelamoon of Ruminations. Gentle ruminations. Blessings counted.

Sally of Being mum, being me. A single mom writes about her frustrations with a quiet hilarity. Yes, there is such a thing. Didn't you ever stifle a laugh in church? That's quiet hilarity. Mum's the word.

Paisley of Ever After: Dead Weight. She's on a healing journey. And sometimes has to summon that healing phenomenon--the good, healthy rant. Damn, I respect that.

And since--who's counting?--a sixth blogger should receive this. Leslie's Textures Shapes Color. A feast of all three. Touch the surfaces. Bask in the color.



And now (drumroll), my very first award from a non-human blogger. And a royal non-human at that. A beautiful princess dragon who lives at Dilly's Castle. In her most gracious (and pwincessy wagon way), Dilly had this to say about me: "San be luvly kind laydy, do pwitty payntins, lots luvly cullers." Wow, Dilly, you make me feel like a pwincess too! The award is described thus: "This blog invests and believes in PROXIMITY --nearness in space, time and relationships! In other words, blogs that receive this award are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement." And I'm to pass the award to two bloggers. I offer you two exceedingly charming bloggers:

Karen of Threadstory. An artist who assembles the bits and pieces of life into dazzling quilts.

Carol of RoseCreekCottage. A wise woman who counts her blessings and transforms them into things of quirky beauty. Ragamuffin dolls, for example.

And since...who's counting?...a third exceedingly charming blogger is Kate of Kate's Corner. Delivers the mail by day. Shares her art journals by night.

And, please, even though this award is to be passed to two (only 2?) bloggers, everyone who visits this blog is a friend. Please, please, if you want this award, just say so. Own up to your "exceeding charm" and grab it! On your mark. Get set. Go!