Sunday, May 8, 2011

on this day

shoe diaries. i was making a quick run to kensington market when i happened on a bad boy chef sunning himself in the cool spring sun. we'd once talked of my returning to the kitchen as his apprentice in a new project, and tho this no longer has any real appeal for me (i'm stubbornly trying to find a way to live by other wits), i felt obliged by my lack of economy to leave no invitation unexplored. and since spotting him there was a chance occurrence, i didn't feel i could turn my nose up at it. certainly i like to at least leave room to be lead by life more, my headstrong nature less. well, sometimes...

as we caught up and came round to broaching his previous comments, it became apparent he'd moved on from the idea and i felt a certain relief. if i'm really honest with myself, it seems plenty reasonable to conclude that nature's intelligence doesn't wish to see me tied to a stove making violence into plates for a living, and a squalid, unhappy living at that. just then another gentlemen joined the chef. i recognized him as a snobby hipster who owns the art gallery that egresses across the alleyway. and to be even more eviscerating and uncharitable, i'd describe him as a gay man who hates women and so therefore is, well, uncomfortable for anyone with tits to be around. i introduced myself and reminded him of our proximity. he said, 'oh yes, you're the woman with the dog,' with an intonation perhaps better suited to the phrase, 'oh yes, you're the woman with the weeping sores...'

he looked down just then, in that de rigeur effort to be pointedly devastating by taking in an appraising, full-body sweep of someone's person, his dime a dozen but thousand dollar thick black frames rising an inch as he flared and scrunched up his nose, pausing at my rotted out runners, his breath freezing on the inhale. he let his look linger just long enough to leave space for my discomfort and presumably kill any further conversation.

this got me to thinking about how the art scene has lost its soul. it used to be about art, now its an extension of social panache and design cliques. where once there was tangible passion and transfigurative conflicts on the canvas, now there's mere cleverness, technique, and awareness of trendy furniture matchings. the elevation of fashion contexting, the social savvy-meter of the 'artist' proposing their feckless, masturbatory products accounts for why this gallery owner would choose to present the following on his coveted front window as an indicator of what has value in our local creative river...

wow. really?

so it makes sense that one of the leading arbiters of what has significance in the toronto art scene would look at me in my rags and commitment to perhaps obscure personal principles and never imagine that i might be an artist, much less someone worth talking to. its one of the reasons i don't even bother trying to flush out the full scale of my manual art abilities. i've already been told on a couple of occasions by men and women with fine arts degrees that my work is merely decorative and of no significance and i can see the logic of this assessment. but i also think there's something vapid about it. certainly i'm not going to let it stop me from going from typepad, to instrument, to brush and pen whenever it suits me and for however long i can manage it.

and yes, its true i've been very foolhardy, drawing out to a maximum the amount of time i can devote to my music, art, and studies of late. i'm beyond bankrupt and will probably loose everything i own in the gamble. but, truth is, i don't care because i don't know how. i don't understand the game the world demands so i just pretend not to give a shit. and while the game is master of us all and will surely make me pay for my insufficiencies and negligence, and probably dearly, there is still a slim chance that i'll somehow manage a rabbit for all my insubordination. for the moment, its not so bad playing the pauper in a downtown of affluent hipsters. for all the withering looks of scorn and judgement, no true heart ever bothers themselves beyond a passing wince with the barbs of dead-eyed automatons.

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