Just Like Suicide pt. 8

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[cont.]
Because of her heavy schedule of classes including two language courses (what the hell was she thinking at registration?), she had decided to expand upon her new research on Hondo and the previous little film, using its relatively familiar territory to balance the new experience of having to do storyboards as well as working with a crew. And besides, as one of four, Hondo’s predictable arc would not dominate the storyline. Alex, she discovered, was now living in New York, designing windows at some trendy clothing stores and had branched out from his earlier paintings to create kinetic photo based work in a studio in Bushwick. He offered to help her with sets, if she needed them. She hadn’t planned on sets but knew a great idea when she heard it. They talked and the idea morphed into something much more exciting. She offered him a decent budget and free rein to tell his evolution in a video performance with his own props. This was going to be sweet. Alex was going to put her on the map. Tommy was still in the same studio in LA, still painting. He would be the constant in the film. Lori, though, had abruptly stopped doing art and was now married, living in the Valley and pregnant. Without Hondo, she apparently lost the will to create. The transition from hot artist to a stay-at-home mother would provide the tragedy in the story.
Barbara knew better than to openly describe Lori’s new life as a tragedy. To most people, her decision would appear realistic; however, Barbara had admired the erotic paintings and the bleak empty rooms. Lori, she believed, had a vitality most artists never have. To give it up seemed almost criminal. It was a betrayal of talent, a weakness. In her research, however, she came across many artists who had a few years in their youth of passionate creativity only to slump into academic stupor, like de Vlaminck and Derain, cohorts of Matisse during his Fauve stage. Or Grace Hartigan, whose early work surpassed de Kooning’s in spunk and whose late work was obviously watered down to promote sales, “shopping mall abstraction” as another artist put it. Or Edvard Munch and Salvador Dali who dwindled into cliché. Another variant included Rauschenberg whose early work had vitality and addictive irreverence and then gradually lapsed into a dull circle of self reference. Even a genius like Picasso fell into this empty rehashing of earlier ideas and gestures. Why shouldn’t he, really? Even the crappy work he signed late in life made him wads of money. Artists deserved a comfortable old age as much as anybody else. But the art suffered from repetition.
In collecting her notes, she felt she was really handicapped by her lack of direct knowledge about the nuts and bolts of the art world. It’s fine to do research but all the juicy bits are in the gossip which never makes it into publications. So when Maggie invited her to have dinner with her adopted mother, Barbara quickly accepted. As an art dealer, Odessa would provide insider information. Then she hesitated. She wasn’t sure if Maggie had told her about their relationship. Maggie wasn’t one to share information. Stories, yes, but real information, no. Odessa might not be willing to share if she didn’t approve.
It felt awkward from the moment they entered Odessa’s house. The furniture was shabby even if the walls were covered with art work. Odessa ushered them into the dining room with the water stained wooden table. They had just started eating a rather ordinary salad when Maggie piped up, “Why don’t you tell Barbara the story of the embroidery? She keeps looking at it.” Maggie could smell awkwardness a mile away and could always be counted on to smooth it over.
“It’s a funny story, Barbara. When I turned thirteen, my momma insisted that I stop embroidering flowers and select an uplifting quote for framing, to show off my skills. I chose ‘Why don’t we do it in the road?’ My momma was a true Southern lady straight through to the bone and was horrified, simply horrified at what I had done. She threw it away. I had to rescue it and hide it. I was proud of it. It’s a perfect example of diamond stitches, satin and chain stitches along here. And if you look closely I’ve alternated French and Chinese knots to shadow the bottom edge of each letter. When my momma died and I was cleaning out her house, I found it still hidden away in the back of my bedroom closet. Dennis saw it and insisted on framing it. He hung it across from where he always sat at the table, where you’re sitting now.”
“Free thinking always is a threat, isn’t it?” Barbara said.
“My momma was not upset about thinking per se. It was the suggestion of having sex. Any public mention of sex made her blush and leave the room.”
“Any kind of passion is threatening so all must be constrained,” Maggie added, pretty much quoting an essay she was working on. “Control is important to order, and passion and creativity defy order. Whether it’s sexual experimentation or challenges to the social order, this fear of change restricts creativity.” Barbara reminded her that she had already heard this excerpt and didn’t need a rehash.
“Well, I haven’t read it, Barbara,” Odessa said, folding and unfolding her napkin, “but I do think you’re both missing the point about my momma on this. She wasn’t raised with talk TV where every personal detail is revealed to the entire audience and discussed at length at the water cooler or on a social networking site. For her generation, intimacy was a private matter, not a public one. The whole concept of privacy has evaporated.”
“And I’m part of that evaporation. I’m doing a documentary on Lori, Alex, Tommy and Hondo, trying to focus on their source of inspiration, a kind of dissection of creativity. We tend to worship our revolutionaries, at least if they’re young or dead, and I’m trying to poke a hole in that. Demystify revolutionaries.”
“I don’t know that I’d call them revolutionaries. Risk takers, yes, but as much as I like their work, it really isn’t revolutionary. Revolutionaries occur only once or twice a century. Even risk takers are rare and, as Maggie said, they do muck up expectations. That’s probably why artists and revolutionaries make such romantic stories, don’t you think? You’re never quite sure how the story will end.”
“Hondo’s story was pretty easy to predict.”
“Maybe. All stories could go several ways and still seem predictable. I mean, really, how can we know for certain which way a particular individual will go? What mechanism makes an artist self destruct, either physically or artistically? We don’t know. We do know creativity is quirky and hard to sustain. There are so many factors against it. Sometimes I’m part of the problem. I want artists to sell but I have to keep reminding myself that failure and awkwardness are part of the process. And I have to follow my own advice and make a point of displaying different kinds of art. On the one hand, a niche market lets collectors know where to go to buy, but showing the same kind of work over and over is stultifying. Hell, it’s downright boring.”

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