10:35 a.m. - 2002-03-02
Bare Hands Opening:Snake Leggings
Bare Hands had it's monthly opening last night and because I just signed an exclusive contract with Wendy, the owner, I feel like I really belong at these now. (Don't you love how I just tossed that off - "I just signed an exclusive contract", well, la de da!) The problem is that I really have this neurosis with art openings, which goes way back to when I was at Mass Art. One of my professors, a man named Burgy, once had a fatherly chat with me about how if I was unsuccessful as an artist it would be not be because of a lack of talent but because I am just too shy. "You must learn to schmooze!!" he said.

When we lived in Boston I would deal with this by arriving at openings, immediately getting a big glass of wine and then retreating into a far corner where I would paste a far off look on my face and wring my hands all night. In Alabama this does not work. People are so friendly and social here that they insist on seeking you out and talking about your work in great detail and very often they actually buy it and then you have to smile and express proper gratitude so that they know you really do appreciate it and you aren't just a snotty art wanker. Consequently my opening nerves have escalated to the point where I actually get migraine headaches. I don't really know what to do about this.

It's a little bit better for Bare Hands openings because they are more like big parties and I know a lot of the artists who show there. If the charmingly distracting Miss Beth goes with me and if I'm not too attached to the work I have up I usually am ok. But tonight Miss Beth is not coming ("Because I am an AAAAAAASS!" she sings gleefully, but really she has to work late.) and I have made the mistake of falling in love with the little dolls I'm showing this month, so it's not surprising that half hour before we're supposed to leave I feel the familiar vice grip around my head and that queasy feeling rising in my stomach.

"Miss Jesus is giving me a migraine!' I announce.

"Yeah, ok, we'll stop on the way and get you a Coke. Let's go." says Bruce (alias Mr. Stage Mother)

It's a long drive to Birmingham and I manage to fall asleep on the way (after a stop at a gas station where Bruce does, indeed, buy me a Coke and where the 1960's black and white optical illusion pattern on the floor of the filthy bathroom makes me hurl) and by the time we get to Bare Hands I am actually feeling humanoid. And then some things happen when we go in that immediately make me feel better.

The first is I realise that my least favorite artist, who is always at these openings, is not here. I have been dreading seeing him, because he is creepy and always latches on to me. Mr. M.L.A. (Morosely Lecherous Artist) is a small man who would look something like Hitler except that he has a larger mustache and a long ponytail. He is a true lurker, and, though Wendy says that he is just kind of a lost soul, I get the feeling there is something weirdly sinister about him. He is always coming up and playing with my hair. Ordinarily this wouldn't bother me. Red hair is somewhat unusual in the South and since Southerners don't have the personal space barriers that Northerners do, people I don't even know are always coming up to me and grabbing my hair. But when Mr. M.L.A. does it I get the skeevy feeling that he is actually thinking about how much he would like to chloroform me and bury me alive in his backyard.

Anyway, he's nowhere in sight. The second thing that happens is that an artist I admire, whose work I am truly in love with, comes up to me and tells me that she really loves the dolls. "I want you to teach me to embroider!" she says, with a radiant smile. I am so awestuck that this Art Goddess has noticed my work that I can do nothing except look down at my feet and mumble "Wow. Oh. Oh wow. Gosh, thank you. Wow." I manage to recover enough to ask her about Philadelphia, where she lived for awhile, and we have a nice little chat about Philadelphia and Birmingham.

And the third thing that happens is that Wendy grabs me and tells me that one of the dolls has already sold, but it's to a woman named Gayle who I like a lot. I met her when I was doing the fireplace installation a few months ago and we had a nice little talk about faeries. So at least Miss Dolly has gone to someone nice.

So it is shaping up to be not such a bad night. Bruce has already gotten a beer and is out on the porch talking to Dennis. Dennis is one of my favorite people in Alabama but I could never tell him this because it would embarass him terribly. He looks like he should be a metal sculptor - he is stocky and down to earth and always wears worn work clothes - but actually he works in mosiacs. "Where's Miss Beth?" he booms out when he sees me. "She didn't come? What is she - an AAAAASS?" He starts complaining about how cold it is. "It's f--ing freezing!!" he says. Bruce stares at him, gape mouthed. "Dennis, it's 50 degrees! It's spring!" "Well, it's spring for you Yankees! It's the nasty ass middle of winter for us! We could still have snow!" "That's right!" chimes in Virgil, who actually is a metal sculptor. "We had 15 inches one year in March!"

From there the conversation ranges on to the love/hate relationship that Southerners have with snow, whether or not snow is inherently evil, why there is no public transportation in Alabama, other Birmingham galleries, and openings at Studio By The Tracks "They have great openings!" claims Dennis."We gotta get you down here for those openings! They serve MEAT at those openings!!".

Finally I wind up talking to Virgil's wife, Cynthia, about housebuying (she says it took them two years before they found their little stone bungalow. "You're just starting, Honey!" she grins) and how to deal with snakebites. Cynthia is a geologist and, like Bruce is out wandering around swamps much of the time. She claims waders give no protection from snakes. "If a water moccasin's really got it in for you they're gonna go right through that wader" she says. "You gotta get that man o'yours some snake leggings!"

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