Where do I begin?

While driving on the Severn Bridge on my way to Cardiff, Wales I felt the sun for the first time in days. I would be lying if I told you that the shock of the last week had worn off yet. I chose to drive myself from the airport to rehearsals for the ADP tour because I needed to clear my head. I didn’t consider that I had never driven on the wrong side of the road before. I flew into Manchester and a pair of very kind eyes seemed to size me up effortlessly. He gave me a map, explained everything he thought I would need to know in order to get to Wales and physically I got there without a hitch. I knew if I didn’t drive myself and talk through the last many days of hell, I would be useless to everybody and that’s not what I want. I had packed my bags before the art exhibition I was involved with. I had planned it perfectly or I would never have taken the job to be involved with the gallery in the first place. What I didn’t count on in a million years was this sense of failure that I would have to contend with after putting so much time and love into this visual art presentation. I had written my thoughts down the morning after the gala event. I need to post it so that I can move on…

The opening has left me tired and feeling empty. The night it-self was buzzing with excitement. Was it a success? The reaction has been explosive… positive and negative. I was taught as a child from my grandmother that this kind of reaction, when you are the gallery, is never a bad thing. There have been lines of people wanting to see what all the ruckus is about. So, from that standpoint, there is no reason to be down. What bothers me, when I can quiet my racing thoughts for half a second, is the way some of these artists and their works have been mis-understood. When I read all the critiques, I am left feeling as if I have failed some of these women artists. “Maybe just maybe” I think to myself, “if I had helped to present them in a different sequence, maybe then the literal mind would have been more open to the abstract.” Of all people, my friend Santa was the one who actually predicted to me on the night of the opening what some of the papers and the online reports would say about some of these women. At the time, I was horrified when I saw her giving this well-known little man a mental dressing down. Only our friend Isabel saw this and as I stood frozen and shocked, I think I saw Isabel smile calmly almost as if to say, ‘Let her go she knows what she’s on about.’ So I stayed out of the way. What I did not know in that frame of a second was what Santa had already ferreted out…. What the critique of this little man would be about the exhibition. And I say the word “little” not because of his looks but because of his heart. But it was Santa who realized first that this critic was going to slice the work of the sensitive, powerful art and only praise one or 2 women in the whole exhibition.

Because he writes for such an influential paper, this does matter…. in our world, unfortunately. I had personally called some of these women artists originally when their agents had been reserved about such a broad concept. I explained how I would personally be involved. Having had some success over the years with exhibitions they chose to trust me and eventually they agreed. The gallery is happy. Business is booming. I have heard nothing from the artists or their agents since the reviews have been published. I woke up to a bird tapping on my window. I took it to mean, ‘Clyde come outside.’ Am I running? Maybe. I keep getting texts from Kyle, which is thoughtful. But I have nothing to say, not right now. This is not about him so I have to work through it myself. I realize the response from the reviews is out of my control but I was so sure, so positive that these artists would be understood because of the way that I conceived their presentation. Wrong. All wrong. How did I get it so wrong?....... If I didn’t have to be in the U.K. imminently I would be jumping in my car and driving. Driving where? It wouldn’t matter. I just have to get out of here.

The Bitchy Co-worker Incident

        Art by women of women speaks to me about a deeper truth of how "I am" than when
        male
artists approach the naked female body. I am drawn to certain artists more than others.... that is
                just being honest.
But I try to remain open so that the public does not feel my preference when they're walking
                through the installations.
More than any other approach, when a female artist makes herself the subject and or the object
of her exhibition I find it confrontational. That is not a negative. In some cases the work
makes me feel exposed or upset. In others, I was made an accomplice without knowingly agreeing
                to this. Once it turned me on. Once it made my skin crawl.
I welcome these feelings. This is why I wake up in the morning, to be moved to think and feel.
If a visual artist has no impact whatsoever on me, then I am sad. Because sexuality is at the heart
                of this exhibition, lack of impact is not an applicable phrase
                in this case.
I have been working constantly, basically sleeping at the museum so that the opening would be
                perfect and make deadline. So, when Santa asked me to go
                to see the live broadcast of a dance show competition, as
                disappointed as I was, I didn't want to leave the paintings
                or the photographs.
One night I found myself at the end of my rope, which is a place I don't get to often. The vibes in
                the museum had been ignited it seemed by a poisonous
                substance. Bitchy green monsters were oozing out of one of
                the women that works here. That kind of manipulative
                person can be wearing on the brain. Once she had left the
                building, I began to calm down. I decided to walk around
                and double check my reactions to the artwork without this
                woman's snide remarks about a lot of the women artists.
                Why we can't be more supportive toward each other as a
                community of women, I have no idea. Then out of nowhere
                I felt someone watching me. I turned around quickly, as
                you do, and there he was... the Bitchy-Green-Monster-
                Person's on and off boyfriend.
'Why do you let her get to you?' was the question he asked. I answered, 'Let's not give her more
                credit than she deserves.' 'What do you mean by that' was
                his comeback. 'Look, anybody and I do mean anybody,
                who talks so viciously about other contemporaries, artist or
                not, will get a reaction from me it's really that simple.'
He walked in without looking away and chose to stand between me and the paintings and
                sheepishly requested, 'Will you give me a tour from your
                perspective so that I can feel as passionate about these
                artists as you do? I work here too Clyde and I need an
                injection of this adrenaline that you carry for these artists.'
'What about your relationship with you know who?' I could barely say it. He looked shocked and
                shook his head, 'What relationship? You've got to be
                kidding. You-Know-Who is a psychopath and a stalker and
                I'm not far from getting a restraining order against her.' I
                had to laugh just because it is crazy how we all can over-
                react to what one person says, not realizing that they live to
                stir up trouble more than they need air. I remember folding
                my arms possibly to protect myself saying, 'Kyle, I don't
                need another stalker in my life, even if it's your one.' Out
                of no where he gave me a hug and said 'you can't let
                 harmless envious people dictate your every move.' Out of
                my mouth before I could stop came, 'This is not about my
                every move Kyle this is about roaming around with you in
                a deserted museum after closing except for security.' He
                grinned that grin and said 'Sounds like one of the better
                ideas I've come up with in quite a while.'
So I kept a slight distance for all kinds of reasons and began to walk him through the exhibition.

Arguing with people is a waste of precious time. Fine you can be right if that's what you need to be. I'm off. Usually I go to this private gallery where I work right now. Surrounded by art all day takes me to places that I have never seen. All works of art start as potential. Similarly, all relationships start as potential. When I meet a person I try and see not their mask, with it's
             defences, but what's underneath. I get accused of refusing
             to acknowledge who a person is choosing to be right now.
             When that person is arrogant or rude or selfish then my
             friends say, "Clyde!!!!!! THIS is what this LOSER is
             about." But I say, hold on people..... this is only what this
             person THINKS they are about. Some of my friends, I
             know this for a fact, see this quality as a weakness.... a
             naïve approach to life. But you see I don't think it is sound
             judgement to close the window for change to anybody. So
             this so called Loser person is confused. But if no one sees
             their potential then they may not ever see it themselves and
             that would be tragic.

I can get lost in a picture and found again. After a painting has revealed its secrets to me, I am a
             woman changed forever.
The coveted job of working on the project "Women Artists: Late 20th and Early 21st Century" has kept me busy over the last many months. Featuring Minimal Art, Op Art, Performance Art, Media Art and Interactive Installations, and Artisan Handicraft to name but a few.
Although I have had the opportunity to work on women's installations in the past, the exposure I have had to the vision of these women has shaken me from slumber.
Paper strips coated with wax transparently hang.... covering a huge space and stops me in my
             tracks. The drawings of
trains, a chain link fence, a cityscape rendered with precision. The order of Toba Khedoori calms
             me.
The merging of cultures in the paintings by Mona Marsouk brings together the future and the past the east and the west that proves there can be a synthesis of the global dilemma that we have to wake up to and face daily.

The love I have for art was bred in me by my grandmother, affectionately known as Gran. Her
             father had taught her how to
look at art being an art critic himself and encouraged her study in painting. He of all people understood the plight of women painters. He would always take her to watch painters create and encourage her to take out her sketchpad that she carried everywhere. By the end of a workday he would come back and pick her up after she had been the mascot of that particular artist's studio for the day. This is how she really developed her stunning technique, by allowing the masters to tell her their secrets. Because this was before the second world war, Paris was teeming with painters and sculptors.... most of whom my grandfather got on with famously.
So the story goes, his uncle had been teaching at the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture
             until the wave of the impressionists divided the art world in
             France in the nineteenth century.
Apparently his allegiance to the new movement of Impressionism alienated him from many of his colleagues. Uncle Claude, as Gran would call him, secured a position eventually at the Salon des Independents which was established in 1884. He lived to embrace PostImpressionism
             and Symbolism. Lots of isms...
Since that time someone in the family has been involved in the growth of independent galleries
             throughout France.
A cousin of mine outside of Paris has most of Gran's work saved for the generations to come. A thought of Gran and her other female contemporaries enters my mind when I am surrounded by modern women artists. The struggles that these women endured remind me of how far the woman's art movement has come and how far it still has to go. When I think of Lizzie Sidel in her struggle to be recognized as an artist in the mid to late 19th Century, it reminds me of the inequalities that women painters and sculptors have had to endure. The wealth now of art from women has not solely been shaped by the desires of men but from a back catalogue of women artists of the past. Women expressing and reacting to different emotions being liberated even indirectly by WW II were artists the likes of Leonora Carrington, Meret
             Oppenheim, Ithell Colquhoun, Toyen [Marie Cerminova],
             Tamara de Lempicka to name but a few.
These women among others gave the world a new way of defining female sexuality.
I can see the inspiration that these artists have had on some of even the most controversial female artists that are in the present exhibition that is about ready to open. Soon now, very soon
             now. Every breath of mine is devoted to this opening.
The museum has had all kinds of threats from different religious groups, (too many to name) from just pure ignorance. One of my best friends dropped by and security called me down. As I let
             her in past the protesters she exclaimed in disbelief,
             "Clyde, Dahling, can you imagine me, ME wanting an
             invite to the museum, But HONEY, this is the bomb."
             Nonononononononononono just rushed out of my mouth
             louder than I intended, but security backed off as I pulled
             my friend away whispering, "Just don't say the word
             bomb."