I had a profound interaction with Mr. F today. I like the fact that his name sounds like profound...
His paintings were gone from the gallery, so I assumed that I would never see him again. I figured I’d never get to. I knew he’d come back to get them the afternoon I wasn’t there. I knew it. A sobering thought, albeit a surprisingly quick one to get over once I faced it; I’d been facing it down so long it was good finally get it eye to eye.
I started painting. Painting hard.
I finally took a potty break around two, and passed a professor who muttered something about it suddenly being crowded around here crowded? I’m the only one here? and there he was. Of course. Trying to get into the print studio and waiting for somebody else and there was me.
I tried to make small talk. Tried to get some sympathy for my poor old gimpy knee and refrained from telling him my grandpa died (baby, i’d tell you all about it if i thought you’d care) and tried to get some reaction any reaction out of the boy I would have loved and did.
I went downstairs and by the time I came back somebody else had shown up –- not a good friend of either of ours. I started right in again, and Mr. F nodded and smiled and smiled and nodded and looked down the way and nodded and turned in a certain way... And then I gave up. I was mid-babble when I realized it, and just stopped and told him I was full of shit and was going to go away now and limped off down the hall and away.
The person he’d come to meet was silent all that while and they maintained that silence to humor me halfway down the corridor before they began chattering like old pals.
I was sad he didn’t come see me later. Sad and disappointed, but ...
I have nothing left to say to you. You could never have been who I thought you might, my dear. I started writing on my canvas and made a self-portrait of myself sinking into paint this is me underneath underneath so far under so that there is no difference between me and the work. As maybe it should be sometimes.
I feel like the further I get into art and into work and into all of these things the less capable I am of carrying on basic social interactions with human beings. I wonder if I’ll never find that SOMEONE -- not because there’s no one out there but because I am too quiet in this shroud. I like the feel of the shroud though. I feel like I have become a caricature of myself because it’s the only part I know how to play.
Goodbye.