Turpentine, Popcorn and a Blue Handed Girl

Let me tell you about this:

Laird Drive straddled the border between districts. To the east were houses, and to the west were the square grey mountains of abandoned factories falling slowly to ruin. Laird had once been a major thoroughfare but became a byway back when town was subsumed by city, long before I was born.

In a middling-decrepit upstairs commercial space overlooking this demoted drive was the Dick Jones School of Art. I attended the institution twice weekly from pre-pubescence until university.

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An Artist-sans-Portfolio

An art gallery opening is not an event that includes the opening of an art gallery.*


* This is a purposeful trick to keep the uninitiated baffled. Using familiar English words against their meaning is a tool characteristic of both totalitarianism and artsy pretention alike.  Consider:

“I attended a gallery opening last night.”

“Oh?  Where’s the new gallery?”

“Tell me, darling: is this innocence of yours confined to the purely visual arts, or do you also clap between movements?”

Instead, an art gallery opening is the launch of a new exhibit within a previously established gallery.**


** I don’t know what they say when they actually do want to open a brand-new exhibition space for reals, but I would expect the term to be misleading.  In art, language is used to obfuscate rather than reveal.  Consider:

“What are these seemingly random brush strokes with bits of rubbish glued over them supposed to mean?”

“Let yourself deinculcate; Fluxus escapes the fixity of ‘meaning.”

“Who’s Fluxus?”


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