Spray to Forget

My brilliant designer friend has developed a conceptual fragrance called Spray to Forget. It is intended to help the wearer release unwanted memories. It also smells good.

This perfume brings several associations to mind. In a corner of my mind devoted to highbrow literary allusion, I imagine the bottle contains metaphysical Lethe river water. In a lowbrow popular culture mind corner I remember Batman used a sleeping spray to prevent passengers from recalling directions to the Bat Cave.

My friend supplemented income from Armory Show design work by getting a gratis booth, and asked me to volunteer at his booth to help present Spray to Forget. This would be a task involving both performance art and selling.

I tend to be allergic to most perfumes, but thankfully not this one. The project sounded fun. I readily agreed to volunteer.

The Armory Show is New York's behemoth annual art fair. These art fairs take place in almost every major city around the world, such as the Art Basel in Miami, Frieze in London, The Biennale in Venice, and FIAC in Paris.

I've intended to attend the Armory show for years, but its inconvenient location and fairly expensive admission price ($30 this year) made it easy to skip. This was my chance to help my friend, mingle a bit, and finally see the show.

As it turned out, I was scheduled to volunteer on VIP night. Apparently, this was the preview night for collectors and the press.

I enjoyed myself far more than anticipated.

The people watching was amazing. This must have been the point on the planet that day with the highest proportion of underweight 20 year old women wrapped in fur.

It was easy to differentiate the collectors from the press. Rich people who collect art wear beautiful clothes and have airbrushed faces. Everyone else has visible pores and misplaced hair.

It was also interesting to note the power dynamics within the relationships of the mega rich. I saw a pretty, subtly cosmetically-enhanced 60-70 year old woman with an attractive young man in his early to mid 20s. I assumed he was her grandson until I saw him rub her ass with his hand. Of course, the usual pattern of young women paired with older men dominated. I suppose de facto prostitution is seemly once a certain price point is breached.

A trip to the VIP lounge was surreal. Literally every attendee was a VIP, so the lounge was the least exclusionary place within the Armory. It was nearly impossible to move across the room to get a brownie and tea. Navigating the crowd was a full body contact experience. Fortunately, this wasn't the A train. The bodies were well scrubbed, thin, and clad in buttery fibers. It was like stage diving into cashmere.

Regardless of income or class, I enjoyed interacting with the crowd. It was interesting that the older customers seemed to grasp the conceptual art element more readily than younger people who appeared to regard it as a gimmick. The scent is pleasant, so it sold on that merit to the under 35 crowd. The artist came to a different conclusion, but that was my experience.

It was also interesting to note the large proportion of people willing to discuss with a stranger what they wanted to forget. No wonder therapists are so popular.

I discouraged people from confessing the bad memories they wished to release because I didn't want to promulgate the impression that it was a necessary to do so. Some people curious about the product preferred to keep their bad memories under wraps. I didn't want to create a barrier that would prevent them from sampling the scent.

Ironically, the fragrance had some effect on me. We were spraying a lot of it and the booth became a cloud of scent. After a few hours of inhaling it, I became terminally distracted.

In the evening one of the artist's friends came by to say hello. I was told we had met before. Although I have nearly a photographic facial memory I could not recall him.

After watching me interact with the crowd, he and the artist commented on my lack of awareness about men flirting with me. On this and just about any other hour, I do not perceive flirting. It is probably a combination of factors: I don't regard myself as a remarkable physical specimen and I don't pick up on subtle body language. I tend to only notice flirting if it is overt to the point of being comical.

A sad state of affairs, yet it is the state I am in.

The boys decided to help me out by creating a code word: caviar. Each time a man flirted with me, they would use the word so I could concentrate on the mechanics of flirting to learn to identify it.

Under the influence of Spray to Forget, I immediately forgot these instructions.

For the remainder of the night I noticed they mentioned caviar several times, but assumed it was associated with an unusual craving for fish eggs. When the show closed, we headed for dinner. I figured they wanted to go somewhere that served caviar because it had been mentioned repeatedly.

The boys reminded me of the codeword plan. I had failed the fifth grade-era mission to recognize flirting. No wonder I am a late bloomer.

It appears I am doomed to flirting failure.

At least I smell good.

Dim and Bright Beacons

It may sound pretentious, but I often think about a section in Walden in which Thoreau discusses intentionally becoming lost or losing his beacons. Like Thoreau, I acknowledge the trepidation in this event, but also the benefit. Sometimes I think time is slowly erasing my beacons without my awareness of their disappearance.

I have an artist friend who has become more of an acquaintance over the past few years. She has introduced me to many of her friends. It is slightly ironic that I have strengthened friendships with the several women I met through her while our relationship has waned.

This artist has set an agenda for herself and works diligently. It is clear that she has chosen to pursue her art career rather than friendships. I admire her resolve and do not feel slighted by her decision.

When I hear from her, it is usually through an email about a show in which she is participating. Usually, her shows are located outside of Manhattan and I am working. But this week, she had a show in Nolita.

Yesterday, I met a designer friend to attend her show. He is a lovely person with a unique perspective, and I treasure our conversations.

Unfortunately, there was someone in the gallery who had treated him badly in the past. He did not want to go inside.

I understood his reluctance to see this person. I quickly saw the show and said hello to the artist. It was a very good show, and I would have lingered further under different circumstances. I felt the tug of respecting the decorum of the gallery visit and the needs of my friend.

The designer was hungry. We walked to a pizza place so he could get a slice to go. As we walked, we noticed another art opening that looked promising. He finished his slice outside while I went inside to see whether the work on display was by Chris Roberts-Antieau, an artist I discovered at the American Visionary Arts Museum this summer. It was.

As I stood in front of a piece I admired, I noticed another artist standing behind me. It was Marie Roberts, who is a favorite painter and an acquaintance. It was a pleasant surprise to see her. I introduced her to my friend, who presented her with an "optimism" button that she really liked.

The designer and I wandered into a couple more galleries before heading home. He confessed to me that he is in a relationship, and I am delighted on his behalf. He is a wonderful person who deserves a good partner.

It is interesting how events can wend over years or an evening. It was a night of thwarted intentions and welcome unintended events.

Unanticipated Blossoms

Yesterday I visited my abstract painter friend's Dumbo studio. It was wonderful to smell the oil paint, sit in the southern light, and talk about books and images.

She and I have discussed her work a lot in the past several months, and I enjoy our conversations. Her work maintains a tension between representational and abstract presentation. This is an area that holds my fascination. Her project is about the relationship between humans and animals.

She let me photograph some of her current paintings, a series depicting birds (above).

After the studio visit, we walked over to Brooklyn Heights for the Kids Art opening at BRIC's Rotunda gallery. Our mutual friend runs an outstanding arts education program for the gallery. Each year the gallery shows work created by public school children who participated in Rotunda's programs.

Some children who participated in the program attend, along with parents, teachers, artists, and principals. The children perform docent activities happily. It is a wonderful, heartfelt celebration.

The painter recalled that we have attended this event for several years. I've reached that age in which time moves too fast for me to track. There is a great divide between my sense of time that has passed and the actual passage of time. It feels as if I have attended the event for the past three or four years, but in reality it has been nine years.

Yet this phenomenon seems to indicate a good experience. I suppose I inadvertently made good use of time because the outcome of the event as it relates to me is so positive.

For example, although I have no formal relationship with the gallery, I recognized a half dozen people I knew in the audience and had an opportunity to reconnect with them. All of these people are people I genuinely enjoy. It is a pleasure to catch up with them each year.

One of them is a woman with whom I worked almost 3 years ago. She was a designer who was laid off in 2006. I liked her a lot and was sorry to see her suffer unemployment. I've encouraged her to work at Rotunda ever since the lay off. She just started working there this spring, and I am delighted the connection bore fruit. It is a perfect fit for her.

I don't often recollect connections I've made for people. When I was assigned to an assessment team at the publisher several months ago, it surprised me when the team leader for the project reminded me that I had helped her daughter get a job. I didn't know her well and it had been a couple of years since I made the connection.

In general, I regard life as a struggle for most people. If I can assemble people to bring them joy or make something happen, I am happy to do it. I consider any good outcome a blessing. As far as I am concerned, these things are pleasant happenstance and I don't think anyone owes me a favor.

Perhaps I have inadvertently embodied the goal of tending the garden without a focus on results. I'm glad that is the advice I adopted without realizing it. It feels good to be a force for good in the world. I swear I can die happy knowing I tried to make things better, and sometimes succeeded.

Taming the Obstacle

Lately I've been thinking about obstacles within. I know I spend my time stupidly, and then am angry with myself that I haven't produced any paintings or filed enough job applications.

So, I've been thinking about why I let myself putter instead of being more industrious.

A friend and I recently discussed a mutual acquaintance, a very talented artist who produces scant work. I don't know him well, but two friends know him intimately. He appears to be hindered by a desire to create perfection. His expectations are so high it is unlikely that he will meet them. Therefore, he doesn't attempt to create anything.

As we discussed this, I recognized some of the sentiment in myself. It is something I have struggled against in my own art practice.

Conversely, I am a non-writer who is able to maintain a fairly robust blog. It is riddled with imperfection, but I can live with it because it isn't precious to me. And unlike my paintings which have a small audience I care about, I don't really expect anyone to read my blog.

This idea led me to ponder the increasing disposable nature of writing. I recall as a child thinking that writing was a permanent enterprise. Any assigned report invoked writers block as I imagined the improbability that I would produce something worthy of gold embossed leather binding.

Today I wondered where this notion emerged. It may have been my own twisted invention based on popular culture's output about writers and their work. As crazy as it sounds, my mother may also have facilitated it. Many people keep copies of their school work, but she is the only person I know who reads it and regards it highly.

This morning I read yet another essay about the demise of print publishing. While I prefer to read any text on paper because I find a lit display mildly distracting (resulting in less careful reading), I acknowledge the merits of a paperless world.

The world is fluxuating continuously, yet writing in books seemed fixed. Hence, reprints and multiple editions with revised forwards. Now that writing is lifted from the permanence of bound paper, it becomes a fluid stream of text. Much in this stream is carelessly formed and read with little regard. Most of it is not intended for posterity.

As an amateur writer I take comfort in the disregard for and disposable nature of the modern writing platform. The medium now reflects art making; a process that happens over time.

So I conclude that the goal is to just do whatever I need to do without considering outcome.

As I write this several literary allusions I can barely grasp emerge in my mind. I recall some Chinese and Indian philosophy emphasizing action without concern for result. A notion that confused me at the time. It struck me as a call for aimless action.

In the West, Voltaire's characters in Candide recommended that we tend the garden. I suppose it should be tended without expectations of yield, but just worked thoughtfully.