Moving and Shaking

I'm back. Hope you didn't wait up for me. The art opening happened, and it exceeded my most reserved optimisms. The overall reaction to the installation seemed 1) genuine, and 2) positive. A swell time was had by all, unless I'm completely deluded. It didn't hurt that it was an unusual springlike New York evening, with an uncharacteristically warm wind that reminded me of the Santa Ana winds in southern California. And a full moon never hurts to draw out the roaming packs of long-toothed art lovers. So Your Madge was pleasantly surprised by the turnout, humbled by the response, and grateful for the support. Many thanks to all who either sent or brought their good wishes.

And now I'm immersed in packing hell. Omg. See, I'd just blanked all this out, since I was so focused on my installation, but now it's front and center, in my face. I gotta be out of my loft by the end of February, which sadistically has but 28 days. I've spent the past two days packing all my Bibles, whips, and pincers, which filled a good 20 boxes. I got way too much crap. I mean, how much art does one person need?? It's ridiculous to possess such a glut. And to make things worse, it's all really great art by artists whom I've collected over the years, so there's just no possible way that I can get rid of any of it. I'm insanely fortunate to possess such a wealth of stimulating art by interesting and intelligent artists. I don't know why I'm not envied more than I am.

Where am I going with all of this? See, I'm sorta backed against a wall. Screwed, I think they call it. I've hired a gaggle of beefy men to move me on Sunday, but between now and then I gotta load all my crap into boxes. Will she do it? Will her single-handed efforts suffice? or will her Puritan ethic crack a-twain and force her to commit the unpardonable sin--that of Asking For Help? Noooooooooooo! N'er shall she commit such an abomination. Our Madge is a New Englander through and through, and shan't ask for help unless she's reduced to a quivering puddle on the floor, at which point she will deign to ask someone to mop her over to one side, so as not to obstruct the flow of traffic. Don't mind me, folks...just step around the puddle...so sorry for the inconvenience...O gracious, did you get your feet wet? Sorry...sorry....

I've had some offers for help, but they were delivered with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm. ("You probably don't need my help moving, right?") or ("I guess I could help you if nothing else is happening on Saturday night, but will have to get back to you"). One offer of particular largess was for the shirt off an erstwhile friend's back, which excelled as a platitude, but reeked in reality, as only a well worn shirt can do. What the hell am I supposed to do with a smelly old shirt?

Next time I have a friend who's moving, I'm showing up at his or her door in my grubbies, tape gun in one hand and coffee in 'tother. No questions asked, no refusals accepted. This is why we're here--to alleviate each others' burdens. Period. On occasions such as the one in which I currently find myself, God transforms itself into a verb. God is what we do for each other, and by extension, for ourselves.

But to pull myself through this move, I just keep thinking about my new digs, which is a brand spanking new 701-square-foot studio, with rivers of milk and honey flowing through it, well-hung bath attendants at the ready to wipe me down after every shower, comely virgins to test the bath waters (not that I'd know what to do with a comely virgin, but I'll bet the bath attendants will), and golden fountains pumping out gin & tonics 24/7. You think I'm kidding? I'll send you a postcard, or better yet, come see for yourself. Now. And don't forget your tape gun.

Above: A portion of my installation at Famous Accountants Gallery. The show is up until March 27.