Feeling a bit embarrassed by yesterday's post. But, one blunders on...
Today, I went into Manhattan, to meet with my artist friend Chris Kienke, and to go to the glass exhibit, 'Playing With Fire', at the Museum of Art and Design at Columbus Circle. A large installation piece of mine is in the show -- a commission made for a friend and collector.
It's quite complex and sizable, and colorful under the gallery lights. One of the conditions the owner made, in agreeing to lend the piece for the show, was that I be on hand, to dismantle it, pack it up, and reassemble it for the exhibit. And, of course, to repeat the process in reverse, in April, when the show will be over. Sometimes I feel less like an artist and more like a day laborer.
Chris suggested that we have coffee, so we left the museum (going upstairs to 'Robert', the museum's restaurant, seemed out of the question. 'Robert'? Even a glass of water would be out of my price range), and I thought we would go to the Cosmic Diner, which should have been right down the street. Except, of course, that the entire neighborhood seems to have been demolished and rebuilt, with no diner, Cosmic or otherwise, in sight. There was a decent-looking coffee shop, though, and we ducked in there for our refreshment, and a bit more conversation. Chris is in town for the annual College Art Association convention, where he gave a talk, and looked around for other teaching positions. It was interesting, from my perspective as an ex-professor, to listen to his interview adventures. I hope he finds the right job.
And then, as is typical of me, I ran away, to get to a pre-rush hour train home. Got to Penn Station with two minutes to spare. Off the train in South Orange, I stopped into the market, for dinner makings, and walked briskly back home.
Now, with dinner over with, I must get ready for tomorrow's ordeal. Before I go to bed, I want to iron the dress shirt I'll wear, and decide whether to wear trousers, or my black jeans with my black cashmere jacket, and a black tie. John and I will leave the house by 9:30 at the latest, for Philadelphia, where we'll scramble for a parking space (it's not that I hate Philadelphia per se; many people seem to like it a great deal -- I just hate being there), and then arrive at the church at least half an hour early, for my dear friend John Willard's memorial service. The third of such services in which I will have participated, in under six weeks.
Each of these memorials has brought its distinct brand of pain. For John's mother -- the loss of family, of history, of the joy of helping her, even if our visits could only be once a year. I planted an Arabian lilac bush for her, and when last I saw it, it was still thriving. For our friend Doug -- the shock of such a sudden, unexpected death, that led most of us to try to remember just how recently we'd been in touch with him, and then -- in an instant, an aneurysm burst, and he was beyond us all. And now, I'll be sitting in another church, with another group of people, to honor a man who, in my case, has been a part of my life for more than forty years. A man whose generosity literally changed my life. I already feel as though an huge chunk of my life has collapsed with his death.
Sobering thoughts, sobering rituals, and I expect that, as I've already said, this is only the beginning of the great exodus of my generation.
Every single day, God (or whatever) gives a great many people much more than they can handle.
© 2013 Walter Zimmerman
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