Chelsea Margaret

Chris Watts said to me last Wednesday that the hanging of the show is nearly as gratifying as making the work itself.
I’d argue that it was equally, if not more gratifying.

Driven by Americanos and blueberry fritters alone, I managed to cut all the clear acrylic and foam board, make 5 new pieces, drag equipment around, then write and assemble an artist statement.

It’s a wonder I made it out with as few injuries as I did.

The really good one was when I was struggling to get a nail to go further into one of the walls, and hit my thumb at full force with the hammer.

It must have been hilarious to see.

The thing about me and injuries is, when something does managed to catapult my way i don’t make a sound. I really missed my era with the silent films, because I think the flailing arms and hopping up and down and facial expressions really convey what I’m thinking. I have no clue why I don’t yell and scream and shout obscinities. Because I’m certainly thinking all of them.

But I’ll live without my thumbnail ( Which is definitley not sticking around for long). The show, is finally hung.

Considering I am now in a sleep-deprived, but happy stupor, I’ll make this easy on myself and sum up the hanging in numbers.

2 injuries. (Three if each knee counts as a hurt. They’re both bruised quite nicely)
6 total local coffee cups on the floor by Sunday night
1 laborer, besides myself ( thank you thank you thank you jason lackie for your brute strength)
1 broken piece of acrylic. If you’re ever forced to cut acrylic, you’ll understand this luck I had.
25 hours in the gallery
0 songs. I lost all means of projecting music. I had to hang the show in utter silence, which was quite interesting. Considering i always have music playing when I make the pieces.

That’s all the numbers I can think of.

On a more serious note, throwing together the whole show was more peaceful and meditative than I had anticipated. I was completely alone with all of my work, in silence, locked in a completely white room that I had the keys to. A lot, well, most all of my work probably seems extremely light-hearted, and goofy, and if you don’t have me there to tell stories about them, you may not think they’re more than things glued together all artistic-like. And to be honest, I was beginning to believe myself that there wasn’t much to them besides their formal attributes.

But then I began placing them down next to eachother, watching how they all interacted, seeing which ones would fit in the gallery, and deciding which ones would have to be shown another day. I remember each day that I made each one. In a sense, they became my journals, without me really realizing it.
Which is funny, because in my artist statement, I state that it was journaling that drew me to collage. And I gave a few examples of my extremely embarassing yet slightly endearing scans of my very first collaged journals. Complete with Freddy Prince Junior pictures and handfuls of ‘you go girl’ stickers. ( cringe cringe ). It may have been obvious to some, but I was convinced at the time I was making the pieces that they weren’t about anything. I was just practicing composition, and trying to use up some of the crazy junk I have.
But there I was yesterday, sitting on a ceramics scooter and remembering all the things I was thinking about, the gloomy days, the tired days, the loner days, they were all there. Somehow, without consicously knowing it, my whole past year was strewn in front of me. Waiting to be hung for the public. I had a half hour bout of slight panic, realizing how exposed I might be. But luckily for me, I’ve outgrown the boldness of my seventh grade journals. No one will see any “I heart Andy big-time” s with bubble hearts and such. Which is nice. But my whole year is all there just the same.

I have more insiders knowledge concerning the show…. which will be posted tomorrow.

For now, I will leave you with summation of my past weekend’s endeavor:

My only regret is that I couldn’t sacrifice more.