* meant with certain degree of irony
Listening to: Black Ghosts ‘New Moon’, ‘Anyway You Want To Give It,’ Apocalyptica ‘I’m Not Jesus’, La Traviata
Went to Art LA, an exhibition of contemporary art from galleries around the world held at the Santa Monica Airport. I was there with two girlfriends, one a promising visual artist in her own right and the other I keep hoping will open a gallery of her own one day. A highlight was discovering a Swiss woman who works with photographs named Marienne Mueller. I want to collect, and although I pick up an inexpensive piece every now and then my focus is still learning, absorbing, developing My Eye. I always loved the Post-Impressionists — Paul Gauguin was the painter who got me interested in art history in the first place, didn’t hurt that W Somerset Maugham based a novel on him called The Moon and Sixpence — but my aspirations have always gathered toward something a little more, shall we say, attainable.
I would like to hunt down a particular photograph by personal heroine Lee Miller, and one day a neon-tubed rose by Tracey Emin, but other than that, who knows what will end up in my house, or when, or if ever.
Speaking of neon tubing, the below got us laughing
and might have been what sparked a conversation we had at the fledgling artist’s house, after she showed us her latest projects. I leaned against the wall and sipped coffee, still cold from the twilight drop in temperature that caught me out in a thin suede jacket. “It took me a long time to realize that people don’t like rich people,” said one of my friends, with the wide-eyed expression of someone who has just discovered that Santa Claus has been a gyp all along.
Since I grew up among the kind of people who don’t like rich people, or at least don’t trust them, I took that as a given. When I started this online journal, that part of my life was the skeleton — dressed in Givenchy — in my closet. Every now and then it would stick out a leg, or an arm, and I would slam the door on it, possibly lopping off a foot in the process.
Having money, however, is not the same as caring or being cared for, which is a point my wise friend M has made to me more than once. Which I suppose is not so unlike a comment I made some blog entries ago, about how the men that society holds up as the most desirable bachelors, the biggest catches for young women everywhere, also tend to be the ones most likely to discard them. Go figure.
We talked a bit about the culture’s prejudice against “rich people”, which of course deteriorated into darkly obnoxious joking around (“We should fight for the rights of rich people!” “Rich people should get the vote — wait a minute — we can buy the vote!”). The whole idea of “reality” surfaced — that the world we live in is not “real”, etc., which I think is absurd. No one’s reality is the same, since reality is tied up with individual perception, and ‘reality’ does NOT get defined by those who have the largest shared experience of it, as minorities have had to fight to remind us. The death of my infant son wasn’t less ‘real’ for the fact that we were living in a luxury hotel at the time.
It continues to amaze me that people will lecture knowingly about how money doesn’t buy happiness and then assume that if rich people aren’t happy, what miserable spoiled ungrateful creatures must they be? But it’s the same problems of love and family, purpose and meaningful work that everybody deals with — I believe this is what’s known as “the human condition” — and money doesn’t buy out of the struggle for answers, even if it does let you lie in the sun…or fly in a private jet to a place where you can lie in the sun.
I also posted the above picture at the scrapbook I started at Tumblr. I’m not quite sure what to do with Tumblr (other than send it some of my Plinky answers), but it’s fun, and I like the idea of collecting bits and pieces and stringing them together.