No matter the length of time you spend, contorting, binding, pushing points to just the edge before breakage, and addition/subtraction of parts, the piece itself collapses under the weight of its own being. And yet, from the wreckage a different work arrives, asking to be redefined, to be accepted as it may wish to be discovered. In the post destruction period, something new and distinctive arises.
The new direction is the door to take, just as baffling and incomprehensible as the first of the series posed. In asking to not be seen through the eyes of the first two pieces created, it insists that it wants nothing to do with its elder siblings, demanding instead to be ‘different’ or ‘unique’. So that is what you do. You throw out the rule book, set aside the drawings, and open the possibility that anything is allowed to happen.
After a long day of working through this tangent, allowing for something to grow, collapse, then be reformed in its own way, Sarah and I headed out to the opening of the Shepard Fairey and Mark Mothersbaugh show for a charitable organization that they both run. After one quick stop to pickup Lars and his friend Jeff (both dressed in grey hoodies with mandatory iPods) we headed to Echo Park expecting a subdued experience. Instead of a quiet opening, we discovered a line of people waiting outside, the ones not on the guest list like us. Sarah and I dropped the boys, and went in search of parking, discussing the time limits of waiting before deciding to abandon the opening.
To make a long story short we waited an hour, slipping in a second gallery opening across the street (which was filled with all manner of very amateur work, but noble effort), we finally crossed the threshold to the main event. The boys disappeared immediately, heading out away from the adult supervision, trying to discover for themselves what was there. Sarah and I laughed, and went in search of the bar, a glass of wine, then the exhibit, as any practiced hand at gallery openings does.
The work, was well, work. The majority of what was on the walls in the gallery wasn’t for sale, and it was very clear, very quickly, that this was all about the people standing in the space, not what was on the walls. Mark Mothersbaugh’s postcards were well done, whimsical, and with a strong eye towards design. Shepard Fairey’s work was within the context of what he is known for, which has a political and social context that is of a street origin, and a good education. All and all, exactly what was expected.
After about 20 minutes, Sarah and I found the boys, lurking a few feet from where Shepard was spinning records, watching his every move. We gained their attention and asked them if they had gone over and shaken his hand and said hello. They of course balked at the idea, then relented, inching back over to the turntables. And then they did it, they stepped forward in a pause and introduced themselves. It is amazing to see the look on a persons face when they meet their hero, intensely private, alert, and intent.
Arriving home, we set the boys off to their own affairs and conversations. At a small card table outside, Sarah and I sipped wine, and looked at the piece that had consumed our day with its challenges. Daylight, was what was needed, with a good deal of sleep necessary to clear our eyes, reset the tensions, focus back onto what the piece was asking, whispering to us.