Patron of the Arts

Monday, December 2, 2024

Patron of the Arts

[Note from Kurt: This is a piece I put together after a particularly hilarious experience in trying to get some art work framed and matted. The time was before full tilt modernity had hit Wuhan… very few highways or expressways, only moderate numbers of automobiles, the idea of driving to another city on an expressway was new, the subway was still being constructed in the extremely outdated “cut and cover” method where they’d simply dig gigantic trenches all over the city with accompanying mountains of dirt everywhere to build the system then cover them back up, new shopping malls and temples to consumerism, “supermarkets” were “new”because folks still went to open wet markets for most groceries, no high speed trains, intercity travel was on the old green monsters, lots of rural folks flooding into the city…and the atmosphere of amazement and excitement at living in a future folks had read about was becoming a reality.

It’s not like that now. Wuhan was a city of hundreds of villages, and still is in some ways, and there was a type of infectious excitement that permeated otherwise simple activities. Now, it’s experienced and comfortable in modernity. I kind of miss the excitement….but writing helps to remember.]

It was time to decorate. Gathering my paintings and the collection of prints Xuemei obtained at the Chicago Art Institute, we went looking for a framing collective.

Finding a reference on the Wuhan version of Yelp, we descend into Old Wuhan, down alleyways that have alleys, and arrive at Xiang’s Framing. I learn Chinese Yelp is nearly as worthless as its American counterpart; clearly the accolades were for bottom dollar pricing. Now what?

Wandering rudderless, we stumble on the old Hubei Art institute, classical architecture, garden, very nice, I recognize we are in an art neighborhood, then down a teeming avenue lined with artists supplies, quirky retail stuff, an amazing store devoted entirely to the art of calligraphy.......5000 rmb (approx. $700) brushes....30,000 rmb (approx. $4,100) carved stone ink holders, it’s looking like someplace I recognize.

Entering one gallery, we find an extensive show by a local gentleman. The guy is being touted as a “grass roots” painter, he’s been on the scene for a couple decades, he’s known in certain circles in the Wuhan art scene.

I have studied the way of the brush sufficiently to know his stuff is worth a good look. It’s balanced....classic calligraphy, banners, lyrical pieces employing ancient Chinese folk stories given a modernist interpretation, excellent brushwork, great stroke....it’s good stuff.

It’s not lost on the gallery folk that a Westerner is on site. There’s the feeling again....I know they’re going to ask before they say it....”What country are you from?”.....I answer Meiguo (America)...and the star rises a little bit higher....barely mouthed whispers....there’s an American, in the GALLERY!

I sense the cameras before I see them, the positioning of people recording history on cell phones. A video camera red light.....someone is recording. I loosen my scarf and engage the learned manner of the gallery habitué, hands clasped behind back, facial gravitas, slightly shifting stance, a nearly imperceptible brow flex indicating deep thought and shifting assessment. Stopping, moving to the next piece, returning. Setting up, standing still. Remove eyeglasses, move in close. Pull back. Relax shoulders, smile. The crowd stands at a respectful distance, watching, expectant.

Around a corner, a playful piece. Long horizontal, quick, like a storm, yet, it might be Springtime. A park, a bicycle, but no, not a bicycle at all, lines delineate space yet don’t confine it, is that a baby carriage in the background? A park... a city? But it’s not! It’s abstraction, not the blanks of the theoretical, but starting with something and having the reality removed, recognizable by letting formal thought subside, it dissolves and reforms, light, beginning, it cannot be contained.

With gentle authority, the price request. A small crowd is gathering in my peripheral vision. I hear but don’t see cameras. The gallery owner appears, expectant, not cloying. The number is stated with responsible ease. It’s easily in my budget, there is the moment of doubt, it passes.

Smiling, I move close, lose smile, set in for the long hard look. The small crowd moves back respectfully, space for reflection, consideration.

I move quickly down the line and across the gallery to take in another piece that caught my eye previously. I am trailed by a dozen people. Setting up in front of the new piece, I turn my head and remove my glasses. Move forward, now back. I return to the previous piece, nod wordless approval.

I am told the artist is dining nearby, he would love to meet me, I demur, the taxi has already been dispatched to retrieve him. I notice a well dressed patron and her bored husband, suddenly invigorated by the activity of great things happening. She is infected with the need to be a part of history, I smile, acknowledging that we are in the presence of greatness, adopting the air of the most interesting man in the world, the woman is swept into the moment, shakes her husband out of his boredom, there is greatness afoot.

The artist is here, now, jaunty in a brocade dinner jacket, fashionable scarf, hair slicked back, I’m reminded of Mel Torme if Mel had no teeth, hands are quickly joined, I inform him I am thrilled with his work. He responds in odd clicks and rasps of joy, results of an apparent tracheotomy, it has not affected the excitement he brings to the room.

The scene takes on otherworldly weirdness, but I am lost in the moment as we are shown to a small stage, flowers are arranged, flashbulbs flare, it’s I and the artist, suddenly people jockey for position on stage, there are 6 receiving the adulation of a crowd suddenly materialized....this phenomenon of the suddenly appearing Chinese crowd, how?

The credit card is delivered, several blanks, the gallery owner says I have no money, no, impossible, other cards, same result, ashen faced, the gallery owner acknowledges their bank isn’t authorized to accept foreign credit cards....

I see they have lost face, much more important than mere honor. I absolve them all from responsibility, waving it off with my hand and a comment about bankers standing in the way of civilization, the relief is palpable, I pull out a wad of Mao paper (like I said, the number was easily within my grasp), I put down 50%, accounts are settled, they will accept the balance after they deliver the piece to our house. Deliver. The piece. To our home.

The piece is brought before me, where, in better light, I detect a glaring miscarriage of the framers’ art at one of the miters. Shocked, 3 workmen, now suddenly 5 (again with the crowd forming) have the piece on the floor in seconds, the work extracted from the errant frame, I mentally form images of this activity taking place at an Upper East Side Gallery, artwork on the floor, workmen scrabbling around like over-caffeinated ferrets, frantic to please while the hoi poloi sip cappuccino.

A taxi is called to deliver us to the gallery owner’s “friend” who can not only right the wrong of the recently acquired work, but who can also mat and frame my pieces. 3 gallery representatives, Xuemei, and myself are shoehorned into a small taxi, I offer money, no, the taxi is covered. We embark, art in hand.

Wuhan, being a city under construction, presents obstacles. Shunted onto a temporary dirt road in the middle of the city, we traverse back alleys, descending into smaller and darker alleys, path blocked by a cement truck, what now?…….and why does every venture into commerce in this city result in Keystone Cop adventure...?....no time to think, we exit the taxi, on foot we are blocked by a construction site, a ditch, an attendant finds a wooden plank, we tightrope traverse the open ditch on a single plank, workmen stare up at us from the hole, no apparent surprise at finding a crowd walking over their workplace, they turn back to dig, we find another taxi, continue, a quest, art must live.....we arrive at the “frame shop”.

Hmmmm…. It’s the standard 4 meter wide garage bay, work stacked to the ceilings, dusty molding hanging in worn out display racks, dried hams and pork hocks hanging on the sidewalk, a welders shop, a scooter repairman, someone cutting hair on the sidewalk, an old woman selling fruit, a yam roaster with a smoking 50 gallon drum oven offers me a steaming potato, a fish is gutted and scaled not far from where I consider mat color, but I can see finished work waiting for delivery that instills confidence.

Molding choices are made, mat colors coordinated (3 choices, not hard), works spread out everywhere for measurement, we’re looking at a total of 12 different works, the veins on my forehead start to throb in anticipation of what price might ensue, I am a simple man of limited means, the woman with the gutted fish suddenly at my elbow wondering if I want the head, I’m in too deep to get out, the calculator is clattering, the potato woman now at my other elbow...how did she get in here....(?).....now it’s both of them, pushing fish heads and potatoes at me, calculator stops, papers are shuffled, presented, certain of economic doom I hear the total.....557rmb....about $75.

The mien of the seasoned art collector finds its way back to my being, face is preserved, payment is due upon delivery....all this work and not a dime down. Mysteriously, we have developed a relationship with the gallery. I turn to thank and congratulate all attending on this glorious day, and…….

Where did everyone go? The Chinese crowd disbursement phenomenon again.....there’s a crowd, encouragement, companionship, shared exultation in this great day for art and....poof... it’s me and Ms. Wu standing alone on the sidewalk.

Where are we anyway? I have no idea. If not for Wu, I would still be there. Wu reconnoiters, we find the new subway, we are whisked off in a gleaming new aluminum tube, Art Basel is an empty shell in comparison.

Circling back around to the eternal foreigner question....what and why makes for this happy condition I talk about?

It’s not happiness like we imagine, giggles, fun, thrills. I get the sense that these crazy happenings occur because people are “happy” in that they see their dreams coming alive. Only a few short years ago, this was unimaginable, art, commerce, finding one’s way into the future......

The frantic-ness comes from not wanting to let it escape, it’s here, NOW, I’m living it, I won’t let it pass.

Anyone that’s given it much thought knows that real happiness doesn’t come from fun, but from finding meaning. It may be that the fever of occupying one’s dreams provides meaning, and that’s where the undercurrent of this happiness I sense comes from. One can’t know, but it’s the best explanation I’ve come up with so far.

The piece still hangs over our LR sofa, testament to the future.

Wuhan’s location relative to PRC’s other provinces [Source: Wikipedia]

Wikipedia encyclopedia entry on Wuhan, China.