This morning I dropped off two of my favorite large pieces (“Panamint Mountains” and “Sunset After the Quake”) at the Dalton Gallery on the Agnes Scott College campus for the upcoming Decatur Fine Arts Exhibition. While I am thrilled to be included in this exhibition (5/22-6/2), I experienced what I always experience when I leave behind my beloveds: grief.
Just as when I would take my real children to some kind of daycare, I first anticipate the event with dread. As I wrap each piece to protect it from harm during transport, I study it carefully as though I may never see it again. Driving to the venue, I am nervous and overly cautious. Then, when I’m actually dropping off the artwork, I fret over the seeming disorganization of the recipients and their cavalier attitude toward my precious progeny. For some reason, I want these strangers to tell me how wonderful my pieces are and to assure me that they will take every care in protecting them from harm. But, alas, it’s usually “Lean them up against the wall and initial here.” I summon up enough courage to walk away and not look back, and it takes the drive home for me to stop shaking.
Last week I left “Dante’s View” (my biggest and I think my best so far) at the Mason-Murer Gallery in Buckhead for a charitable event (the Jay Shapiro Legacy Scholarship Foundation Gala), and I was disappointed to “lean it up against the wall” without even checking it off a list. The event was the next evening, and if my piece didn’t sell via silent auction, I would be notified to come pick it up at Binder’s (art supply store). I didn’t hear anything, and so on Saturday Ron drove over to Binder’s to pick it up. But it was GONE—presumably SOLD! Now, I still haven’t received a check or any formal notice about the sale—I don’t know whether to believe it—so I am feeling as though my “child” has been kidnapped rather than found a good home.
I’m truly pitiful, and I hope that I can learn to set just them free . . . .