We got there to discover that the keys to the trailer had been locked in the trailer. One of us went to get bolt cutters, and the rest of us tried to break the cheap Master lock.
If you need a lock, the cheap Master lock is the way to go. We attacked it with brute force and couldn't break it--well, until we had bolt cutters. And then, we began the process.
First, we had to unload all the tools and all the art. And then we waited (and waited and waited) for someone to unlock the doors.
Once we were in the building, the first task was to assemble the snow wall.
Then we had to unpack the art and install shelves.
Next we had to arrange.
And then rearrange.
And then think and rethink and decide on final positions.
And I love this picture below that looks like I've sprouted wings--an apt metaphor for the whole process, at least, when it's working well.
It was fascinating to be part of a different artistic process, to see this side of what makes an exhibit. I've always wanted to be a painter or an installation artist or a collagist. I've been all those things, kind of, but not professionally.
It made me think about curating, a topic I've been thinking about a lot lately. So much of what we do these days can be seen as curating: maintaining a blog, maintaining our Facebook page (or other social media outlets), putting together our offices, creating a department . . . on and on I could go.
It also made me yearn for something different, a different life, an artsy, edgy kind of life. And of course, I have to laugh at myself, because I'm also the same woman who looked around the Wynwood arts district as we waited to be let into the cinema, and I reflected how many possibly unsavory people were out and about on a Saturday morning at 8 a.m.
Most days, I'm happy where I am. I wonder, sometimes, if I'm too content. Does my happiness keep me from exploring my curatorial curiosity?
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