"Home Sweet Home" (its a joke son!)

October 10, 2009

The Run-Up to Belgravia  

            Arriving back to the Ozarks after being gone for a month is an odd mixture of relief, anticipation, and dread.  It is a relief that four shows were behind us and we are home without significant injuries and enough money to go on to the next round.  Tucker our Maltese finds his usual place on the couch, looks out the window, and goes to sleep.

            Tucker's attitude notwithstanding, upon arrival the schedule gets tight.  You force yourself to take a day off although it is not really a “day of leisure”.  A day off means not getting up until 9:30, having a big breakfast, then doing bookkeeping and not heading directly for the studio. 

            We really only had about 4 full days of studio work before leaving for Louisville, KY and the Belgravia Show at the Court of St. James Art Festival. Our inventory had been depleted and we needed to get to the studio and work.  Meanwhile, we would get clothes ready, order supplies and have them shipped Fed Ex, design some new work, take care of the yard, clean the house, get birthday cards in the mail, pay bills, and generally pack about two weeks of “normality” into nine days. 

            This peculiar balancing act is known to all traveling artists and a few other occupations but is not in general practice with the public.  Therefore, it is difficult to convey the sort of organized calamity that passes for our life as these transition periods between shows are the illusion of what passes for normal to the outside observer. 

            In other words, from the outside people think when you are “home” then that is what constitutes living because home is the most common experience between people.  For us and others in our line of work “home” is just another RV park, so to speak: except this one has a fully equipped studio. 

            In general people who know us think that being home is a commonly shared experience.  That our home-life has elements in common with their home-life in such a way that we can equate our collective experience into a familiar ground: this is only partially true.

            “Home” for the traveling artist becomes a larger, less structured and more chaotic place of being.  It encompasses a physical address, a cell phone, the cab of a pick-up truck, an RV, a studio, the Interstate Highway System, strange RV parks, show-sites, strange towns, thousands of people you do not know, other strangers, Wal-Mart, truck stops, 2-lane roads, and a few friends that one is able to hang on to over the years. 

            I use the word “home” euphemistically.  When I do I am referring to our physical address in the Ozarks.  Even there I’ve got to be careful because we have 3 mailing address (that’s another story) and at times I have to translate in my dyslectic mind just which one applies to which place. 

            Over the years miles have become measured in hours the same as over the road truckers.  The calendar is marked off into show seasons.  Money is only referred to in terms of bill paying. Calculation about making a living come to mean precious metal’s prices and the caret weight of the stones we use juxtaposed to what we owe on any given day.

            Everyone is shaped by their profession.  The artist is not immune to this axiom. A Polish artist lady told us that she was trying to explain how we make a living to her sister in Poland.  “Like a gypsy” she told her.  It is the only words that translated into Polish that came close to a description; “…but good too…” she added with an ironically crooked smile.

                                                                                                                                                                               
   
Belgravia Entranceway
                                                                                                                                                                                    
                                                                                                          
                                                                                                          


Landmark Building



Secret Garden


The Watcher

Photo credits: A Ann Reif

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