Gallery

I had been running around like crazy, there being quite a number of items still to be finished. That's the way it always is just before the opening of a new show. One would think I'd be used to it by now but, alas, I am still trying to handle all the minutiae instead of letting staff do their jobs. They tolerate my constant questions, suggestions, and 'helping hands' as long as possible then advise me (in a infuriatingly gentle and persuasive manner) that my attention is needed elsewhere. These are good people and have been with the gallery and me for years. I always pretend to take their advice and retreat to the inner office. That is where it finally hit me: amidst the promo materials, the print ads, press releases, and posters, this event was the culmination of my life's work! Every single thing in my life had led to this one event, this one moment. From the doodles of a child to the watercolours; from the first snapshots (taken with a toy camera 'hidden' within a "Man From U.N.C.L.E." briefcase) to the stark slides depicting my life; from the piano lessons taught by the church's choir teacher to the recordings of my pieces available at the local retail store. This is what it was all about.

A gentle tap at the door releases me from my reverie.

"Jan?" Carol spoke quietly but with the hint of a smile, "It's time for the media entry. Would you like to be there to meet them or have us come and get you after they're settled?"

I had made it clear that I intended not to be treated as some kind of stuffy royalty, so, as I opened the door, I was gathering my wind for an appropriate demonstrative response when I noticed the rest of the staff grouped in the tiny hallway and smiling. Somebody behind me barely whispered, "The dream of a lifetime!" Turning to face the disrespectful cur, I heard (again from behind), "All together, finally!" I almost placed the voice this time, which is damned hard for an old deaf man to do, and didn't turn to respond but flinched, nonetheless. Their tease's timing disturbed, the next two lines came atop each other: "All your music in the air!" and, "And all for free!" I clearly heard from Carol and Tyrone. Still attempting to respond to their crassness, I fumbled for words until I spied the grins on everyone's faces. Their little tease then became obvious and I felt my ever-ready temper melted at the hands of masters.

Yes, it was my show, in my gallery but I had earned the right to do it and I was sure I'd be taken seriously and reviewed solely on the merits of my work (indeed, of my life). If the criticism was coming, I'd better be thick-skinned enough to deal with it. These people, my friends and coworkers, shared my dream and understood the risks as much as I did. The smile I've been known to hide as I slip deeper into the consummate definition of curmudgeon succeeded in creeping onto my face and we all simply stood there, proud of our collective work, proud of each other.

I wanted to speak to their teasing a 67 year old man, but "thank you," were the words that passed my lips and all that was required for us to feel the strength of our group before plunging into 'The Event'.

Walking back to the main floor of the gallery I took stock of how we looked, noting all dressed just as we chose: Carol wore the same basic black evening gown she's preferred for openings for years. She goes to 5 or 6 a year but talk of her eccentricity is muted by her exalted status as a patron of the local arts. Her Land Park mansion is filled with the best (and most expensive) pieces of Sacramento's local artisans, a lot of it from my peers, but also some of my rare forays into sculpture.

Tyrone is so tacky I'm certain he'll wear a 'HELLO! I'M TYRONE!' sticker on an old plaid shirt in his coffin. As if to illustrate my point, he was wearing a red and black checkered shirt with a neon blue tie. ("Nobody will ever forget my name!" Ty proudly stated to our collective groans.) He is very useful, though; if he likes something I did, my work is either dead right or dead wrong.

James says more with no words than anyone I've ever had the pleasure to know. Though he's something over 70, there is always a beautiful woman at his arm but I've never heard him say a word to her. His perfectly tailored formal tuxedo looked splendid, but, if not for the gleam in his eyes, I'd wonder if he had simply fallen asleep standing.

Marylyn dresses and acts like one of her age: barely out of college, she brings the 21th century firmly into our gallery with youthful exuberance and enough tattoos and pierced body parts to scare many a man my age.

And, finally, York the cat, completes our group with the precise touch of class by using what little energy and motivation he still possesses to launch his 18 pounds into my arms and offer a quick lick on my nose prior to starting his freight-train purring. I can usually carry him for about the same amount of time the doctor said I should be 'allowed' to stand. Well, my arms get tired when they want to and I'll put York down when I damn well please. We just might do that in 30 minutes or it just might be longer! But no doctor is going to dictate my preferences, no sir!

The press has been respectful of me for many years but the broadcast reviews have been spotty at best and downright mean at times. I have never publically spoke of them or treated their authors with any less than equal courtesy. I figured that art is in the eye of the beholder but I do worry about sales; an old man needs to make a living, too. So, I dread to think of poor reviews slowing sales and hope this show will turn around some of my harshest critics.

The pre-show interviews were pleasantly upbeat and I was eager to let the public inside. A simple glance to James and the doors were opened to a crowd of nearly 100 people. As openings go in the storefront galleries of downtown Sacramento, this was wonderful! True, there were a lot of personal friends of mine and the staffs', but there were a lot of people I'd never seen before. Some had copies of older albums, compact disks, and cassettes but most just seemed to be interested in the opening. The handshakes were all brief (because of the condition of my hands), if at all (thanks to York still in my arms) but good-natured happiness was apparent everywhere. The slides were all rotating randomly, displaying their images of my photography, while the 30 minutes of "Freak" was looped and playing in the background. Marylyn was being so overwhelmed with buyer's orders that Carol had to find Tyrone for assistance!

My usual bubble of privacy, my 'no entry zone', was violated frequently but carefully restored by gentle, yet firm staff until York called out from my arms. Immediately, a nondescript woman of about 50 years approached us. James couldn't get between us before her intense eyes and even more intense smile froze me solidly before her. York almost went ballistic, turning his face to me as if to plead to be released. Looking up from the cat to the woman, I seemed to see a different person than before. Where I once saw 'nondescript', now I saw charm. I smiled as I spoke: "This old boy is always friendly, but he sure seems to be taken by you, and his taste is impeccable."

Her smile quieted the polite chuckles of those standing nearby and I was almost holding my breath when she replied,

"Yes, his taste is fine, to be with a gentleman such as yourself." She offered a perfect curtsy and the small crowd around us broke into easy applause. I started to bow, thought the better of it (Not being able to straighten up would be rather embarrassing right now...), then tried to reach for her hand, intending to give it a small kiss. York was not in the mood to be patient any longer. He wriggled free of my arms, thudded to the floor on all fours, and sat quietly at the woman's feet. She looked up from the cat to me and raised an eyebrow, as if questioning my motives for sending a cat to do my flirting for me!

"It would appear that he has taken an interest in me," she offered to me. "And, what, pray tell, do you propose to say for yourself?" spoken to the cat, as she crossed her arms.

"Meow." It was the clearest thing to an answer I've ever seen a cat give to a spoken question and York just sat there waiting, as if for an answer.

"Oh! I do most certainly agree! And, what of Jan's usage of over-exposed images (the Light) in contrast to such dark subject matter?" Seeing her still speaking to the cat, some of the people around us began to politely wander away from what may be a mildly disturbed woman in an art gallery. I may have, too, except I had become far too intrigued by the strange behaviour of an animal I'd known for over 9 years.

"Meow." Again, the almost human reply. I fancied it meant 'Cool' as I'd always assumed York enjoyed my work, beginning to wonder about my own mental stability.

"Perhaps we should discuss this further with the artist?" she said, leaning forward slightly and opening her arms, as if in greeting. And, to my astonishment, York launched, jumping into her arms! The remaining bystanders gasp, then laughed as my cat kissed this lady on the nose which I now wanted to kiss.

"Let's take a little walk around, Jan, and see if we are all in agreement." I must have looked stricken because Carol whispered in my ear,

"Just don't leave us to the 'sharks' (our name for the media) all night!" and nudged me towards the stranger.

We approached my first painting, actually the first watercolour I'd ever completed. As she described it and supplied her analysis, we chatted easily until I realized she understood all about it. Likewise the sculpture, the photography and the music. In fact, she knew everything there was to know about my work. But, the strangest part was that her analysis was correct. Very few people understand what I mean artistically but she knew. This went on for far too long for my liking. I love a good mystery as much as the next guy, but I'd had enough.

"Madam, I do not generally ask such questions but this is all too strange for me to ignore. If you would be so kind as to explain how...?"

Laughter as easy as a summer wind in a park lit her face beautifully and I relaxed in spite of myself. We sat on one of the few unoccupied settees; York repositioned and lay in her lap.

"I've a couple more surprises for you, yet. York, which one should we start with?" And I'll be damned if it didn't appear as though York raised his head and 'mew' a cat-whispered response.

"All right, we will start with you, York! Jan, I had a stroke almost 10 years ago. It just hit me and I was fortunate that the people around at the time recognized the symptoms and rushed me to the hospital. I was there for almost a month as the doctors tried to get me responsive to medications. Then, I was sent to a long-term care facility (a damned 'old folks home', if you ask me!) for about 5 years. It took a long time for me to get my speech back. All through the worst years anyone could imagine, I had a roommate named Cora and she talked to me, talked at me, and played your music. I came to love the soundtrack to "Forest Song" and as I would struggle to regain my speech I often tried to get her to play it again and again! It was never played enough for me and I never stopped trying to get her attention. I finally awoke one morning and she was already playing it! I heard the last 2 or 3 minutes and it ended! I turned my head as much as I could and actually said my first intelligable words in years, "Play that again right now or I'll beat you senseless!" She screamed, the nurses came, and everyone was crying and carrying on. As you can see, I'm pretty much fine, now, but I left that room alone. I think God took Cora the next day because her work was finally complete.

"I went home and finally started to remember the life I had left behind. Jan, 'York' is such an unusual name. How did you come to name him that?"

"I didn't name him. That was the name.... Oh, my God! That was the name on his collar! The collar you gave him, what, 10 years ago, before your stroke?" It was all starting to ring true and I began to feel as though my world were collapsing atop me. I loved York as much as I've ever loved anyone, so much so that he was an equal partner in this gallery. She obviously saw my distress and shook her head.

"There is no reason to worry; we just met so we can't have a custody battle over the baby before the relationship even starts! York, are you willing to take a little walk?" Once again, as if he were listening, York responded. This time it nearly broke my heart.

I started to make my apologies to someone when James headed me off. With a slight nod, he turned, nodded to Carol (who gave a big 'thumbs up' over both Marylyn and Tyrone taking orders), and turned back to grace me with a rare word: "'night." I love that man!

The cat, the woman and I stepped into the night and walked slowly through the streets.

York realized where he was almost a block away from her Victorian apartment, his first home. The 'new-found conversationalist' spoke, meowing loudly, ran at my feet and jumped into my arms. I was moved to tears and gratefully accepted his kisses. We stopped at the old brick walkway leading to her place,under a huge elm.

"Come on in, have something cool to drink, and we'll decide where you will spend the night," she said.

"I don't even know your name! And besides, I am still a gentleman!" I was astonished!

"Don't get your pants in a bunch, buster. I was talking to the cat," she practically purred. And in my arrogance I had been so sure she was talking to me! She stopped my stammered apologies with a wave of her hand and a good natured chuckle.

"At least let me fix a drink you'd like before you share my bed!" York 'answered' for both of us: his 'meow' left no room for discussion and he led us to the door.