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January 15, 2007

Oh What a Night

So the Next Generation opening has come and gone. By all accounts, it was a roaring success. You will have to take my word for it because we neglected to take a single picture of the event, so overwhelmed were we by the roar of the crowd. In fact, there were a tremendous number of people present at 2:00 when the various artists were assembled to be photographed and made to speak wise words about their work. So many people, in fact, that both rooms were full and the stairwell was clogged. I kept looking about for the fire marshall to come put the kibosh on the whole affair, but he couldn't have made it up the stairs if he had wanted to, so we all suffered through our speeches while people listened and smiled appreciatively.

Robbi and I had practiced our speech several times, anxious not to repeat the debacle from the First Friday at the book plate. We were careful to switch back and forth, to make occasional jokes, and to cagily deflect the question of what we are trying to say with our books by turning the tables on the question and reverting to a clever discussion of process. Apparently, we decided, what we are up to is subverting the traditional relationship between word and image, creating a tension within which the reader is not certain whether to lend primacy to the words or the illustrations. Or something like that. It seemed to go over ok. We ended with metaphor in which the act of creating a book was akin to a pregnancy. I'm not sure if it worked. People tittered, but perhaps uncomfortably.

After the introductions we retreated to our section of the gallery. We were mobbed by people curious about the books. We answered questions, signed copies, explained subscriptions, shook hands. It was awfully gratifying. I'd love to feature pictures of the fun, but there are none. Perhaps another picture of a small, cute dog?

This dog is not Jake. This is Edgar, surrogate child of friends Holden and Michelle.

Speaking of which, thanks to Holden and Michelle for making the long trek down from New York City. Thanks also to the many other friends who took the time to come: Christian, Emily, Matt, Supi Loco, Beth, Armand, Bernice, Jill, Courtney, Michael, Uncle Bill, Uncle Ken and Miss Betty, Mr. K, Stella, Casey and Anne (and Hughes and Meg), Tom, Elizabeth, and Sarah. It was wonderful to see you all. I wish that I had taken pictures with all of you, smiling amid the throngs.

There was some success on the "selling art" front. Robbi's largest (and most expensive) clay monoprint was sold by two very nice people we are glad to know. Someone else whom I have yet to meet purchased an entire set of the limited edition books. Four of the French explorers sold (three to an extremely sophisticated couple from Baltimore with astonishingly good taste). And we sold a bunch of softcover books. I can't now quantify "a bunch" because I have yet to talk to Carla about the reckoning. And I think we might have added a few subscribers to the list.

What was most exciting was the opportunity to talk with people about our books, hear their thoughts, see their faces. But not take their pictures. As I mentioned before, I completely forgot about that.

The three hours went by in a flash. Suddenly it was 5:00 and we had to leave. We walked the 54 steps to our barn, which was already inhabited by partygoers.

Although we had made two pans of my patented 7-layer dip and had accumulated various vegetables for dipping, etc, we lacked intoxicating libation and so sent Holden, Michelle, and Stella to take care of the problem. They returned with enough hooch to intoxicate a medium sized whale. The party suddenly got a lot more peppy.

We finally let intern Kate stop making books and come to the party. She cleans up real nice, no?

People mingled and talked. I'm sure that there was all sorts of intelligent conversation. An intense wave of exhaustion hit me suddenly and I lost all ability to comprehend or articulate. I entered a trancelike state, ostensibly engaged in pleasant conversations with old friends, but really asleep, my brain resting in a tropical place.

When I came to, even the babies were hitting the sauce.

It was a great party.

This morning, we went up to the college playing fields with various dogs, including Edgar, the French Bulldog.

I'd include a picture of Holden and Michelle, dear friends of ours and keepers of Edgar, but apaprently I don't think highly enough of them to have taken their picture. On the other hand, there are about 15 pictures of Edgar and me.

I don't have pictures of any of the other dogs, including my own. Here is another of Edgar, from the night before. Apparently his is a burrowing breed.

After dog fun, we bid Holden, Michelle, and Edgar farewell and left ourselves to take intern Kate to the airport. We thought that we'd take her by Annapolis on the way to BWI, as it is roughly on the way and her entire east coast trip had heretofore consisted of lovely views of the inside of a barn. We lured her to Chestertown with glorious promises of a day strolling museums in DC. Said sidetrip never materialized and we felt guilty of bait and switch. So we ate some lunch, strolled the lovely crooked streets, and ended up by the water for pictures.

Me and cousin Kate, honorary idiot

And Robbi.

And here's the question of the day, what IS this contrivance?

We found it in a crooked alley next to a crooked building on one of Annapolis's crooked streets. We know this: it is historic. The crooked building was historic. There were plaques. We lacked the time to read them. So help us if you know. It seems like a well on one hand, but what, pray tell, is the pile of stones about?

As we walked back to our car by way of the Maryland State House, I recalled the thrill of jumping several days before, and decided to do so again.

So I jumped.

But wanted to jump higher. And so jumped again.

It was a good jump, I think in retrospect. In retrospect, I think I might have been satisfied with the jump. You may think it a vain thing indeed to jump again, to attempt to best this jump with another even grander.

But again I jumped.

And instantly regretted it.

For you who lack the keen eye, here is the jump's aftermath.

Alas, the simultaneous distruction of my pride and favorite jeans, both flimsy things, in retrospect. Neither worth gambling on the unlikely success of a subsequent jump.

There will be no more jumping, in spite of the joy of the show, of the friends, of Edgar the French Bulldog, of intern Kate and her outstanding work this week. in spite of the promise of tomorrow as an opportunity to sleep in. We're taking one day off. A day of repose and recuperation.

Before starting Volume 5 on Tuesday.


Posted by bogenamp at January 15, 2007 01:02 AM