I’m going to fast forward. We’re into our third day of the fair and still standing. Despite my incessant kvetching, we managed to get through set-up, get the lights focused, glass cleaned and all the clutter crammed into our tiny stand closet, before dashing back to the flat to change and return in time for Opening Night.
“Can you focus it 2.5 mm to the left and about 1.5mm up, Steve?” Loughlin obsessive? Yet another misunderstood personality.
OPENING NIGHT. I understand it was lavish. I remember little after the third glass of champagne and my head hitting the table as Diana Goddess of the Hunt flew across the room in the company of a Whippet.
In the distance I could hear lovely speeches, awards announced, sponsors thanked, applause, the sounds of glasses clinking. And somewhere a voice calling me to rise and go to my post.
The next two days have passed in a similar blur. Punctuated by interchanges with heaps of truly fascinating people, many of whom I’ve known for years and yet couldn’t put a name to, when they greeted me with great hugs and evidence of the camaraderie I’m sure we’ve shared, somewhere, someplace… It will come to me eventually. Probably when I’m back home in Portland.
Art fair visitors come in all forms and habits. The solitary sort.
A flash of students.
Artist explains art to artist.
Some visitors require a more forceful approach.
Tomorrow (or some day in the ever-shifting future): the fuzzy business model behind all of this….