Convention Hall

The large convention hall is shaped like a rectangle, though there are many banisters and stairs to divide it into multiple chambers, giving the impression of many rooms and divided spaces. The only windows and natural light come from the four sets of glass doors on the south side of the building which are spread every one hundred feet. Besides the exit doors which provide only minimal light through the tempered glass, there are the front glass double-doors and its overhead windows on the western face of the building.

Interior light mostly comes from the intensely bright white spotlights that dangle from the wooden ceiling. The light is directed downwards by large metal lampshades with a diameter of two feet.

The space has a cozy modern feel with angled beams of thick wood that jut out from the ceiling at 35 degree angles and end at the floor of thin gray carpet or ¾ of the way up the vertical beams which are spaced evenly along the sides of the hall, standing every twenty feet and providing structural support for the roof and foundation.

Twenty steps from the front glass doors is a 15-step staircase covered in blue carpet. It leads to a small annex above the main space of the convention hall. The annex has an a-frame shaped rooftop and opposite the front staircase is a maroon railing with a view of the convention hall and another set of stairs that lead directly down to the main lower floor.

The heart of the convention hall is sunk a bit deeper into the earth than the two long sections on either side of it which are elevated by four feet. The three distinct spaces are separated by metal banisters. The outer raised sections are accessible by several equally spaced 5-step staircases that lead to the middle section. There are three staircases on each side of the interior space.

Throughout the three sections are eight-foot wooden tables. Each table is uniquely decorated and covered with varying styles of table clothes. Some are black, others white, some in colorful fabric or cluttered with felt letters or plastic-wrapped artwork. There are hundreds of tables lined up one next to the other. Along the exterior the tables are set up a few feet from the wooden walls. In the center of all three chambers, the tables are aligned to create a large island or donut in the center of the space.

On every table there is some form of artwork. There are books and thin glossy comics. There are dolls, key chains, buttons and shirts available for purchase. There are hundreds of handcrafted goods, all sewn, pasted, drawn, or painted. There are small paper zines and stuffed animals made out of plaid fabric, buttons and stickers and knitted mittens and artwork in mats and wrapped in protective plastic.

Behind every table there is at least one person, though several have two or three. Some people behind the booths smile brightly and try and make eye contact with the people milling about the space. Others stare into books of their own, trying to appear disinterested and distracted. Several are in conversation with their table-mates and others engage actively with the people in front of their table, encouraging them to leaf through books or try on jewelry.

An intense hum of conversation and activity fills the space. It is like the low drone of an airplane, its decibel only detectable once it’s gone.

Gallery

The double glass doors sit closed on the front left corner of the building, they face a deserted sidewalk and a few tall pines. On the left wall, just beyond the door, is a long piece of rectangular black fabric hanging from the place where wall and ceiling meet. The fabric is four feet wide and hangs without a wrinkle, attempting to cover the dirty white walls underneath. The left wall is over fifty feet long and besides the one piece of fabric, it is streaked with light brown fingerprints, tiny dots of paint and grease that shine at certain angles. Like the pock-marked traces from a gopher, the walls are covered with black holes from nails used long ago. Surrounding them like tiny moons are the smaller pin pricks from plastic push pins. The ceiling above towers in a plain of darkness, without lamps or dangling bulbs. It is just the long rows of track lights that shine on each wall, pointing to them like spotlights on 2 dimensional actors.
On the back wall, just beside the right corner, is another long rectangular piece of black fabric. It is slightly wrinkled and has accumulated dust at the hem. To the left of it, tacked to a dirty wall, are a series of paper plates that have been taped together, forming a row three feet long. On the center circle of each white plate are colorful drawings in children’s colors: bright green, yellow and red, all etched in long thick strokes with crayons and colored pencil.
The centermost paper plate holds the image of an abstract woman. She sits on the ground, reclining back slightly, the weight of her torso supported by her arms and hands. Her large legs and thick thighs are spread, revealing her femininity in bright color. In black block letters, on the right side of her head, is the word: “PUSSY.”
Besides the fabric, the paper plates are the only things on the long, dirty walls. Along the right side of the room, there is a huge wall of black velvet curtains that hang from the ceiling, cutting the room in two. There is the gentle murmuring of voices coming from just beyond the curtain. A female’s voice punctuates the murmur, using the words: “oil”, “naked”, and “clothes.” The deep bass of a man responds, using the words: “trust” and “issues.”

Garage

A woman sits alone in a dim garage. The overhead florescent light attached to the ceiling and two tall floor lamps are all off. There is a row of frosted glass on the top of the garage door, and through this, the filtered light of a late afternoon finds her form and illuminates the room in a pale bluish hue that grows weak by the walls. She sits on an old wooden stool with three rungs, and her bare feet rest on the lowest one, curling slightly around the smooth bar. The stool has no back, and the woman sits up relatively straight, though her shoulders sag slightly around the straps of her thin tank-top. Below the stool is a rectangular maroon carpet that is frayed on all sides, but clean and bright in the center, a silent reminder of its old glory. Outside, on the sidewalk just beyond the boundary of the wooden garage door, worn and weathered from years of rain, are the clear sounds of passersby. The soft padded step of a man intent on his destination, the click clap of a woman’s heels. A man singing to himself, just a little louder than a whisper, the whistling of a car badly in need of a tune-up. The woman sits. The walls of the garage are covered in posters and framed paintings, but in the low light of the garage, they are barely visible. A long wood work bench sits along the wall shared with the garage door. It is clear but for a few glass jars of paintbrushes that sit close to the wall. The stems of each paintbrush are stained with paint: red, blue, not a single color is absent. Perpendicular to the garage door is a cherry wood desk, its design is slightly curved, a blend of art deco and turn-of-the century style. Each of the six drawers are embellished with delicate lined carvings that bend delicately to create the drawer’s handle. A few scattered papers lay on top of the desk, but behind them and towards the wall is a small metal box holding random papers and magazines. Beside it, a small ceramic cup holds three sharpened pencils, ready for use. The woman on the stool is just a few feet away from both desks. On the wall to her left are three black bookshelves. Each shelf is filled with books, outdated encyclopedias and years worth of magazines, there is not an inch for one more. Every shelf is dusted, each book spine completely clean. Behind the woman is a flight of red wooden stairs that lead to the apartment above the garage, they are also clean, but for a few stands of black hair have gathered on the bottom step. Below the sounds of the street outside is the gentle lull of the neighbor’s washing machine, it seeps in through the thin wall and acts like glue, gathering the scattered noises to build a singular song.

The Artist

The artist is leaning back, the paintbrush poised delicately between the fingers of an upraised hand. The brush is long and slender, a light wooden wand with blond bristles. Her fingernails are long and surprisingly clean, white tipped. Her smile radiates not only from her parted lips that reveal white teeth and the pink inside of her mouth, but also, more prominently, that smile shines in her glittering black eyes. She wears an apron decorated with pink roses over a black tank top. The table is covered with clean newspapers. There is not a stray splash of paint to be seen. The canvass standing on the table top over the support of a small easel is already halfway covered with paint. The emerging scene is a larger replication of a scene depicted on a small note pad that rests on the table top just below the canvass. Both are representations of little wooden dolls like the one that can barely be seen peeping around the edge of the canvas. Only its round pink cheek and wide almond shaped eye are visible along with the wave of visible hair that frames her face and the white cap that tops it. The eyes of the little doll and of the drawn doll and painted doll are all big eyes, dark in the center like the painter’s shiny black eyes. They are all replicas of the original, with her pink cheek and wave of dark hair crowning her head. The careful reproductions are all copies, a copy of a copy of a copy of a woman. A woman with high arched brows and pink lips and flowers on her clothes. A woman who makes things with her hands and knows the secret of making things and smiles with the knowledge of it. A goddess that has unraveled the secret of creation and does it so carefully, so painstakingly, that not a single line goes stray, that not one petite droplet of color falls wasted on the workspace or smeared on a hand or cheek. Even the brush is clean, as if the painting is being produced with nothing more than a carefully concentrated attention that burns the image upon the canvass at the painter’s will. Another pair of clean brushes can be seen poking out of a can, their bristles pointing upward just above the head of the small wooden doll that remains partially concealed by the canvass. Everything is clean. Every line is in place. And the artist beams with the joy of creation.

Recording Their Passing

The room is bright white and rectangular. There are tables or shelves along the walls and a round table in the center of the room. It seems that the room gives off its own light but there is also a window. Through it comes sunlight and a breeze that teases the white cotton curtains.
I have the impression that beyond the window I would find a serene country landscape. There
is a quiet feeling, as if am adrift in a lonesome world, the only active inhabitant in a house full of sleepers.
I am excited and very busy. I have equipment in this room. Some of it looks like the controls of a starship from a black and white 1950s TV show.
I spend a great deal of time and attention manipulating particles of sound. I separate them like selecting individual grains of sand from a vast shore with the intention of creating a Mandala.
I am immersed in the detail, rearranging the most miniscule, almost nonexistent elements.
I move and redistribute them creatively, fluidly, without concern for the end result. I have
the utmost trust that the final product will be wonderful beyond my imagination.What I am touching is real, has a life span like a flower or a snowflake.
It will expire. It exists only briefly for a single delicate moment. I am moving quickly to catch as much as I can, like catching the white butterflies of my childhood in subtler form- with a circuit board for a net.
All I am really doing is recording their passing. I cannot hold them, cannot produce them, I can only track their motion.
Like clicking a camera over and over again without looking to see what image may be developed
because all you aim to do is dance with light. So I delight in sifting through an infinite supply of something invisible as quickly as possible. If I am not quick I will miss brushing up against something unique and unrepeatable.
I have equipment for tracing this interaction between myself and the invisible tears of a hundred thousand angels, and I have equipment for playing it back...
The play back is like displaying cups of water, there is no way to know that I danced with the rain to collect those seminal pools of life spent.

Open and Exposed

My legs are spread wide open as I lay naked on a table.
I am docile, unsure how i got there or when i may leave.
There are two people crouching, kneeling close to my legs, they are peering inside. I recognize the dark haired woman, but the man at her side is a stranger to me.
A handful of small white stones that resemble pearls have just fallen out of my vagina. They bounce slighty and roll away. The couple have noticed the stones and are curious. With their eyes and body language, they communicate with each other: What were those little white things? Will she produce any more? They move even closer to my vagina and look, stopping just short of touching me.