a fictionalized recounting of a friday in march

((to the writing together crew - i have not been here. i don't know how it is already march. i just don't. but i am here again.))

3/10/23

“Scumbag!” 

She looked up. It had been quiet, yet forcefully muttered under his breath. Was it directed at her? No way to know for sure. She went back to checking the target app for throat numbing spray. 

A day that originally seemed fun. Mom and kiddo going to museum. Eating lunch at a fancy Japanese matcha place. Only to be foiled by a sore throat. Not hers. Kiddo’s. Insert womp womp noise here. 

It was, though, the last weekend to see the Joan Brown show. And she had tickets. So she had to go. Her MO was to speed thru exhibitions anyway. So 3, 2,1. She was the FIRST to arrive. The whole damn show to her whole damn self. As she exited the elevator all the guards sitting on a bench. Waiting. Dispersing to their assigned rooms as soon as they saw her. A flurry of quiet good mornings leaving their lips. Those were definitely directed at her. She smiled widely under her mask. ((you can tell when someone is smiling under their mask, right?))

Joan’s early work is breathtaking. The physicality of the paint. ((maybe they are still wet in the middle)). The documenting of her child, before the current era of OH WE LOVE WOMEN MOTHER ARTISTS - said while they still circle the margins. She had missed Brown at Berkeley by 1 year. This always saddened her. Not that she felt like she missed out on anything. Just that it would have been more. 

Transitioning into weirder flat paintings. Still personal. Still documenting. Love, loss, swimming. Herself. In lingerie, in swim caps, as a cat, in a fur hat… doing the thing that painters are doing so much now. But then. BEFORE. When it wasn’t cool. Or taken seriously. 

Looking close you can see all these small drips. Movements of her hand. Fraught with decision making. Smart decisions. Smart moves. Pattern on pattern. Floor lines, water lines, spiritual lines - all crossed. Still painterly while flat. It’s all an illusion anyway.  

Died at 52 says the wall text. She’ll be 52 soon. Rori was 52 last year when she died. Should she fear 52? What the actual hell? Knowing that someone died too young is one thing. Actually confronting the wall that lays this fact flat out for you is another. 

And then as she ran around the rest of the museum she kept thinking about the ages of the artists. Born in the 20’s died in the 2020’s. Born in 1991 ((BABY!)). Born before her. Born after her. What difference does age really make anyway? Anything and everything… for the young ones she thought - ah. Younger than me. Do they know how lucky they are? Even if they are deserving. For the ones older she thought - i still have time then. 

WHO FREAKING CARES anyway. Art isn’t a competitive sport. No matter what anyone says. So then she just judged art as she always did. What made her heart sing. What was technically sound and respectable. What she really didn’t like or didn’t need to spend any time with. Too shallow. Too easy. Too lacking. 

In target the lady monitoring the self checkout looked at her ID - it’s cause you’re buying cold medicine. Oh ! I recognize you. You come here all the time. But she hadn’t been in this target in probably 3-4 years. She didn’t want to confirm or deny. So she let her eyes smile. Above the mask. And just said thank you for your help. 

Exiting target 3 unhoused people with dogs sat within 10 feet of each other. The ones with dogs always get to her more. The combined feeling of i’m so glad they have a pet, but how do they take care of said pet swirling. One dog looked longingly at her and she just about cried. 

In the car thinking about CODA - the movie - and youth and desire for something outside yourself and for “success” at that. And for family and flying free of the nest ((which her child will do sooner than she’s ready for)). How we can all simultaneously know and not know what we are doing. How no matter how corny something might be, it might still make you cry. 

A tesla cuts her off. 

Scumbag! She mutters under her breath.