The other day, I found myself staying longer in the city to attend the opening of Steven Billings' new glass art and sketch exhibit at Freeman Space. Although I had a splitting headache from the "brand new and thus infinitely better" large, flat screen monitor that SCG had installed for me, I wanted to go to the opening to support the artist who regularly worked at The Hugo, but also because I assumed that Hugo employees and sexy artistic regulars at the studio would also be in attendance.
...and I was right!
(along with some very delicious olive bread and Jelly Bellys)
I took my time at Freeman before going up to Steven because it was clear that there were many more impressive people there and people who could actually afford his stuff with which to speak. The the Hugo posse arrived and I was welcomed (thank God!) with open arms (or else that would have been very embarrassing). Many of Hugo's sexy artists were there including the mysterious Truman Roberts.
Truman Roberts AKA "Tru" to his friends is a sculptor and visual artist who makes what I would call "Una Bomber Art." Its sculpture, found objects and images that 'touched' hermits would consider art or valuable in their shacks surrounded by austere forest. Metal animal traps and cages; distressed public signs and blurry, off-centered photos of homemade mailboxes mounted on fencing can be seen in his collections.
Perhaps the most impressive piece of art associated with Tru Roberts is HIMSELF. Yum yum. I suppose, much like his work, his beauty is in the eye of the beholder but I behold him as very very sexy. No, his sexiness cannot be captured in this humble blog because the words shall seem all wrong: he's about 6 feet tall with a strong build and an ever-so-slightly olive toned complexion, probably carries 15 pounds he does not need on his tummy and always wears Caterpillar workboots, even to launches and donor parties. However, the ones he wears to fancy affairs are spotless. Call it "John Deer Chic." Although one might question why I mention the extra mass he has, but I feel that it genuinely adds to his overall appeal. To put it plainly: I cannot help but attempt to imagine the sheer force of our sweaty, man-fueled, grunt-inducing sex every single time I look at him. (yes, the previous sentence might not have made literal sense, but if you saw this man then you would understand how hard it would be to describe your fantasy passions with him, too).
But his true beauty is his eyes:
Pale as ice in the center of the iris with a bright, deep olive green border with flecks of gold.
His gaze has actually managed to stop my heart on more than one occasion. They shouldn't have been searching for Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq because they were right here in the homeland firmly fixed in Tru's skull.
The least attractive part about Tru is his girlfriend.
Word on the street is that his girlfriend is in her very early 20's (that shows, in all the wrong ways) and also an aspiring sculptor (that does not show... or actually.... it does but in the wrong ways). I've "properly met her" only once although she has been around me on more than once. I was speaking with Tru (who I did not know had a girlfriend) and she came up, kissed him and then glared at me until I left the area. Apparently, she does that to every girl that works at The Hugo. She basically tries to, in essence, pee all over Tru to mark her territory in an effort to keep females away. I've only seen her smile once and that was when Tru introduced her to the Director of The Hugo. The sad thing is that her plan does not work because he is still a terrible flirt when flying solo, most likely strays and I would have vigorous sex with him if ever given the chance not only for the experience but also just to spite her.
No, I am not petty. Just goddamn honest.
Unfortunately, she has acquired two nicknames: "Mini-Me" and "The Mountain Troll."
"Mini-Me" because she actually is starting to look like Tru. She's cut her hair very very short and has these VERY thick eye brows that look like two Siamese twin caterpillars in parallel attack positions on her forehead.
&
"The Mountain Troll" because she is about 5' 2", appears to never wash her hair, and yet uses ample product.
Again, I am not petty. Just goddamn honest.
BUT I DIGRESS, yes Tru was there avec Troll but I spoke with neither of them because she keeps him on a short leash when she's around (and he knows better apparently then to even try to look at anything with ovaries under the age of 35) and I frankly had better things to do (did I mention the olive bread and Jelly Bellys?). Why was it relevant that I told you the previous story? Who cares, but it does bother me to see hot guys going around with stupid girls and yet it bothers me more that it bothers me! I'm sure Virginia Wolfe took her life over a very similar paradox...
So I did my multiple circles around the soiree, headache and all, and was fabulous. Yay! And, more importantly, didn't knock anything over! YAY!
After I collected my good-byes and a free beer, I left Freeman Space and thought it best to return my headache and myself to my home an hour away. But I got sidetracked as I walked by the Gotham Art Museum. It had the coolest installation in the front window and it seemed to be calling my name. It must have been written in the stars because it was the second Wednesday of the month which meant that the museum was giving out free tickets! That kind of perfect scenario can only be found in a metropolis. Much like a morning walk and an accidental meeting turning into a coffee turning into a lunch with an unexpected phone call turning into a barbecue attended by strangers turning into a baseball game turning into a movie turning into drinks on a porch turning into a beer in a hot tub is the kind of perfection that can only be found in a suburb.
Instantly, I got lost among the many rooms of art in the museum and slowly realized why people complain about the small exhibitions at The Hugo which slightly intensified my headache. I was enveloped by Georgia O'Keeffe, Karl Andre and John Singer Sargent; art from Japan and colonial America. I even saw some of Tru's work there that was only recently acquired by the museum which was very cool until I saw some colorful toilets and started to wonder exactly who curated the place.
The other thing that I noticed in the museum were all of the young couples who were also taking advantage of the free Wednesday offer. While meandering through the labyrinth of chambers, I would occasionally see an attractive, clean cut young man through a neighboring doorway but almost as soon as I spotted him his girlfriend would drift into view and I would over hear them discuss which pieces were their favorite and even more occasionally hear the guy say quite bluntly that he didn't "get" it. The one scenario made me lose interest out of decency and the other scenario made me lose interest out annoyance, both scenarios made me lose interest out of disappointment. Although I would have loved for the free Wednesday event at the Gotham Art Museum to turn into a John Cusack movie where I would be admiring a Shaker chair and a man would come up and casually mention that he like the piece and I would agree which would slowly evolve into a hushed but enthusiastic and humorous discussion during which I would realize just how handsome this art-supporting, independent, open-minded man actually was and he would ask for my number and I would thrice refuse him until I was so taken by his charm that I gave him my number and within hours he would text me saying how great it was to meet me and the rest would be history. Vera Wang-ed, Tiffany-boxed, Spring-ceremonied history.
But that did not happen.
Instead I got to be the girl in the bright green rain boots standing in front of a huge Native American art display by herself with a hand held art description listening device hanging from a long, black nylon chord around her neck and keys to a mini-van in her pocket. Did I mention that I was also carrying a small notebook to jot down artists' names and quotes? Yes, I could have easily been mistaken for Scarlett Johansen that evening.
Needless to say, my headache showed no sign of decreasing.
The highlight of my Gotham Art Museum experience was passing the two high school students shamelessly making out behind a small paperback book to stand in a large room that seemed be dedicated to Pointillism. The couple ran passed me to continue making out from behind a temporary wall and though I could not see them the sound effects painted even more of a solid picture than the Pointillism. Suddenly, I heard the loud sound of heels smacking against the floor. Two tricked out trannies entered the room in full cocktail (no pun intended) attire complete with hair styles and nylons. The pair made no attempt to invent delicate voices, but instead spoke loudly and with bass. I could not hear exactly what they were saying but the first conversation ended with the more frail of the two saying "spiteful bitch." The ladies then moved closer to me where the blond proudly told the brunette that art should not be bought it should be leased by the artist. She then made a dismissive face to the piece we were all looking at and moved swiftly to a room full of ugly, old jewelry. It was fabulous. Sadly, the trannies did nothing for my headache.
Finally, while studying a giant, black, foam rabbit peering down from directly above a mannequin of a small child, I was told the museum was closing. I started back to car and after getting lost on the way to the elevator and then getting lost in a desolate and silent parking garage where I kept having thoughts of getting brutally raped and murdered a la "Saw" I climbed into my white mini-van and headed home.
On my way home, I attempted to reflect over everything I had seen, but my headache made it impossible to call up any specific images. Although I had been in the museum for over two hours I could only recall about three things with quick glimpses of the Troll and sparkling grapefruit juice. Little did the blond tranny realize that her/his statement was still true: we do not actually own the art, we only lease the images from the artist. And it was in that black, sleaveless, velvet covered precis that my headache finally found peace.
Fin
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