1949

For some reason or no reason at all, the year 1949 popped into my consciousness the other day, and now it's like a brain worm and won't go away. I'll get to it, but first I have a thing or two to say about household matters that have been giving me grief.

Yay! The heat works again. I've been jiggering and poking the main heater in the living room for weeks after it stopped working just like that. Got a new thermostat ( thanks to Ms Ché who found one at the hardware store the next town over ) and installed it. It didn't seem to work at first, then about 24 hours later, ta da, the heat went on, and it seemed to be fine for a few days when it started acting up again and then stopped. I rejiggered the thermostat and the heater (a Williams console, 50,000 btu) started working again. Hm. Then a week or so later, boom, no heat. Why? Don't know. 

Doing some research, I discovered "You need to clean it out every few months, dude." Oh? OK, so I looked inside and behind it. It has never been cleaned out since it was installed in I believe 2005 or 2006. Lots of dust, lint, cat hair, yada yada in there. Hm. It's kind of like the blower with the burnt out bearings I found out long after the fact I was supposed to oil every two months or so. OK. I didn't get an owner's manual with the heater so none of this was known by me. I found one online though the other day, and I saw there was quite a maintenance checklist that I previously knew nothing about. OK.  

So I managed to get the top off the thing and put the vacuum hose down into the guts of it and got most of the visible dust and fur off the parts I could reach, got the top back on and set the thermostat at 72° and voila! Fired right up, and has been working just fine ever since. Of course the blower doesn't work. I could get a new one, but I couldn't install it to save my life. [It would require detaching the heater from the chimney, moving the whole unit into the room to allow access to the rear panel behind which the blower is installed, removing the old nonfunctioning blower and installing a new one, then reattaching the heater to the chimney and hoping for the best]. And I discovered the oil ports I was supposed to be using all those years were basically unreachable without turning the whole unit around -- ie, going through the same detach/spin around/reattach measures as required to replace the blower. Nope. Not gonna happen.

But thinking about it, we prolly should have a wood-stove instead. Most folks around here have one or more to heat their houses while we continue to rely on the main gas heater and several small electric ones for the bedrooms and bathroom. What I've thought of is replacing the main heater with a wood-stove and adding mini-split units (that heat and cool) to the bedrooms, kitchen and the living room. Well, that's a thought.

In the first part of 1949 I was living in Iowa in my father's ancient house, parts of which dated back to 1849. There was a coal furnace in the basement which heated the house through long pipes and registers. I think they called the coal furnace "the octopus" because of all the pipes coming off of it. 

I remember the smell. Coal burning has a very distinctive odor, much as gas does. It's sharp to my nose, and I don't like it. 

But I remember the house was warm. Maybe overheated. During a cold Iowa winter, temperatures can often be in the single digits or below zero outside. If you're out in it for any length of time, you kind of get used to it, though it might be uncomfortable. Moving from outside to inside, a normally heated house might be 72° but it will feel way warmer to you. Uncomfortably so.

My father's house was kept warm enough at least to my way of looking at it as an infant. Later I would develop a real anxiety and even anger about being cold, but it was due to... other things.

In May of 1949, my parents were divorced and I was bundled into the back of the 1942 Packard Clipper that my mother got in the divorce settlement from my father (along with $1000 and a bunch of other stuff) and we set off for California. 

My mother hated Iowa, hated my father's family -- who happily returned the favor -- and from time to time hated my father. Other times, they were the best of buddies. 

I really don't know how long it took to get to California. There were no Interstate freeways, after all. Just getting to Route 66 from my father's hometown must have been a challenge. I'm thinking it must have taken close to or more than a week for the whole trip. I remember rolling around in the back of the car, falling off the back seat more than once, and actually having a great time. I loved to ride in the car -- unless it was cold. And in May, it wasn't.

When we got to California -- to my mother's hometown near the Coast -- the struggle began to find a place to live. I remember a little house, Spanish style, tile roof on the porch, prolly from the '20s or early '30s. I think it only had one bedroom and my sister slept on the couch in the living room. I was in a crib in my mother's room. But where did the furniture come from? Mystery. It must have been bought with part of that $1000 my mother carried in her purse, right? I suppose. 

The furniture was mostly maple in Early American style. Very popular at the time. I still have some of that early stuff -- a bookcase and drop leaf table. The furniture was simple, inexpensive, and I suspect she bought it because it was in stock and could be delivered promptly. Maybe from Sears. Montgomery Ward?

I remember the lamps were glass kerosene ones that had been converted to electricity with a kind of bulb holder and cord on a cork that you shoved into the wick/fill hole of the lamp, and my mother -- or was it my sister? -- put frilly shades on them. Very authentic. 

My crib was white and I slept in it until I was five or six. I don't remember having a real bed before then. But I may not remember correctly. Given how often my memory cells misfire these days, I may not be remembering at all. Yet there's something there, something genuine. I remember a lot. I misremember some. And I don't remember many things at all.

1949, I shouldn't remember anything, but I do. Quite a lot, still. Even before I could walk.

And now that I have relearn walking, and I'm still as unsteady on my feet as an infant, maybe memories of 1949 are just right.

 

Obsessing on the Little Things

Since I was hospitalized -- actually before that -- and have been in continuing recovery, I've noticed how much I've tended to write and think about and act (when I can) on what most people would consider "the little things." 

Being able to walk, for example, or bend over if only a little bit. Being able to bathe and dress myself, make a sandwich if I'm hungry, go to the bathroom and not have to pee into a bottle. These are tiny victories, but they loom enormous for me given my once pathetic inability to even sit up on my own.

The ordeal with the washing machine(s) has tested my ability to do all sorts of things, figure out a wide range of movement, make repairs, deal with customer service (ha ha) and so on, even managing to move around a lot of stuff in the kitchen.

Having heat in the house and a washing machine that doesn't flood the room makes a big difference in living more or less well, doesn't it?

Oh there's more. I've been putting up reed and bamboo screening fencing in the back so that (maybe) our neighbor's dog (Shepherd) won't see Ms. Ché when she goes for her constitutional walk which she feels obligated to do because of her diabetes. A circuit around our property amounts to a quarter mile, so four times around is a mile, and she likes to do five circuits. If Shepherd is out though, he'll come running to the fence, barking and jumping lustily, and scaring the wits out of Ms., even though she knows he can't really get to her, and according to Mike, Shepherd's owner, he wouldn't hurt her. He just gets excited to see her!

I'm very slow putting up the screening. I'd hoped to do one roll length a day, but that went out the window when the wind came up a couple of days ago and we had to stay indoors or get blown to pieces. Even if I was well, I couldn't do the install outdoors in high wind. But it's partially up and seems to be holding. Seems to be working with Shepherd, too.

There's a lot of clean up to do around our place which I'm plotting out day by day, slowly, slowly, as the weather gets better. I hope to get some things going in the greenhouse, but I don't know. Maybe. Ordinarily, I'd be starting now, but not this year. Too many other things...

I'm just amazed and kind of delighted that I can do much of anything. I wish I could do more, much more, but the little things I can do are surprisingly satisfying, and so much of it is so simple, like an infant learning to walk or a child figuring out how to accomplish tasks. 

I even managed to replace a non-functioning clock hands, quartz mechanism, pendulum and electronic chime with a new outfit I ordered online and it's really a thrill that it works. Keeps relatively accurate time! And doesn't chime between 10:00pm and 6:00am! The chime, too, is modest and not overwhelming like the three mechanical clocks we have that chime so loudly they practically blow you out of your seat. Yay!

Yes, these are all "little things", but damn, being able to do them at all is amazing for me. And how little we notice and appreciate our abilities when we have them.

Washday Redux

So I received an Auertech twin-tub portable washing machine a couple of weeks ago and tried it out. Washed better than the full-sized Maytag in the laundry room by far, and I thought, "Wow, this is cool."

Problems developed pretty quickly, though. The drain seemed to stop draining. Unless the drain hose outlet was literally at floor level, nothing came out. And at floor level, you can imagine the flood. What a mess. I contacted customer service, and after some back and forth, they suggested a fix which I tried, and it seemed to work for a bit -- have the drain hose start discharging into a tub at floor level then raise to sink level -- but it was inconvenient and still messy. Then I found that the drain hose itself had numerous pinholes which were fountaining water whenever the drain was activated leaving puddles I hadn't noticed before. I reported this to customer service and after some back and forth over a partial refund and sending a new drain hose, they decided it would be best to send a new machine altogether. I could do whatever I wanted with the original one. 

The new one arrived in a few days, and I tried it out and the same thing happened: numerous pinholes in the drain hose, failure of the drain pump to empty the washer, puddles on the floor. I contacted customer service again, and this time their solution was for me to purchase a stronger drain hose, they would pay for it and they would also give me a fifteen dollar credit for my trouble. Maybe like a fool, I said OK. 

I found a drain hose online, ordered it, sent the info to customer service, and they credited my account slightly more for it, but no $15. The drain hose arrived in a few days, and I set to work replacing the old one. Not an easy task. But after a bit of struggle, I got the old hose out and the new one in and tightened down, and I was giving it a try.

Ta da. Drain worked. No leaks. Simple. Straightforward. Or so it seems.

The new drain hose is much sturdier. Whether it will last, I don't know.*[See Update below] It's also much longer, so it isn't such a struggle to get it to the sink where it drains. In fact, it's a piece of cake. So to speak.

I thought about my mother in law, Ms. Ché's mother, who had a twin tub Easy washing machine that she never used. In fact, she preferred to wash clothes by hand. Amazing. I never knew how the Easy washer worked until I saw a video on YouTube, a video I can't find now.

But what I recall is that using the Easy twin tub spinner washing machine was something of a challenge. It worked somewhat like a wringer washer without the wringer. The wash tub had to be filled from the laundry sink faucet, clothes and detergent put in the tub and the agitator activated by a lever. Washing could be timed up to fifteen minutes. After the wash cycle, you had the option of draining the wash water and refilling the tub with rinse water, or putting the wet, soapy laundry in the spinner and returning the wash water spun out of the laundry to the wash tub to use for another load of laundry. Interesting. The spinner could also be used to rinse the laundry by having rinse water flow over the laundry while it is spinning and then draining that water into the laundry sink. It was complicated, but it could be done. But I could see why my mother in law didn't want to use that machine. There were so many dials and knobs and levers and water inlet and outlet hoses and mechanisms, all of which involved complexity that seemed outrageous and over the top, that it was much easier just to wash laundry by hand. Easy! Well, that was the washing machine brand name. It wasn't so easy to do, however. This is a different video, but it's also more complete:

These new and very popular twin tub portable washing machines are similar, though not quite so complicated to use. There was a whole spate of similar machines made in the '50s and '60s and mostly sold abroad. Few of them made their way to the US after fully automatic washers became relatively standardized and priced so that average families could afford them.

We had a fully automatic washing machine (Kenmore) by 1954. Most households I knew of at the time did as well. Never looked back until washing machines were crapified both by regulation and by manufacturers' tinkering so they didn't wash very well and would break earlier -- after a few years' use rather than the decades washers once could be relied on -- and they be nearly impossible to fix. And doubled or tripled the price at the same time. Cool, eh? What could go wrong, right?

Buyers revolted. Looked for alternatives. And they found them.

Portable twin tub washing machines are one answer. There are many others. 

For a couple of hundred dollars and about an hour of fussing with the drain hose replacement, I now have two functioning twin tub portable washing machines. As well as a partially non-functioning full-sized Maytag. 

Wash day should be a cinch!

An UPDATE: Harrumph. Well, new drain hose worked the first time just fine. Second time? Not on your life. Pinholes, approximately the whole length of the drain hose. They only showed up when the drain pump struggled to get the water raised to the height of the sink. And I noticed, too, that a number of these pinholes were covered with transparent tape. Interesting, eh? I'm sure, then, that the seller or manufacturer knew of the problem and literally tried to cover it up. Not a good look. 

Because we have two twin tub washers, both with new drain hoses, I tried the other one with the same laundry. No leaks. No fountaining of drain water from pinholes. Don't know whether that will last. But it is... interesting.

[Now the microwave we got a year ago to replace one we used for almost 15 years has given out. Just like that. Appliances these days....!]

The Rigidity of the Rectangle

Since I don't/can't get around much these days and haven't been able to go much of anywhere or do much of anything outside the house and doctor/dentist visits, I've taken to vicarious rambles at art shows -- LA, NYC, Basel (Switzerland and Miami Beach) and various others presented on line, including Sotheby's and Christie's auctions. I can put them up on my teevee and have a grand time for hours and hours. 

I really miss some of the galleries in Santa Fe but oh well, that's how it goes. Enjoy it while you can.

Ms. Ché has been talking about going to Europe this fall. It would be her first and probably only trip to Europe, and she figures she better do it now while she can still get around -- bless her -- and has the verve and energy needed. She's got an itinerary that includes what can only be described as an "Art Tour," to Paris, Giverny, Amsterdam, London and possibly Ireland. She has friends in London who are eager to host her there. She thought about Florence, Venice and Rome and then considered the hordes of tourists even in November and crossed those cities off her list. Vicarious tours will have to do. 

She's very specific about where she wants to go and what she wants to see -- Van Gogh, Monet, Seurat, Renoir, Constable, Turner -- and where she wants to spend her "play time." She's been recruiting friends to go with her since I'm not in any shape to do it, sadly. I think she's got a couple who are more than interested.

At any rate, we'll see. She's working on it. And when she sets her mind to something, it happens. I would say "we can't afford it," but pffft. We can, and she knows it. Just means we can't spend money on something else, that's all.

While vicariously touring art shows on the teevee, I've been pondering the "vocabularies" -- the absolute rigidity of form and often content. And I've been looking for "signs of life."

So much of what we consider "art" is absolutely confined to the rigidity of the rectangle. Artists try to break out of it and for the most part can't. The galleries and museums will only show rectangles with paint daubs within the confines of the shape. Only. Exceptions might include circles or ovals in multiples arranged in -- rectangles.

The form is so absolute that anything that breaks it is jarring and feels unpleasant. 

Content is similarly constricted. It must be abstract, nothingness, shapes, decoration, or emptiness. Representational art is most often confined to expressive portraiture or passive eroticism -- which must feature the feminine form almost exclusively. Male eroticism is a category not typically shown even now.

I look for signs of life even within the rigid constraints on form and content, and it's there, now and then, but mostly what I've seen are relentless copies of one another, artistic plagiarism if you will, all in an effort to attract the same buyers, the same 20 or 200 buyers who want the same things.

This rigidity probably goes back to the Renaissance, no? The Medici and other Florentines demanded X from the artists and got it, over and over again, And they never changed or grew or demanded anything else, so they never got anything else, and now neither do we.

It's all the same, over and over and over again. Some better rendered than others, some more or less provocative, but mostly never deviating from what the artists are told (yes they are) the buyers "want."

Sigh.

Years ago -- how long, maybe close to fifty now -- I did a set design for a 1920s play. I consciously wanted to evoke the art of the time, so I made the background into hommages to Kandinsky, Klee and Miro. I had great fun painting the flats in back, airbrushing them into my interpretations of well-known paintings by these artists, not copies but renderings "in the style of..." I used a slide projector to project photos onto a large screen behind all this, some of them my own "in the style of" Man Ray for example, others lifted from contemporary magazines and books. Again, trying to evoke the art of the era.

The rest of the sets were artistic interpretations of the times. We even had a car made into a rolling art show. The whole thing was great fun to do and extraordinary to view. Much more interesting than the play -- at least to me and some of the audience.

I never did anything like it again. Once done, I didn't think it needed to be repeated, but in the art world, artists must repeat whatever "sells."

The market is confined, and the market wants "X" not "Y" or "Z" but "X" and only "X" and if you want to sell, that's what you do. Period. End of discussion. 

That's why you see so much the same, so much that appears to be someone else's work, so much that has no real "life" to it, but is done solely to please a "market" -- ie: galleries that sell to a select client list, not really to the public at all.

Artists have tried to find ways to break free of this constraint. Some are successful; most are not. It's struggle enough to create the work; selling or creating a market is best left to someone else, no? That's a whole other struggle that can be just as consuming if not more so. Leave it to someone who knows the business.

I won't go into the nature of that business here, but let's just say it's... special. Not for the faint of heart.

I think that has to do mostly with the nature of the clients who buy art. These people are after something in particular, not unlike Renaissance buyers, and have little or no patience for something outside that rigorous, rectangular box.

They want what they want, and that's it.

They usually get it, too. 

So many artists groups in the 20th Century tried to counter this demon of empty sameness with mixed success. Ultimately what they had to rely on was full time jobs teaching because their work didn't sell, or rather didn't sell enough for them to make a living.

That is a continuing problem.

If an artist is not able to sell his or her work, then what are they to do? Online opportunities have really expanded the market for art and democratized it to some extent. That's a good thing, I think. But it is still marginal. 

Part of the problem, I've long felt, is that for the most part, teachers don't teach technique, so artists are largely left to their own devices to figure out how to do something, how to accomplish their objectives with the materials at hand. Some are able to rely on one another for technical advice, how to do something. But often every artist they know is in the same boat trying to figure out technique on their own.

Why this is so -- still - is historical going back to the abstract expressionist movement that denied the necessity for and authority of technique and technical expertise. If you're working in that style, technical proficiency is probably not useful or desirable though the style itself requires its own technical proficiency, and if you're not working in that style, you are definitely left to flounder while you hope to figure out some way to do whatever it is you hope to.

I had to figure out how to airbrush on my own. No one who knew had the time or inclination to teach me, and there was no internet at the time to show me what to do. The few instructions available were... opaque. If you didn't already know airbrush technique, they made little sense. But gradually, I got the hang of it to do what I intended but not to do anything that airbrush artists were noted for then and now. There's no way I could accomplish that kind of subtlety and detail. But that was OK since I wasn't trying for it. But what of somebody who did want to know the ins and outs of airbrush technique?

I have purchased a number of soft pastel works -- portraits and dogs -- that are very delicately and realistically rendered. They might be considered "commercial" in that they are widely produced on commission for sale to interested clients, by artists who are technically proficient. I've done quite a few works in soft pastel, but I am not at all technically proficient. What I do is rather cartoonish, really. A portrait of Ms. got me more than one sideways glance as I rendered her hair orange and did not try for a realistic rendering. It is definitely "cartoonish" and is definitely a portrait. I rather like it and so does she, but some others who have seen it scratch their heads. Other pastel works include landscapes, abstractions, and one of my favorites: "Hommage à Mark Rothko (unfinished)" an orange oops, red square on an orange background, with a little flip on one corner of the orange red square on an orange background. "What?" There. That's it.

And so on.

I've taken to kind of studying my own works because I do them in a sort of frenzy, almost a trance, and it may be a long time before I can actually look at them critically. "Is this any good? Or have I wasted time and materials again?" Hard to say.

And I realize the vast bulk of my work is costume renderings and set designs, hundreds and hundreds of them, some of it rather nice to look at, but none of it intended to be "Art." 

Come to think of it, all these renderings are rectangular. Hm. The rigidity!

I'll close now...

Um, "Royalty"

The other day, for no good reason, I was thinking about my visit to the King Tut exhibit at the De Young in San Francisco some time in the mid '70s. I went with "the wife" (Ms. Ché) and her mother, "Gramma." I was very excited to get tickets as it seemed to be sold out. We drove from the Central Valley, at least 2 hours, and parked, I think, on Fulton St. It was whatever the street was behind the museum. And we only had to walk a little way.

Almost as soon as we entered the exhibit, I began to experience an abdominal cramp. Ultimately, I only saw the famous gold funerary mask and a few of the pretty things left in the tomb before I was in such severe pain that I had to leave. I sat on a bench just outside the doors, then lay down on the lawn in front of the museum, groaning. Maybe an hour or so later, Ms. Ché and her mother emerged from the museum and found me outside. I was still in a lot of pain, but slowly managed to get up and hobble back to the car. Thank goodness it was close. We had planned a number of other stops in San Francisco to eat and to shop, but we decided it would be best to drive home instead. I don't remember whether I drove or she did, but more than likely Ms. Ché did while I groaned in the backseat.

I considered this little aborted adventure one of my few brushes with Royalty, in this case the long dead King Tut -- Tutankhamun. I had a book that was published about that time -- still have it somewhere I'm pretty sure -- that detailed the search for and discovery of the tomb and pictured nearly everything that was found in it most thoroughly and in many cases beautifully. I haven't seen anything like it published since. I wasn't able to enjoy or much appreciate the exhibit at the De Young, but the book filled in most of what I missed. The experience wasn't the same, however.

The abdominal pain was nearly gone by the time we got home, and I didn't have another pain like it for many years. I don't remember ever having a pain like it previously, either. So I still ascribe it to the Curse.

Later that year, or perhaps the year previously or the year after, but still in the mid seventies, I remember lining up on a blacktop driveway with about 20 others working where I was in a little town named Solvang in the Santa Ynez Valley awaiting the arrival of Queen Margrethe and Prince Henrik who were touring the area and were planning on spending a few minutes visiting and having lunch with local dignitaries. I don't know how long we waited, joking about tugging our forelocks and whatnot, being lectured on protocol, etc.

Shortly, the motorcade arrived, led by two motorcycle policemen. The Queen and her consort were being driven in what I recall was a white Cadillac 4 door sedan, but it may have been a Mercedes. What it wasn't was a limousine. There were flags of Denmark and the US on the fenders. The car pulled up to the driveway, and the Queen got out. She was wearing a camel colored coat over a blush pink silk dress, though it may have been sky blue. She had a wide brim camel colored hat on at a jaunty angle, wore white gloves, pearls, and simple beige pumps. She carried a matching purse. As she got out of the car, the small crowd cheered, and she waved. The Prince got out of the other side of the car and came around to meet her. He was dressed in a plain suit, gray I think, and he was very handsome in a Scandinavian sort of way. The Queen, for her part, appeared very young and pretty. She waved and waited a moment while a couple of functionaries appeared from somewhere to lead them to the reception line. 

The Queen said "How do you do?" to everyone as she passed by and shook hands with perhaps five or six of those in the line. I don't recall whether I was one of them, though I can recall the feel of a gloved hand on my own. More likely, she shook hands with the missus who was standing next to me. I think she might have attempted a curtsy, but if she did, it was more in jest than not. 

Prince Henrik for his part followed the Queen at several paces behind, said "How do you do" and shook hands with everyone, thanked people for coming, and seemed quite jolly. The Queen stopped and spoke with the half dozen or so dignitaries and then waved to the rest of us and went inside. We didn't see her again.

For an encounter with royalty, this one was very brief, somewhat surprising, and pleasant. I remember we went to have lunch and chatter about it, then went back to work. 

In October, 2021, I revisited that driveway in Solvang. It was cracked and worn and lined with porta-potties and construction materials. It seemed so much smaller, shorter and narrower than I remembered. Had the Danish royal family really walked this path? I guess they must have, as we stood there in a line, tugging our forelocks and being asked/not asked "How do you do?"

Maybe a decade later, Queen Elizabeth paid a call on George Deukmejian, then Governor of California, in Sacramento. I don't recall whether Prince Philip was with her or not. We'd invited her to visit our workplace a few blocks away from the Capitol, but the Palace politely declined. We walked over to the Capitol to see the Queen, and all I recall is a white gloved hand waving a Royal Wave in the backseat of a black Cadillac limousine as it sped by and then the sight of the same gloved hand waving from the balcony of the Capitol behind thick bullet-proof glass. We didn't actually see Herself at all or if we did, it was only the briefest of glimpses.

I think she was wearing a blue dress and hat.

There was a lesson about these monarchs and their manifestations that we could learn from. They present a very carefully, indeed artfully conceived and prepared facade, rather like the stunning gold mask of King Tut, and they may -- or may not -- be pleasant enough when in the presence of the peasantry, but they don't deal with us rabble at all. No, they have People for that. The ones they deal with more or less directly are the "Dignitaries," the Important People, Those In Charge. Or, contrariwise, those with obscene wealth.

No one else except their staff.

It's been this way for as long as there has been royalty, monarchs and such.We the Rabble sometimes get to look on as They pass by, even now and then see them greet the lowly, but they are not really dealing with us at an official or human level. We are at best useful props, but mostly we're not even there.

This sense of "notness" when dealing with the lower orders is commonplace among many categories of the Upper Crust. The rejection of any contact with People Who Don't Matter is not unheard of. But usually it's a matter of separating and isolating oneself as much as possible while being... um, "polite" when contact can't be avoided. Always maintaining one's distance, keeping the lowly at bay.

Though Tut's tomb was raided and looted by Carter and Carnarvon back in the day, there's a kind of democratization in the presentation of the loot to the public. Anyone who could get a ticket could see the exhibits that have traveled much of the world, and the Egyptian Museum in Cairo showed much of the tomb contents for many, many years. 

While he was alive and at his funeral, his person and tomb contents were not for the view of the People. They were a Mystery.

And that is ultimately what all of those who rule us wish to be. Monarchs must have a public presence, but it's a mask. They hide behind the gloved hands and the "How do you do's". What else can they do? What should or could we do about it?

After a while, we might begin to understand how much they loathe us.

Then what?

My mother liked to tell a tale that she was "a direct descendant of Marie Antoinette." I never knew where she got this notion, but when she said it, she adopted a very aristocratic bearing, head high, nose up, chin forward, and spoke in a nasal pitch that was her imitation of posh. No, she wasn't an aristocrat, far from it, though she tried to marry into what she thought were aristocratic families -- well, for America -- and largely failed. But she said her mother's mother was independently wealthy and her mother inherited a fair chunk of money when her mother died. My mother's stepfather, may he rot in hell, then spent it on hairbrained schemes: a motor court and filling station on the Redwood Highway in Willits and then on a very bogus gold mine in Nevada that went belly up when the two "partners" took off with the cash leaving her stepfather to hold the bag, and he just barely escaped going to jail for fraud --- even though he was the main one defrauded. So he lost all the money, his and his wife's inheritance, and moved back to California where he went to work at the Mare Island Naval Shipyard, while his wife, my mother's mother, wasted away from untreated stomach cancer -- they were Christian Scientists -- and died in agony a few months later. My mother never forgave her stepfather whom she blamed for her mother's death and for losing her inheritance.'

Much later through Ancestry.com, I learned what may have been part of the source of her claim of Royal descent. My mother's biological father was from a semi-prominent Indiana family that claimed descent from noble Huguenot refugees who settled in Scotland in the 17th century. That was their claim -- passed on to me through a cousin I never knew about who got it from a descendant of my mother's uncle still in Indiana.

I never found a shred of evidence that the story of descent from Huguenot refugees was true, but there was plenty of evidence of rebel Scottish blood coursing through the veins of that family.

Scots and English. Natural enemies united in the United States, raising six sons, maybe not so happily, but surviving and only losing one son to an accidental gunshot wound, and then, of course, losing their black-sheep son -- my mother's father -- to an accident (or maybe not an accident) that cut him in half in a St. Louis railyard when my mother was five years old. 

So it went. My mother was not raised in poverty by any means, but she never had the social status she believed she deserved. She didn't know poverty until she married for the first time. He was a gas station attendant working for her step father -- who always ensured she had "enough" and even gave her a new car in the middle of the Depression. Later her husband became an oil jobber -- selling petroleum products to stations up and down California -- and later still, he claimed to be a vice president for sales at Chevron oil. Was it true? I don't know. But it hardly mattered. He and my mother divorced in 1941, and she struggled for years until she got work at the air base and met my father, scion of what she thought was a rich family in Iowa. Well, that saga will have to wait. 

But this story is already too long. And I'm happy to say the only "royalty" I've found in my ancestry is the possibly bogus story of a Native American "Princess Snowflower" ancestress on my mother's side (she knew nothing of her) and deep in the past, complicated relationships with the Drake family in England. Sir Francis Drake's uncle Sir John was apparently an ancestor, and then there were threads through the British royals through him and his ancestors so deep in the mists of time, Camelot may just reappear in mystery and majesty. 

So it goes....

The Wedding

Friends of ours are getting married -- after nine years together -- in Colorado in October. There is much excitement over it, and much family togetherness being developed during the interim. The bride and groom are both "half" -- one parent Hispanic, one Anglo -- but both were raised by the Hispanic parent. 

Both are artistic. She's a crack fiction writer, specializing in young adult-ish, fantasy, horror, and humor. She's a terrific storyteller. He's a visual artist focusing on graphics, illustration, and -- on his own -- contemporary fine art painting and portraiture.

They're working on a joint project, a fantasy screenplay they hope to sell to Disney. 

They're young... well, under thirty, barely. They figure they better get married now, cause they aren't getting any younger, and if they intend to have children, they better get to work on it. 

Both, interestingly, were only-children, so they didn't have brothers and sisters to contend and compete with. Both were spoiled rotten in my view, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing in their case. One of their parents in both cases worked for decades in public service and they are about to retire with fairly fat pensions. That's a blessing, one that is increasingly rare in the hardscrabble existence laid out for our collective future by Our Betters.

They live in Santa Fe, have lived their whole lives there, but are eager to move somewhere "better". They consider Santa Fe dull and insular and unable to provide them with the kind of creative lives they want to live. Where would they go? Denver. Los Angeles. San Francisco. Seattle. Somewhere "out of here."

Somewhere where people ("who matter") appreciate what young people have to offer and bring forth from their imaginations and creativity.

That's not, they say, Santa Fe.

I'm in no position to argue. While us old fogies see Santa Fe as a brilliant hotbed of arts and creativity, we don't live there, and likely wouldn't under nearly any circumstance. It is tight and insular and often backward looking. Instead, we live way out in the wilderness, where we don't have to conform to anyone's "idea" of happy retirement and we feel we have the freedom/liberty to do and be whatever moves us. In Santa Fe, we know there is a code of conformity to one's status, wealth (or lack thereof) and position in life that cannot move even a millimeter from where you've been, though you may have moved thousands of miles from wherever you lived before to settle in Santa Fe.

Out here in the wilderness, there is the liberty to do and be whatever you want and live in any fashion that appeals to you, limited only by the absence of an infrastructure to support certain objectives and ways of life. Well, if we didn't have an income to get by with as retired old fogies, our lives here would be rough, maybe impossible. If we didn't have decent health care insurance, one or the other of us, if not both, would have been dead long ago. If we weren't able to find and stay in a home of our own out here, it's hard to imagine we'd live as well in a rental -- if there were one. 

So in many ways, we're lucky and grateful.

Our young friends planning to get married in Colorado in the fall reject Santa Fe -- where they've lived all their lives -- as an appropriate long term home for them and their children (if they have any) because it's too hidebound and insular. It's very difficult for creative efforts to get out of Santa Fe.

From our perspective, that's true anywhere, but they have a far more intimate understanding of the difficulty than we ever could.

But then I think of Meow Wolf, which we've never quite figured out, that began in Santa Fe and has become a multi-million dollar arts/curiosity enterprise that has expanded to a number of other cities in the West and appears to be rock solid financially and artistically remarkable if not high-end brilliant. It doesn't represent High Art, but it is filled with New Art, experimental whatevers, and immersive arts experiences. I'm told, though I'm not quite sure, that it provides a handsome living to dozens of creatives throughout the West, something that is difficult to achieve anywhere. 

It's one way Santa Fe has tried to reinvent itself from a rather staid -- and let's face it, segregated -- traditional Art Market -- selling high end High Art by nationally and internationally "known" artists in expensive galleries along Canyon Road and scattered throughout the city, but creating not much at all and largely ignoring much of what is locally created -- to a potential hotbed of cutting/leading edge contemporary creativity.

Our friends could stay and be part of what's emerging, but they say they'd rather not. There's "something better" out there, and they'd rather join that. We don't necessarily agree, having had a good deal of experience in Los Angeles, San Francisco and Seattle (not Denver, though, only a superficial long-ago taste of what might be coming). 

The wedding is in Golden, Colorado, in October, and we've been told to "wear autumn colors." Forbidden is black on black which has been my "going to events" outfit for a while now -- not that I've been able to go to Events for quite some time. 

So now I have to think about and plan a whole new outfit. That'll be fun and a change of pace. I get some of my clothes direct from India. I think I'll start looking there. Heh.

The Art Market

Over the years, we've bought a lot of art: paintings, prints, photos, posters, sculpture, etc. We're overloaded with it because we hardly ever get rid of anything. And of course being the kind of folks we are, both of us create art. I'm looking around our living room as I type, just to get an idea of what's here on view right now, and it's kind of overwhelming, starting with some art photographs under the Art Deco mirror over the sofa. There's one of Half Dome in Yosemite, one that I took in the early 2000s of the Aztec Motel on Central in Albuquerque (since demolished), and one of the confluence of the Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers at Harper's Ferry. Each has meaning to us, places we've been, places where the spirits of the place seemed very alive and stayed with us to the present day. The Aztec was especially notable in this regard, for when it stood, the buildings and grounds were literally covered with art. Anything and everything was put on view, and the result was what I thought was a folk art masterpiece. The city apparently ordered it to be demolished, and its loss is still keenly felt by many. But of course, many more don't even remember its existence. 

There's a small tray with an arrangement of tropical butterflies, and on the other side of the photos is a framed crocheted piece featuring my last name which was done by a friend in Wisconsin and gifted to us for an anniversary (not sure which). Above that part of the wall are three large prints by Native American artists, a raven, a wolf and a bison. 

That doesn't cover all the art on that wall, but it samples some of what's here.

The Native prints were bought directly from the artists. I'm looking around to see if there's anything we bought from a gallery or at auction, but I would say not in here. There are several pieces in the entry hall, photos, prints, paintings and sculpture that came either from galleries or auction purchases, and there are more in the bedrooms, and even in the bathroom. 

Since I've been home recovering from my illness, I've taken to watching art auctions by Christie's and Sotheby's on the UTubesTV, and while we've sat in on and bid on similar events from time to time, they have really not been anything like what I'm seeing the big auction houses do. We haven't been to auctions featuring high end "name" artists like Van Gough and Rodin and Picasso and such; we haven't been to auctions where we have to prove our wealth to get in; we haven't ever witnessed an auction bid over $1,000,000. I'm not sure we've seen one even that high.

Christie's and Sotheby's focus on the Names, and they sell and resell collections with values almost beyond belief. There was one auction I saw where a collection brought in over $300,000,000. Mmm. Part of a collection of a very wealthy man (now married to one of our former Congressional representatives) was auctioned and brought over $20,000,000 to benefit his "good works" foundation. Warhols have brought $60-70,000,000 at auction or more. I thought about that and how friends of a friend's collection in California included a number of Warhols (the Elizabeth Taylor I remember most of all) that they said they bought in New York directly from the artist when they lived there. I think they said they spent a couple of hundred dollars each and they had at least a half dozen hanging on their hallway walls. They had many other prints and paintings by "name" artists which they'd bought, mostly in New York, before the artists became famous. They died, at least 20 years go, and I recall reading their collection was to be sold and was expected to bring $2-3 million but I didn't follow what happened. I can only imagine what their collection would bring today. $2-3 million per piece is more likely.

But why?

The art market is a fickle and funny thing. What you see on the surface obscures what's really going on. Kind of like life, eh?

The works of a certain number of "name" artists are assured of increasing value almost in perpetuity, but recently, those artists' works have exponentially increased in value, from low millions to stratospheric levels, never seen or imagined before.

What's happened?

One thing I know has happened is that enormous amounts of money have flooded the higher classes, most not "earned" through hard work as it were but just given to them by governments and central banks, particularly the US government, in what seemed like endless QE* efforts to overcome the effects of the GFC** on the best off among us. This money, trillions and trillions of dollars, had to go somewhere, and a percentage of it went to buy art.

The inflation in the high end art, jewelry, precious objects and real estate markets should not be underestimated. This inflation has been going on for years and years and yet it was never noticed by our crack economists who only became aware of inflation when the lower orders started having to pay more for groceries, gasoline and rent, and they decided the best way to stop that inflation was to give the upper classes more while curbing or eliminating the ability of the rabble to acquire or pay for debt.

Interesting tactic. 

Whatever else happens, the upper classes must be protected from economic harm at all costs.

So they spend what appears to us to be astronomical sums on the works of mostly dead artists, assuring that the artists themselves, even if living, get nothing. Not a red cent.

One of our Taos friends has been having a Moment in art. He's technically proficient, very handsome and charming, and he has basically stormed the Western art market with his evocative "old fashioned" tributes to art of the past. He's seen the value of his works increase substantially. Now his large scale paintings may bring as much as $200,000, about double what they would bring a few years ago. But this is nothing compared to a Warhol, say. 

After he's dead, of course, he knows his originals will probably bring millions. And millions. And he and possibly his descendants will never see a penny of it.

That's one of the many cruelties of the art market. 

Jean-Michel Basquiat  did well while he was alive and the protege of Andy Warhol. His works are unique to say the least. Instantly identifiable. But once he was dead, the prices of his works skyrocketed in the market to the point where they now sell at auction for tens of millions. And their appearance in an auction is eagerly anticipated. 

Yet it wasn't that long ago that his rough-street style was rejected. If he hadn't been Warhol's protege, it's highly unlikely that the People Who Matter would pay any attention to his work at all. But while he could sell his works for tens or hundreds of thousands while he was alive thanks to his association with Andy Warhol (a few hundred dollars if that before then). But now, the sky's the limit, assuming there is one.

What's happening, I believe, is that a small number -- maybe 20 -- of absurdly wealthy people are competing with one another to possess something that nobody else has or can have. Back in the day, collections could be formed from available works by living and dead artists, and having art in that way could be seen as ostentatious display, or contrariwise as public service. A public service when the collection was put on view by the public at little or no cost as an educational effort. 

Then, when the collector died, the collection could be/would be donated to a museum which in turn would open it to more or less permanent public view.

In some cases, collections still go to museums, but often it can't be done. There's no room. Museums won't take them. Collectors can open their own museums, or they can trade the works among themselves. Back and forth between those 20 or so. With dealers, agents and auction houses taking an ever larger cut. 

What could go wrong?

In a way, it's funny. In another way it's very sad -- and a model of our economic failures -- because artists are the losers. 

*QE=Quantative Easing (ie: Giving more money to the rich)

**GFC=Great Financial Crash/Crisis (The meltdown of 2008 which led to a decade of economic blah)