Art Stories / Personal / Stories / Theme / Work

2018 01 30 In 1970 I offered the world an internet. In 1974 my wife kidnapped our son so she could put him in school without discussing it with me: know the society would back her illegality, not my traditional rights. In 1974, having rent to pay, receiving no funding from the public, I went to work at an ordinary job, contemptible. So there I was, managing the Circle Gallery in its original locations, Madison Avenue, in the ’60s: The Whitney a door or two south, Sotheby’s diagonally across the street. The Circle galleries sold what they published: except for my store. My Circle had accumulated a decades’ worth of odds and ends. Circle didn’t publish Will Barnet or Jim Dine or Hans Belmer; but my Circle had drawers full of such. The one Jim Dine was a multiple original in a frame on an easel. It pictured an artist’s palette. Screwed into the plastic frame’s obverse surface was a pair of scissors. The palette sported colors, the colors were names: green, red, blue. (I would have been tempted, were the art mine, to mid-lable the colors.) In my yar there I moved the Dine of the easel toward the front, toward the side, in the back.
No one came to Circle to buy pop art. I didn’t think the thing would ever move. But one day a little old lady negotiated the entrance steps, stood in front of the Dine, sighed a few times, and finally said, “OK, I’ll take it.” She wrote out a check for the $1,200 plus tax or whatever it was: something in that neighborhood, low four figures.
“Jimmy’s coming over for diner tonight, and by now I really ought to have at least one thing by him.
I bit, she explained: this woman was Jim Dines’s grandmother. Or godmother. Or nurse. Something.

Stories by Theme

About pk

Seems to me that some modicum of honesty is requisite to intelligence. If we look in the mirror and see not kleptocrats but Christians, we’re still in the same old trouble.
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