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It was bound to happen. Word has gotten out that
I hate everything and gallery owners have begun to
protect themselves against my “satirical harangues” through pro-active measures. Take
Lori Betz of
Betz Gallery for example. She plays a
no holds barred game and will resort to
any means at her
disposal when it comes to intercepting
bloodthirsty critics, such as myself, if I were a critic, which I am not.
I had been told by others in the field that Lori was a
tough cookie, and so weeks before I visited the gallery, I began to make ready to defend myself against any and all
impediments thrown my way. (Just as an aside, I would like to point out that the word “impediment” derives from the
Latin root impediere, which literally means
“to snare the feet”. This does much in the way of explaining why people today still refer to a
bare foot as “
my little bunny".)
You are probably asking yourself, “How does Beth Secor
prepare herself for battle against a wary
gallerist?” But don’t, especially if you are going to use the word
gallerist. It’s
annoying and
pretentious. Instead, why don’t you worry about how you are going to
pay your rent? It’s a
better use of your time, and if you were going to get a
duodenal ulcer over a question, this would be
the one.
As always, when preparing for a
contre-attaque I spend the first several days
conjuring up as many different scenarios as possible in which the
opponent tries to deflect my
nugatory remarks. (Think of these
‘imaginings” as a kind of a
Krav Maga or
Kas Pin for the mind, if you will. And if you reject my
analogy, try musing on it from a
subconscious level.)
Here are just two of the many hundreds of situations I fantasized about while getting ready for my trip to
Betz Gallery:
Scenario One; I am in the gallery where I am forced to confront yet another
hastily executed and
unoriginal work of art by yet another
delusional person. I have forgotten my pen, and am confronted with the choice of jabbing myself until I
strike blood, or asking the
gallerist for a writing implement. I chose the
latter, which I immediately
climb up to get a
better view. Upon
descending, I ask the
gallerist to borrow a pen, only to discover that said pen
emits certain powerful magnetic rays that
hypnotize me into thinking that any artwork I view is naught but a
tiny baby kitten. The
kitten unfortunately is not potty trained, and I slip in
urine on my way out the door.
Scenario Two: Notified by the authorities that I am on my way to the gallery, Lori Betz immediately replaces herself with a
Wii Fit avatar closely resembling the
Lord Jesus Christ, as she has heard of my propensity for being both overtly
sycophantic and
gaseous in the presence of internationally recognized
superstars. To worsen the end result, as it were, I have been force fed a diet of h
ard-boiled eggs and lentils for a week prior to my gallery visit. Let's just say,
I won’t be going to heaven any time soon.
After wasting my time imagining these highly implausible scenarios, I quickly get down to business, physically
arming myself to the teeth and/or nines with a mess of heavy assault weaponry including a
8mm Mauser, a
Pulemyot M1910, a
Kalashnikov AK-47, and a
DShK , which I just as quickly discard having discovered that these items are not easily concealed upon one’s body unless one is morbidly obese, or has an insanely
large rectal cavity. (Note to self.) I also contemplate armoring myself in a combination
Eura patch/
Nuva Ring/
H2 SUT/
Dogue de Bourdeaux/
Fisherman’s Friend/
fluoride treatment/
H1N1 vaccine/
Life Insurance Policy but can't figure out which one to get/put in or on first, and have difficulty comprehending the
waiver excluding benefits in event of my own death.
After days of similiar nonsense, I at last take a good look in the mirror, and after removing the condom from my mouth, say to myself, “Beth, Beth, Beth. You are being ridiculous. Lori Betz is just a person. She is not some horrible
monster. She is just an artist trying to make her way in the world. What could she possibly do that would stop you from doing your job, a noble job, a job which has something to do with
hurting people and making them cry?”
How wrong could I possibly be? As wrong as a person can be without being right. When I arrived at the gallery I immediately knew all was lost. Faster than I could say
Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateapokaiwhenuakitanatahu, I was
thrown from my horse,
derailed from the track,
usurped of my kingdom, etc., etc. My weeks of
inadequate groundwork melted before my eyes and I was rendered helpless like a boiling cauldron of oh so many
deneutered Medusa headsnakes. Or something like that, only better written.
Lori, congratulations for you have felled the
mighty oak.
Please, feel free to guess which one of these determining factors threw me off my game:
A. The Betz Gallery
“Angel Store” (October 17 - December 31, 2009), in which a portion of all proceeds go to a seriously worthwhile cause,
Justice for Children, a non-profit group that advocates for abused children. (Artists were asked to create work based on the concept of angels, specifically for the exhibition. Betz Gallery often teams up with charitable organizations in order to support their good work.)
B. The outside banner for the Angel Store, whose angel is a combination
Les Miserables /
Lolita, which is a little disturbing, considering.
Scenario Two
