I’m still a little hungover, but I’ll feel better once I eat something, I think.
How did I get in such a wretched state? Well, folks, let’s look back around sixteen hours ago. I was at home, waiting on word from a couple of friends who had planned on going over to view a.thunderstorm. This was the work of creative artist and nice guy Doug Rhodehamel, whose ‘shroomy spores you may already be familiar with.
It was eight o’clock when I got a text from Jeff, saying he would be there “more like 9.” Which was fine, as the venue, SAY IT LOUD, is walking distance from my house. So, I made myself a drink and, upon finishing it, started down the road to the evening’s event. Now, the drink I made, a Fitzgerald, was a little on the strong side because I wound up finishing the rest of the Hendricks I had on hand. The amount of gin didn’t look like much at first, but upon sipping, this cocktail had some muscle. Some Mr T-sized muscle.
So, I was a little sauced-up as I walked the sidewalks of Colonialtown, and what was… well, worse or better, depending on your view, I had a bottle of Spanish cava in my bag as my admission fee. Per the event description, “2 dollars OR one bottle of cheap wine gets you in the door,” so I brought some bubbley wine in the form of semi-sweet cava. For those of you unfamiliar with cava, think of it as Spanish champagne. The bottle set me back no more than ten bucks; cava is generally an inexpensive alternative to champagne, and I’ve grown fond of it, since I’m looking for an inexpensive alternative to just about everything.
It was my first time being in the building, and it was very spacious and interesting. Doug Rhodehamel’s mother made delicious buckeyes for the evening, which were on the table next to many bottles of wine. I popped open the cork for the cava and poured myself a glass, along with another glass for Katie who was minding the admission table. She deserved it, for she was working very hard, taking money from people and giving them a little red info sheet in return. She deserved some cava. We all do.
The thundercloud, made from heaps and loads of videotape, was situated off to the side with little glowing “droplets” hanging down from it. For a further description, I shall now quote Mr Rhodehamel’s little red paper:
about this installation:
every now and then, my creations don’t go quite exactly as i planned. welcome to one of those times. this installation was supposed to feature a large thundercloud made from the magnetic tape of hundreds of video and cassette tapes. about halfway through assembly, it began to shift and sag and morph into something much different. i sat for awhile trying to convince myself it still looked like a cloud. i couldn’t and it doesn’t. it looks like a giant larva. so that’s what i’m calling it.
welcome to a.larva
And… okay, it looked like a larva. From afar. But when an observer of the installation got up close, underneath the mass of tangled black tape, and looked up, it did look like a shiny, black rain cloud. And isn’t that how we generally look at clouds anyway, by looking up at them? The best way to look at clouds is to look up, whether watching them languidly roll by, or seeing them gather into a dark storm. Looking across or down at them from an airplane erases all the magic and mystery of clouds. It isn’t as much fun as lying down on the grass and looking up, imagining the different shapes they may take: a bunny, a dog, a larva.
So, it was a good night, introducing and reintroducing myself to people who may think of me now as “that girl who got drunk at Doug’s show and wrapped a spool of videotape around her neck.” Because, yeah, that’s what I did. To explain, there was a pile of the discarded plastic shells and spools in the middle of the floor. Apparently some people were treating this pile of rubbish as another art piece. Which, perhaps, it could have been. I saw it as a pile of souvenirs, and took one spool for myself and gave one to someone else. My spool still had a bit of tape in it, and so, seeing as how it was a perfectly logical thing to do, I wrapped it around my neck as one would a skinny scarf. With a spool at the end.
Art show attendee: “What?! What are you doing? Where did you get that?”
I point. “From the pile there. It’s my souvenir.”
“My God! Do you go to MOMA and just take stuff from the walls as souvenirs?!”
I shrug. “Doug won’t mind.”
And Doug didn’t mind, in fact he encouraged me to take more from the pile of VHS debris (I didn’t). As the evening wore on, and it became further difficult to stand in heels, I bid adieu to the looming larva-cloud and stumbled on home, calling up Clark to meet me halfway, videotape still wrapped around my neck.
At 2 am, I woke up in bed still wearing my dress, and decided to properly get ready for bed. As I got out of bed, my foot hit the spool of tape, which had snaked a trail to my bed from my bedroom door. This souvenir from a.thunderstorm will actually be recycled into the work I will be doing for Blunder Bungle on Wednesday, a show organised by awesome lady Jessica Earley. Maybe I’ll try and be sober this time.
In the meantime, let’s enjoy a drink:
Fitzgerald, my variation
- 1 1/2 ~ 2 ounces Hendrick’s gin (or more, if you want some Mr T muscle)
- 1 ounce simple syrup (Stirrings has a good one, or you can make your own)
- fresh juice of one lemon, watch out for seeds
- some happy dashes of Angostura bitters
Pour ingredients into an old fashioned glass over three or four cubes of ice. Stir and drink.