THE NIGHTMARE, 2020, oil on canvas, 40” x 30”
Yes, This Really Happened
I recently got an email from my gym saying they’re closing down permanently, a casualty of the pandemic and a bunch of other stuff. Although it was a good gym and conveniently-located near my home, I’m not mourning its departure from my life. At best I functioned as a reluctant participant in its activities…I’m not exactly a workout maven, and I only went there once in awhile because I thought exercising might help me stay frisky as a lamb in springtime. Which of course it did and everybody always notices that about me before they notice anything else.
I do have some cherished memories from that gym, and not all of these memories involve younger men asking me out on dates. I’m not totally vacuous that way, only sort of. Here’s a blog post from April 29, 2015 about something which happened to me in the women’s locker room.
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After my bi-weekly workout at the local gym, I stepped into the locker room to retrieve my purse and jacket. The place was filled with neatly-coiffed, attractive women who'd just finished an aerobics class. They radiated health and warmth, comfort and sunshine, well-appointed homesteads and handsome, happy husbands. They were pillars-of-the-community types, comfortable in their own skins. If these women had jobs, the jobs probably did not involve wearing silly uniforms. I suspected none of them had ever dyed their hair purple while drunk or spent a week in bed eating potato chips. I sensed they were strangers to existential dilemmas.
In short: these lovely and law-abiding females were not my group.
I felt safe in my anonymity as I strode toward my locker. To these women, I was invisible, a passing stranger in their midst. They were too busy chatting in gentle, hushed voices to pay attention to me.
Suddenly I spotted a scale. It was a gadgety-looking thing, a platform attached to a wall-mounted remote display. Wondering how I translate into pounds these days, I slipped off my shoes and stepped onto the platform.
As I pressed the "on" button, the wall-mounted display fell onto the floor with a clatter. The women stopped what they were doing and stared at me.
"I think I broke it," I said sheepishly.
Suddenly the women began to cheer. Some of them ran forward to hug me. They thanked me and said I was their hero. They said my secret was safe with them and they'd never tell the authorities I broke the scale. They said they hated that stupid thing and were glad someone had finally managed to break it.
I guess there's a little bit of outlaw in everyone, given the right situation.
Intelligent Life Has Been Detected in Downtown Saint Paul
As soon as I heard COVID-19 might be airborne, I popped on a mask. From that day forward I wore masks in public, both indoors and out. You could say I’m kind of practical that way.
In the beginning of the pandemic, as I went for strolls on the sidewalks near my building, only one or two other people wore masks. Social distancing occurred mostly when skateboarders swerved to avoid running over me. Gradually, as word got out about the severity of the pandemic, more and more folks sported the things. Normally-chatty strangers who used to wave hello to me scurried past in masked silence, heads down, keeping a six-foot distance.
There were, however, exceptions.
One of the fixtures in my neighborhood is a rakish young person who talks to me when I encounter them during my walks. Sometimes I see them a lot, sometimes not for months at a time. I have no idea who this person is, but apparently we’ve met. I like them a lot, whoever they are. They wear ironic t-shirts announcing things like “I’m a Creature From Outer Space.” My conversations with them are spontaneous and one-sided, with me nodding encouragingly as they banter. I’m not sure what they’re talking about most of the time, but that’s okay: that might be more about me than it is about them. They often give me unasked-for advice, which of course I appreciate. I’m very humble that way.
A couple of months into the pandemic, while out for a jaunt, I saw my quirky acquaintance across the street. Energetic as always, they lugged a large suitcase on wheels. Their garb was uncharacteristically muted, making me think they might be dressed for travel and wanted to keep a low profile during their trip.
As I stepped into the crosswalk, so did they. Although I of course wore a mask, they did not. I sidled to the far edge of the crosswalk and gave them a friendly wave.
They waved back as they passed, calling out, “You only have to wear a mask around other people.” Then they headed off into the sunset, trailing their suitcase behind them.
What bothers me most is that I don’t know if they were returning from their trip or leaving. I hope they were returning, because if even the creatures from outer space are fleeing this planet, things are very bad indeed.
Celebrities in Our Midst
Note: This post originally appeared on June 24, 2015. I’m reposting it in memory of the “cave man” who appears in the narrative. I recently got word that he died from natural causes last Spring. As he’d be quick to point out, he lived until the ripe old age of two hundred million and five. His elegance, wit, and kindness will be sorely missed!
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A real, live Hollywood movie star visited my studio during a recent art event. I'm not going to say who it was, since I didn't recognize the movie star and only found out later from a friend who witnessed the movie star strolling into my loft. Even if I'd recognized the movie star, I wouldn't have done anything about it. Movie stars appearing in the backdrop of my life are not a novelty; I used to live in Los Angeles, where movie stars mingle with peasants on a fairly regular basis.
More exciting to me is that a real, live cave man visited my studio the same day the Hollywood movie star stopped by.
I must make it clear at this point: the cave man was a GENUINE cave man, not a "cave-man type". The cave man had somehow survived for two hundred million years and arrived intact in my studio on a springtime afternoon.
At first I didn't recognize the cave man for what he was. I mistook the cave man for some other kind of man. His sartorial statement was elegantly muted, implying that he did important work in an office setting. His hair was nicely groomed, he was clean-shaven, and he wore a dark gray suit and tie. His behavior was quiet and orderly. He spoke in a language which is currently in vogue (Upper-Midwestern English). He didn't carry a club or flaunt recently-killed animal carcasses. He engaged in light conversation with the artists milling about my studio, laughing at people's jokes and listening politely as they catalogued their existential dilemmas. There was no hint that he was a cave man until someone asked about a painting of mine, which is entitled "Reunion".
"Reunion" depicts me mingling with a gaggle of brachiosauruses, raptors and pachycephalosauruses. The painting is about the subject of aging.
Reunion, 2014, oil on canvas, 30” x 40”
"I bought $75 worth of plastic dinosaurs to use as models for the painting," I told the crowd. "It was money I'd set aside for a new spring wardrobe, but I stopped by a hobby store on the way to the mall and ended up spending all my money on plastic dinosaurs."
I asked other people if they'd ever done a dinosaur painting. Everyone said yes, including the cave man, but they were all quick to add that they hadn't done any dinosaur art since they were children. Then everyone told stories about doing dinosaur art as children. Some people said they too had used plastic dinosaurs as models. One person said she was so old, plastic dinosaurs hadn't been invented yet so she had to copy from pictures in archeology books. One woman said she she was so old there were no archeology books and she had to invent fantasy dinosaurs based on tales her ancestors told around campfires.
"Well, I'm so old, I used LIVE dinosaurs as my models," said the cave man.
Which is how I knew he was a cave man.
Here's What Happens When Someone's Alone Too Much
As the global pandemic settled in and seemed like it planned to be around for awhile, I decided to require that my studio staff wear masks.
The results of this activity were mixed.
The Puppy reacted with suspicion and tried to eat its mask.
One of the Easter Chickens displayed high levels of cooperation.
The other Easter Chicken seemed uneasy with its mask.
I discovered that the Easter Bunny’s head is the same square footage as mine if you include his ears as part of the measurement.
Designing masks to fit the Pinocchios turned out to be more of a challenge.
Study for Pandemic Pinocchios.
Study for Pandemic Pinocchios.
Studio shot of in-process Pandemic Pinocchios painting.
Studio snapshot of completed Pandemic Pinocchios, oil on canvas, 18” x 24”
So gee, it’s been great hanging out with you, but my egg timer just went off and I need to go rinse out my hair. I decided my hair isn’t curly enough, so I’m giving myself a home permanent wave. Next time I’ll share the results with you!
Love, Nancy
