the clear air

It has been awhile since I’ve been to this place. Years ago, I used to hang out at the nearby and associated chapel. After a conversation with Mrs. XXXX, the receptionist, I would enter and engage in deep contemplation. What my next move would be. I would fantasize about how my wedding would be held there. I would just think and look at the huge muted paintings. First, there was the chapel. At the time, I wasn’t a consistent member of any particular church, but going here on a Sunday would seem close. My visiting this area and those places seem to bring solace. So you have a chapel, a museum, and a featured artist gallery. They were all in close proximity, walking distance. They were situated in the middle of a neighborhood. This was what I like most. I have fond memories of visiting with my then boyfriend. We would walk hand in hand, looking at the chicken scratch on the walls in the gallery. He would spontaneously grab me and we would dart out in a corner and make out, before the gallery guards would catch us. Those sort of things I had missed out on doing as a teenager. The museum was interesting, permanent collection of African artifacts, revolving contemporary exhibitions from popular New York artists.  It had been a long time since I’d visited the place.

I never got married in the chapel but one of my brothers did. I was a bridesmaid in his wedding. A friend died and a documentary about his life was being shown at the museum.  I left work late and couldn’t find a parking. So, I missed that event, but was able later to pay my respects to his wife at another memorial downtown.

His question, “Why haven’t you been to any of my shows?” My thought was , “Why haven’t you invited me? How am I supposed to know?” I didn’t say that. Just instead gave a direct and honest answer. “I am not really connected to the art community anymore. So, I don’t know. Where are your shows? How long will they be up.” He told me. I made a mental note to see them while on display.

I managed to visit the museum in the neighborhood between some mandatory destinations. Again parking was a problem. Plus, I had to wait as a school bus was unloading. Conroe ISD was etched on the side. Mostly white teenagers disembarked. I waited. After, circling around a few times, I recalled there being a parking lot about a block away. Found a space there.

As I walked towards the museum, I noticed some wear. It could use a little power washing. The critique had begun. I walked in and at the desk was a familiar face. Her face lit up with recognition. It was the Mrs. XXXXX from the chapel. She was now working in the museum. Or did she do a rotation? I said, “Hi Mrs. XXXXX.” She said, “Hi, it has been such a long time.” I said, “Yes, it has.” She said, “Are you still at Windsor?” I realized that she did not really remember from whence she knew me. She didn’t remember our conversations about her husband and daughter, both artists. I didn’t bother trying to make her remember. I just said, “No, I didn’t go to Windsor Village.” She looked puzzled. She asked, “What brings you here today? Just out because of the nice weather?” I answered, “XXXX told me his work is on display here.” She said, “Oh, yes. He’s here.” or “His work is here.” “You will find him in the third gallery on the right.” She said that twice, “Third one on the right.”I thanked her and walked through the museum. It felt like a mausoleum. Which poses the question: Is contemporary art dead? I could see the Conroe kids go left as I went right. I did a b-line straight to the third gallery as I was instructed. Copley was the artist in that room full of drawing, sexual in nature. I looked for a second and made a b-line right out of there. No “Welcome to the Tropics” today. I saw a couple of Walker Evans photos in another space. This made me happy.

Then I found the gallery where his work was. From a distance, I saw a piece that I loved. The earth tones and squares. I thought, “That’s what I am talking about. That is him!” I read the name but it wasn’t his work. His was adjacent. It was a portrait of George Clinton with a Salvador Dali mustache. Beneath it read “Dali.” There was another of The Notorious Big. It had another name beneath it. Being a more a PFunkster than Hip Hopster, I paid more attention to the Clinton portrait. “What is the common thread between Salvador Dali  and George Clinton?” Did Dali appreciate Clinton’s music and did Clinton appreciate Dali art? I recalled a story my brother once told me. Rick James, another funk artist, was at a party. A guy asked him if he could sketch him. Rick agreed. The guy did the portrait on a napkin and gave it to Rick. The artist was Salvador Dali.

I looked at the portrait again, immaculate. But would the kids from Conroe look at it and think Clinton and all of his musical genius? No, they would read Dali. But isn’t that how it historically has been done?

Some decades ago I was actually at another one of this artist’s shows with another boyfriend, much older. He marched me up to one of the artist’s huge paintings. He said, “What does this painting tell you? I said, “I don’t know.” He said, “The problem here that is this guy wants to be Picasso. However, he fails to realize that he is better than that.” Do Better? You’re already better Boo!