Beings: Inner seller berating

You don't have to understand me, you just have to get the picture. You know, like you do when you sleep on things. I'm beyond the point of being a delicate little bruised petal to misunderstanding. There is no understanding. It’s been annihilated as of today. Happy. It probably never existed anyway.

Beings: Information exchange rates

Translating the EMF from touch can cause a system overload. And then there's all the stuff you just really don't want to know about that you pick up. I find sounds and visuals an easier equation. But then, it really depends on time, place, space and all those other dimensions of introspection that get turned inside out and back to front.

The reign’s dust off

The woman, whose name I thought was Kelp, was at that braking point. Wasn’t sure if she should bother picking up the brush again. But she was fighting, still fighting. She had so much to communicate. It’s just that communication doesn’t always make a living, unless you start to make demands. And she was trying to think of ways to do this. “It’s not so much how much the gallery earns from an artist, so much as up front fees. I’d rather them have faith in the art they take on and get a per cent cut from the sales.”
I laughed.
This spurred her on. “Galleries that ask for up front fees are hire-out venues. They do not have a stake in the sales. And I need them to. Sales are not something I excel at.”
“Got to be a shipwright to be able to do that,” I uttered soft and low.
Kelp either did not hear me, or she chose to ignore me, her eyes tearing up, “I’ve tried, but I think it’s a skill like art, either you have the guts of it and can develop it to the point of an artform; or, you’re just really doing a chore because people expect that, like driving, every adult does it.”
“I know what you’re driving at,” I say. “You want things. Well, so do I. But it’s not working out that way. Art is like dancing was in the 80s. And art in the 80s had a boom. It’s reinventing itself right now. The old schools are trying to invalidate the new, because it is somewhat nascent and hasn’t been bastardised yet. New art is the background to an advertising jingle at the moment. At least dance got to be the background of a song. I can’t even have faith in the book industry anymore. Huge gulf, people hate wasted paper… markets only want what worked in the past. But let’s not drive our conversation into this hole.”
She pursed her lips annoyed at my paronomasia. She thinks it’s dumb. She thinks it blocks the path to real conversation. “Let the experts drive. Let the experts sell. And please, let the artists do their art is what I say.”
But Kelp’s not having a conversation, she’s giving me a lecture. I want to get back to painting or something rather than thinking about how difficult it is to be part of a world that likes driving. I’m not interested until cars can hover and emit oxygen or something lovely to make the world feel less choking.
“They should think about what the average artist might earn and have to pay to create art and they’ll soon realise $1000 in up front fees isn’t viable. That’s not a gallery, that’s a venue for hire!”
And I let her have the last say, because I couldn’t think of a pun to go with hire, other than “Hi… err…” which would just make me look like I had just began the conversation with her. And that, would be too weird and she might want to go round telling people I was insane or something and then the med-narks would come and lock me away. So, instead I picked up my hand and waved, “Bye…err...” And went directly to my nice friendly paintbrushes and lovely canvases and sculptures and created another world I hadn’t heard about before. Sliced cheese and crackers went down nicely while making copy, non-animal rennet of course, calf guts taste yucky.