I awoke greeted by tiny porcelain smiles. With little time to accomplish our errand-filled day, the smiles seemed more like devilish smirks holding back laughter at my morning scramble. Off to Wal-Mart to buy an affordable wedding present, then a quick dash to the downtown gallery to set up the three-channel mutli-component installation, and then finally back to Grandmother’s for a brief dinner before we get back on the road. Any thing could wrong I know it. My stomach rolled and tightened from the balancing act over my frantic mega-organizing and the emotional viscera brought on by the sunny morning. “To grandmother’s house we go” seemed like a cruel mantra for those wanting to return to a bog of sunken memories of an aging couple - an aging couple whose graying skin, wrinkled bodies, and sullen faces continue on towards some final collapse while you watch their continued evaporation occur very slowly, and so painfully.
But to them it was just another Wednesday morning. My grandfather had prepared a modest breakfast of scrambled eggs, steamed broccoli, canned corn, and hash browns to send us our on our travels.
The errands were accomplished on time; who would have guessed shopping for wedding gifts was so painless. Except for that sort of numbing feeling you get from standing in line and watching that overwhelmed mother. You know that mother with the sorta’ dikey eighties hair-do and the gray sweatshirt with the kittens on it that says “hang in there” as she balances her two young seemingly bratty children while she shovels load after load of groceries onto the looping conveyer belt. And all the while, you’re like , “Maybe life will be better for her children, that all of this everyday struggle will amount to a brighter lineage.” I resisted hoping that her family tree might branch out of this buckle of faith, that her lineage would overcome an ambitionless life brought on by the promise of golden heavens and the returned trekking through (just as glowing) discount department stores. The belt has finally made room for me to put down a plastic divider between my wedding gifts and the remainder of the mother’s last items -Hot pockets.
And we’re off again.
Searching through the demolition and construction of downtown Tulsa we find a secluded gallery whose manager really knows how to charm the talent- “It’s so great you’re here! This piece is really great! Do you need anything?”. He’s an excitable and exuberant manager, but when questioned about the local art scene his demeanor quickly shifts, revealing a burnt-out man still trying to connect with the locale. Installing is simple. Working in the gallery is like any other and the gray gallery walls even seem comforting. I must be a real conditioned gallery artist.
After a timely installation, we felt too exhausted to shoot back home. With a quick phone call to my (dependable) co-worker, our time was extended. Unfortunately this extension made it possible for us to attend my family’s evening prayer event. My grandmother, a quasi-official pastor of a special kind of light Pentecostalism, enjoys a religious showmanship (like any Pentecostal) through her self published fictions and stage plays that are circus-like biblical overviews that, at times, merge other traditions into a theatrical show-and-tell. Years ago I played a young Jesus and ate matzah and horseradish with a family of Messianic Jews. Never expanding beyond the comfort of the living room, the sincerity of these projects is charming to any invited, including myself. Unfortunately, I’m not up to the part. The rest of the day is spent dodging my grandmother’s invitations.
The gallery manager gave us direction to find local shops. Zipping around we found a mangy and slightly expensive used c.d. store, then a sparsely stocked comic book shop, and a modestly hip music shop. This small modest music shop must have be the nexus for an underground culture in downtown Tulsa; people kept arriving and leaving and wandering into the back room. A woman wearing a white fur coat asked if we were also waiting for a band. Mistaken, she returned to sitting quietly. Talking Heads’s Fear of Music filled the space as we perused the racks of cds and vinyl. Compelled by the shop’s coolness I bought a Coltrane album and we left.
The family caught on to our scheming and instead of nagging for our return, my grandmother reminded me not to feel pressured and apologized for any negative feeling about showing up for the special event. After a stop at what Tulsa has to offer as Mediterranean food we returned to Broken Arrow.
When we arrived I was reminded why I have closeted emotional reactions and become uncomfortable around large groups of cheerful people. It had been nearly five years since I had seen my cousins and their response to my arrival was a casual glance and a mousy hello. I tried to make conversation with my youngest boy cousin (now extremely lanky and growing an ugly pre-teen mustache), but failed to get beyond his shy response, “I’m ok, I guess.” Any comradery we had before has now dissipated, but this only frustrated by his male friend, my cousin’s fiancé- a sarcastic, bible-carrying, goatee-growing teenager. Never have I envied the jolly family gatherings with their obligatory thrusting of firm handshakes and welcoming bear hugs until now.
Tonight’s event was a video podcast titled “You are God’s Masterpiece.” The video presented a young pastor from Texas whose constant grin was as large as the football field he sermons in.[1] The lecture was surprisingly thoughtful with statements like, “You are all original individuals and need to fight against mediocrity,” but such a statement was immediately disfigured by his following conclusion, “because God made you.” He continued, drawing an analogy between an experience he had with modern art: he was shown a painting that he thought was ugly. His opinion was then swayed when he found out who painted it- the one the only Pablo Picasso[2]. The conclusion drawn was then, if you know your creator (god), then you are also good, i.e. Picasso is a good artist then all he creates is good art = god is good then all he creates is good. In the end everyone seems pleased with today’s lesson, but to my confusion, make faux-irreverent conversation about the podcast. Mostly about the pastor’s locked smile, the cousin’s also felt the message was redundant, that reinforcement of their special-ness is boring.
With preparation still needed for the wedding later that week, everyone hurried off and yet again we went to separate sleeping arrangements.
[1] Yes-he really used a football field to preach in.
[2] The pastors southern accent breaks the name into overly articulated droll- Pah’ –blow Pea Cas’ Oh.
