Many years ago, on our honeymoon though it could have been an anniversary, my husband and I went to Carmel-by-the-sea. It is a quaint little place with lots of antique shops and art galleries. Now that I’ve been to a cute New England town, I would say it feels most like that.
I saw a cute, tiny painting in a window and wanted to go inside to see what the gallery offered. As sometimes happens in Carmel galleries, the artist was there to greet us. It was his gallery; all of this was his work.
When I find a painting or photo I like, I want to know more about the artist. Is this an example of their work or some odd little piece? Do I like their vision of the world or am I enchanted by the frame on the one that caught my eye?
I’m easily swayed by trivial things but when I live with them for a week or two, I lose interest. And then I start to actively dislike a picture that shows only the easy, plain surface. However, looking at more work by one artist seems to be a good indicator of how I’ll feel about a piece in the long term.
Once we walked in, we realized that it wasn’t our sort of gallery. I have nothing against different styles of art but this was more Thomas Kinkade’s style, not the impressionism that I’d taken it for (remember, it was a miniature painting that had me amused). I could tell C felt the same way: this was the sort of candy-like art that makes me unhappy in the long term (and that he seldom falls for anyway).
The artist was garrulous, wanting to tell us about each piece and his career, exclaiming, “I was the original painter of light!” We were the only ones there; probably the only ones who had entered in weeks and he’d been hoarding all his words, waiting to share the bounty with the first unsuspecting tourists that entered his domain.
“Wait, wait! Let me get another masterpiece to show you!” He had a light dimmer and would raise and lower the light levels on each painting, extolling its virtues. How fast can one realistically leave in the face of this niceness and pride? We didn’t think we could sneak out at this point, he’d totally catch us. Each time he stepped out to get another painting, we did that couple thing where you mumbled quietly to each other to figure out a plan, hoping the communication is inaudible to others.
We tried to say that we’d come back later (liars!) but the artist took that to mean we truly wanted something and assured us he’s be happy to ship anywhere. We cried that we had a budget and he swore he’d help us with credit.
He went off to get another painting, he was sure we’d adore (I remember, he said the word adore with such happy elfin joy that we nearly cracked up, hidden in coughing fits). C and I mumbled again, I think I suggested faking appendicitis but it could have been him. Sadly, we failed to determine who would be the one to writhe on the floor in agony before the artist came back.
We reached the point where I was worried we have to actually buy something to escape. I didn’t want to hurt the nice old man’s feelings and he wouldn’t stop talking long enough to really let us get a word in edgewise.
I don’t remember how we got out of there, probably pled a fictitious lunch date. I do remember getting out of the gallery, walking on the sunny street and laughing with C, demanding that we come up with hand signals or something so one or the other of us could properly fake appendicitis when the need arose again. And it has occasionally but we never did come up with those signals.