art student weekend adventures

A couple of times a year, San Francisco has the brilliant idea to host a phenomenon called "OpenStudios", where self-declared artists collectively open their studios to the public, in hopes of luring in the elite and selling their wares.
What ACTUALLY happens, though, is that a bunch of mediocre-at-best crafters play host to droves of bored hipsters that shuffle in in search of free 2-buck-Chuck and plates of cheese and stale crackers, who engage in idle banter of feigned interests.

Nevertheless, as an art student, it is my scholastically creative duty to attend these masquerades. I went by my lonesome, armed solely with a great outfit and red lipstick, and hoped for the best.

What a grave disappointment. It’s all these little spaces with these so-called artists practically stacked on top of one another and they are all for the most part making crap.

The art was mainly 2-D, and horrible; shallow, contrived, and redundant. I felt pained and depressed.

The only highlight was when I quietly wandered into the space of an older gay painter named Paul, who let me browse inconspicuously but stopped me on my way out his door. He liked my look and is in the middle of a series on alternative models, whose seemingly effortless style actually takes great care to execute: Could he paint me?
I was so humbled, I said yes and gave him my email address.
Later, a photographer 'artist' said I had interesting eyes and asked me to pose for her. A couple flashes later, I left.

On the way home I took my sad little self to the movies to see Meet Monica Velour. I had been looking forward to it and it did not disappoint. I drank a giant diet coke and felt a little better.

Lesson? When all else fails, turn to limited-release indie films about aging porn stars.


current mood: cynical
current music: arcade fire - rococo