Tilting the Void

I'm becoming accustomed to the feeling that I don't fit in anywhere. In fact, I'm beginning to feel well settled with it; it's always there, like a benign cyst, solidly under the flesh, a part of me and yet not, though unlike a cyst, it can't be excised. I'd like to think it's merely a detachment associated with being a writer (or wanting to be a writer), an observational bent, but more than likely, it's only some sort of middling neurosis and not wretched enough to do anything about.

Last night I went to an indie sketching session in my home town, and as usual, I built my expectations too high, both in the event itself and in my abilities. I haven't sketched a live model in well over 20 years. The event took place in a bar decorated in Belle Epoque chic--scarlet flocked wallpaper, crystal chandeliers, dark wood furniture. The model was a pert, petite 20 something blonde wearing fishnets, a full white dress with a short red crinoline and elbow-length red satin gloves. Nice underwear, too, as I recall, though the dress was a tad too big. My sketches all turned out loose and blurry, not at all the way I wanted them to be. A young woman bumped my table and knocked over my second martini, which was promptly replaced by the management--though I'm becoming a lightweight and couldn't get through it anyway. I handed it off to someone else--or the friend I was with did for me.

The event bills itself as an 'anti-art school', supposedly more fun than not--but the mood was very low-key and reserved. There were some very serious artists on scene--one woman was absolutely marvelous with what she could do with a 20 minute pose as compared to my scribblings--and there were some people there who hadn't touched a sketch pad in years. Everyone was dressed as you'd expect, I'd suppose--middle-aged women in scarves and stylish-but-not-too-mainline blouses and trousers, students in full beards and hoodies, and one guy in a weird pair of eye glasses with side cups on like the old protective goggles they used to make you wear in shop class. This guy also had a trucker hat on with a big patch depicting the Virgin of Guadalupe. Irony is big here--not nearly as biting or sincere as it is in a bigger town, maybe, but it's still there. It's there in the girls from the art supply store with their unbrushed hair in pigtails, horn-rimmed glasses, knee socks, etc. The style is deliberately nerdy. Nerdy is cool these days, in this town anyway.

I thought about dressing up, but didn't. I'm glad as hell I didn't. I wore black jeans, a black tee with a New Zealand logo on it, and a gray jean jacket under my handknit scarf. That's doofus hipster enough right there. Anyway, I got into my drink enough that I didn't care anymore and broke out the ink pens. I knew my sketches wouldn't be deathless, but that wasn't supposed to be the point. The point is there is no point, but that's not really true--you still had some very sincere artist types noodling around in there. INDY artists, man. The real McCoys. Ain't no art like faux Outsider art, and smack me silly for even using that term.

In short, before this becomes far too long, it wasn't THAT much fun after all; it was almost like going to listen to a lecture or something. Everyone was so respectful and quiet and well-bred, apart from a few rounds of applause for the model, who also didn't really look like she wanted to be there--at least, not all the time. Occasionally, a worried look would cross her face, a too-much-with-us expression as if she suddenly doubted she should be flouncing around in her undies and red f-me pumps in front of a lot of--well, let's face it--boring intellectual types. I don't know what I was expecting--more cabaret, perhaps. More entertainment? Less atmosphere and intent and brooding sense of self importance?

The best one was where the MC got up on the stage and put a skirt over his three-piece suit and struck a pose alongside the ingenue. That was kind of cute and charming, and plus they held the pose for ever, so I was able to get a sort of blurry, grade-school sketch composed.

In the words of Hunter S., it never got weird enough--but then again, dumb ass me, what the hell did I expect? The Last Days of Pompeii? Fellini?

*glances furtively about*

um, maybe?