I had the need...the need to vent spleen. Like a dummy-spitting Joan of Arc, I mounted my High Horse of Righteous Indignation to launch a withering diatribe at the unfairness of the Universe. Joan and I were joined at the Hip of Time and Space, a valiant Crusade against the Bad Guys, whilst being shafted by the Good Guys. With a virtual Rod of Fury shoved firmly up my arse, I railed against the injustice of our still limited presence in Western Australia's art community and venues. What did I actually want? I wanted more buck for all my banging of course...
I wise friend took courage in hand and suggested I was chucking a "sad". Initially, I was mildly outraged that I might have been thoroughly milking a "woe is me" moment. Then, naturally, I cooled down and considered my outrage and her measured response. Wise woman, she is...
The East End Gallery and Giftshop has been our Labour of Love. We chose quite deliberately to follow our vision. We bought a broken down building in a great location on Beverley's main drag. Did we have any idea what we had done? Absolutely not. Did Michael envisage being covered with dirt, dust, rat pooh, fretting plaster and broken bricks for four and a half years? Definitely not. Did our money come to a screaming halt with our entire project unrealised? Yep! Have we still built the dream of an inclusive Gallery and Giftshop on tireless enthusiasm and boundless passion? You bet we have.
Which means I really can't complain. If trying to raise more revenue means changing our style, charging our artists and artisans to be part of the Gallery and raising our commission, that is not going to happen. I could no more be a Stuffed Shirt Front-of-House than enter a Silent Order. Michael could become very disciplined and carefully timetable his creativity. We could set up a Rigid Regime of workshops and have him teaching welding for art with me in the background wielding the whip.
Bollocks to that. We are definite about who we are and what we want. We promote and support artists who have a connection to the Wheatbelt or to us. We share their hopes and dreams. We know their stories. The End.
So, what prompted my blast of momentary misery and aggrieved anger? Misplaced jealousy and envy. That we have a thoroughly unfair and unequal share of art dollars flowing in our direction. My pragmatic socialist views were being booted out the window. My God, I had turned into a greedy Capitalist!
This cathartic journey of self discovery has appealed to my sense of the ridiculous. Stuff money. I am sure that if we ever were really against the financial wall, we could prevail. Somehow, we always manage to produce enough funds out of our bums to pay the insurance and rates. We have teetered of the edge of ruin more than I'd like to admit. Knowing that cash is going to materialise to pay for essentials would be nice, but much more boring!
Now I shall cease to behave like a despicable despot (think Jabba the Hutt), climb down from my soapbox and have yet another cup of tea.
And I have made a new resolution today. I am going to embrace my curves, rather than shudder at them. I accept me, I accept my beloved Michael, I accept the East End Gallery and I accept what will be.
Stay tuned!
Until I had a cathartic light bulb moment!
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