Friday, January 11, 2008

How to Look Into the Future

Ever go to see a play in a big theater, but could only afford the seats way up in the balcony with a partially obstructed view? You can’t see the whole stage because a pillar or something is blocking the way, but you fill in the bits you miss with your imagination. It’s like that. That’s what looking into the future is like.

Some people think about where they want to go in life, and plan out written goals. This type of person likes to make lists, on paper which gets folded up and hidden at the back of their socks drawer. Other people like to be spontaneous, taking each moment as it comes, one day at a time. Still others never think about this at all and wake up one day to find themselves in some situation or other and not sure how they got there. I am the first type of person; I like to make lists and think about the future. If you were to look in the back of my socks drawer right this very minute, you would find lists there. Lists about the future. You make a list and it becomes a map to a place that doesn't exist yet.

Let me explain:

I have a Masters degree in painting, suitable for wrapping yesterday's fish. I decide it is high time to arrange for a meeting of art and commerce in my life, so I make a list. I come to the realization that people are less likely to spend money on art for their walls, and more likely to buy art for their skin. Being the last person in the western hemisphere to use a paper Yellow Pages, I call all the tattoo shops, and happen to find the only one in New York City looking for an apprentice.

The tattooist is a grown-up street punk. Big eyes peer out from behind a full body suit of tattoos and multiple facial piercings. She is quiet and reserved. She teaches me to set up and sterilize the equipment, and I watch her work. For my part of the exchange I clean up and run errands for no pay.

I practice on fruits and vegetables. My first attempt is a heart and scrolled banner that says “mom” on a large dakon radish. I give it to my mother, who keeps it until furry, green mold devours my efforts.

After 3 months she closes her shop and I find another apprenticeship deep in the heart of Brooklyn. Somewhere, in the back of a sock drawer on a folded up piece of paper, a new road appears on a map.

to be continued...

1 comment:

Craig Daniels said...

yes please do continue with this....