This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue of cc&d (v223) (the August 2011 Issue, You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:						This is also in this 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback “Moving the Earth” Order this 6" x 9" ISBN# book:

Order this writing in the book Prominent Pen cc&d edition		get the 332 page May-August 2011 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

the Exhibit

Anne Turner Taub

     Melissa Frey belonged to a group which exhibited sculpture at different “alternative locations.” “Alternative locations” meant lobbies of banks and office buildings where the group would not have to pay rent to exhibit. It was a day before the show and Melissa had to get her two pieces and pedestals ready for the show. She had to paint the pedestals and polish up her stone pieces and she hated doing it. Besides she didn’t know where the show was going to be. They had sent her a notice when to bring her pieces, when to take them down, and when the opening reception would be. But like most pieces of paper in her life, it had somehow gotten lost and she had to figure out where the show would be held. This exhibit was to be in the lobby of a law school but which law school, which building of the law school, and where it was located was something she did not know and did not really care about.
    At one time she had been very excited about these exhibits and would polish and shine and paint for hours in anticipation. But that was when she believed that one day her genius as an artist would be recognized and she would become famous and rich and be known as one of America’s best women sculptors. Now after zillions of these exhibits, she realized that all the future held for her were endless exhibits in office building lobbies displayed to friends and relatives of the exhibitors. If one were to ask her why if she felt this way, she continued to exhibit, she could not tell you.
    Today, she was going to exhibit a sculpture she had made years ago—a beautiful piece of green stone that shone with light—it seemed to be made of a transparent green light. It was a torso, no head, arms or legs. She had made thousands of torsos out of this same green stone—just as she had made thousands of nudes out of clay. “I guess this is what they call burnout,” she thought to herself.
    But today she had to find out where the exhibit was to be held. She called one fellow sculptor. The husband answered, said he would tell his wife to call back when she came in but he didn’t really know when that would be.
    Melissa called another exhibitor. Her name was Bessie and Bessie was one of her favorite people. Probably because Bessie really marched to a different drummer. She seemed very masculine—she was big, wore men’s pants often, had once been a foreman on a ranch for people who delighted in Native American cults and built huge totems that usually strained the strength of a grown man but which Bessie carted around easily from place to place. At the same time, Bessie had been living for years with her husband. And she was beyond doubt one of the best cooks and bakers in the Middle Atlantic States. Bessie had once brought a chocolate cake to a party that had everyone in tears because it was so good. In fact, someone had written a cookbook and Bessie’s recipes were reprinted in The New York Times when the book review appeared. When anyone complimented Bessie on her cooking, she just laughed in her deep masculine voice and acted surprised, as if she had never heard such a fine compliment before.
    Bessie had “neuralgia” in her face that pained her all the time. She had tried every medicine in the book but none worked. Bessie was also a painter. She said she saw everything in two dimensions—on two planes and her huge iron sculptures showed that. She said “When I look across a room at objects against the wall, they all look like they’re on the same plane. You see them in three dimensions—I just see them in two, height and width.” She was strange—there was no doubt about it.
    Once in a very rare while, Bessie would get angry and then it was a sight to see and to hear. Because she was usually so calm, it was always amazing when she got angry. Her deep voice would slowly start to rumble like a volcano getting ready to erupt. When finally the anger came, her voice was so loud and strong, the walls would seem to shake and the ground to tremble. This happened so seldom that many people who had known her for years did not know that calm, placid Bessie could ever get angry.
    When Melissa called Bessie, there was no answer. Surprising because Bessie or her husband were always home, Melissa called another member of her group. She did not really want to, but she had to find out the information—she knew she had only one day to get her pieces ready. She called Mitchy—an older woman whom years of bitterness and envy had culminated into a thin papyrus-skinned body. When she called and asked about the location, Mitchy seemed surprised to hear from her and instead of answering the question, she began to pick Melissa’s brain for information about all the other exhibitors. After Melissa had laboriously answered all the questions Mitchy threw at her, Mitchy told her she was not going to exhibit in this show so she had thrown the instructions away and besides she didn’t like this group of exhibitors and she belonged to a much better group and was going to quit. Melissa hung up and dialed Bessie again. Her husband answered. “Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t you know? Bessie died two days ago—an aneurysm in her brain—a vein exploded.”
    Still in her early 30s, Melissa and death had never had a speaking acquaintance, not even with family pets. She put down the phone without saying goodbye. She thought of Bessie perfecting huge chocolate statues on top of her cakes, of Bessie seeing everything in two dimensions. Did she see people that way too? Melissa wondered, trying to accept the fact that she would never, ever, see Bessie again, a line from one of her favorite plays, Shakespeare’s Richard II, streamed across her consciousness:
    Even through the hollow eyes of death, I spy life peering.

    For some reason exhibiting her work now seemed very important to her and she began to work hard at making the pieces look really good.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...