Weak

My neighbor Nick said to me the other day, as I was trimming the maple that was a mere shoot when I acquired my building a decade and a half ago, “I see you got a pole lopper.” “Oh,” I replied, “I’ve had this for five years or more. You might have noticed I haven’t borrowed your lopper in a long time!” I said this with good cheer, as I truly like my neighbors and very much appreciated the fact they did lend me their pole lopper for a number of years, but I’m sure my statement was misinterpreted. After all, I was in the middle of the battle of leverage and inertia that is a fact of handling an pole lopper when you have it extended to twenty feet or more. I was attempting to deal with the now forty-foot tall maple under which I had planted a Chinese bittersweet years ago because I thought it would provide me with the fall decorating season essential. But the bittersweet berries — red and orange and long-lasting — that I knew from the wilds of Missouri are not a feature of Chinese bittersweet, which seems to do nothing but put out massive amounts of greenery as it strangles the maple (and has more recently been labeled a noxious, invasive pest). So despite the maple being strangled and thus kept somewhat under control, the Chinese bittersweet now shades the Concord grape vine that climbs up my back porch, and has, in good years, provided enough fruit for me to put up several pints of grape jelly. If I win the battle with the resident cardinals, that is, who seem to drawn to Concord grapes to the same degree that Wicker Park swells are drawn to ‘body art.’

I might have appeared short with my neighbor Nick because I was struggling with an unwieldy tool that frankly I am probably way too old to be even thinking I can use, never mind using. And at the moment it was getting the better of me. I found I simply didn’t have the strength to direct it to the bough I wished to break (well, the blade is so dull I break more than I cut, besides, I like the poetry of “bough break”). I realized I am weak. Weak. Not weak as a kitten, but weak. And this was hardly my first session with the pole lopper this tree-trimming season. I had realized I was weak as I dragged myself around my yard in previous weeks trying to trim the smaller trees: the hybrid maples, the corkscrew willow, the hackberry. Well there was that long period where I was hobbled by my broken foot. Perhaps I can blame my weakness on that. Then I realized, no, I can’t. That was months ago.

Now there is a difference between being “weak” and being “soft.” I would love it if I could have said, “I’m just ‘soft.’” That would have meant I could lift weights, get myself in shape, etc. But I am not soft. I am weak, or at least weaker than I used to be. There’s nothing to do about it. It is an inevitable effect of age, which for those of us who have less of our lives to look forward to than look back on, can be of course a devastating realization. But I wonder often if being in the art world makes it worse. I don’t think most people my age must stay up with things the way I do in order to do their jobs, unless, of course, they are IT professionals, advertising people, or Red Eye staff. And keeping up with things takes so much energy, doesn’t it?

For instance, coming out of the CVS pharmacy on Chicago/Milwaukee/Ogden today, I hear the blare of a horn and a stream of obscenities. Upon reflection, I realize I am not sure if it was the rap music pumping out of a passing car or an actual human’s cursing. In the old days, I think, I would have been able to tell the difference between a form of popular music and a foul-mouthed traffic exchange. Then I realize with some horror, my confusion could very well run much deeper: I might be witnessing a piece of performance art. Maybe it is someone involved with Temporary Services or those fellows who go by the moniker Industry of the Ordinary. I immediately feel weak. Almost weak as a kitten.

Then, just the other day, I learn of a local collector who has sold his Warhol Marilyn at auction for a reported $80 million dollars. Eighty million. Let’s see, if I work until age 1,342, I might come close to earning that much in my lifetime, figuring I’d get a series of raises to match cost-of-living. Yes, I am of an older generation, so I do react to such a figure. And then, while I am still reeling from this news, I hear talk of Damien Hirst, that he’s resuscitated his pickled animal series, perhaps given the favorable market interest in his ‘signature series’ that was inexplicably (in market terms) brief. So, to keep up with things, I google Hirst and learn of his latest artwork, a diamond-encrusted platinum cast of a human skull. Asking price: $96. But the bidding, I hear, is already in the $120 million dollar range, because instead of it being sold to the first person who offers $96 million, the sale is being handled more or less like an auction item. The superwealthy get to outbid one another for this supervaluable (diamonds! platinum!) bauble in the primary market. Well, at least the money will actually go to the artist, I think, unlike when artworks sell at auction. But suddenly, I feel all strength drain from my body. My battle with a pole lopper extended to twenty feet or more looks like child’s play. The art world will do that to ya.

More later,

Lynne.