The Trickster Diaries/Chapter 107
On an otherwise blank, off white wall in the room I use as an office, hangs a 36 x 36” assemblage piece made of bamboo, fabric, ink on paper, flat to twisted metal mesh, stone, sandpaper, and oil on canvas broken into four equal quadrants.
Don’t let the many elements fool you. I’m considered a minimalist. But if you were to see this piece in a gallery in the nearby village of Joshua Tree you’d guess its price at $3,500; at a gallery in a more posh location, say down in Palm Desert or Palm Springs, you’d expect it to be going for around $7,500; on Montana Ave in Santa Monica, closer to 10k, depending upon the artist’s reputation.
Granted, I’m not much of a marketing guy or a closer, but at the two Open Studio Tours in which it’s been on display, I can’t get $750.
A shame, really. Same kind of shame it is that I live next door to a run down trailer park full of meth heads and alcoholics in a town of dollar stores and tatoo parlors, massage joints and liquor stores kept in business by a kind of sub species of Homo sapien who… seriously, if you asked if they’d heard of Basquiat, an outstanding answer would be that it’s an expensive European cognac.
The reason I am where I am goes all the way back to my one remaining regret: not having taken the logical course, the path I’d chosen but backed out of because…
There’s nobody to blame. Not anymore. Not even myself.
Still, that one irreversible decision is responsible for a state of poverty that has lasted and grown more intense for the past two decades.
But the second I deposit the ADA class action lawsuit check for $2,603, it’s already gone. Clothes, mostly. Nothing fancy, just necessary body covering for those rare times when I get up from the chair in front of the computer and go out to run an essential errand.
But maybe, I keep thinking, this novel will change all that.