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[07 Aug 2010|08:45pm] |
The camera turns on to find Charlotte sitting in her apartment, it looks like the living room. She is wearing a nice light blouse with a handkerchief around her neck, because at her age there is no such thing as being too warm. She is smiling at the camera and waves slightly.
“Hello, universe. I would like to thank everyone who I spoke to about tattoos. Both those of you out there in the cosmos and those I spoke to in person. I am happy to say that I decided to go for it, and I think it was a success. Here, let me show you.”
Charlotte begins to roll up the left sleeve of her blouse. It is obvious she wore this blouse because the sleeve was easy to roll up, but her movements are still slow and a little labored. But she gets it eventually, and moves herself so her left shoulder is fully visible to the camera. There is a new tattoo. The skin around it is still a little pink, but the tattoo itself is vibrant looking. Charlotte seems pleased to show it off.
“It is a piece of Marc Chagall’s painting entitled ‘Time is a River Without Banks.’ At my age it felt very appropriate, and Chagall has always been one of my favorite painters. He loved violins and fish, as you can see. So, thank you to everyone for your input. Thank you Mina, of course, for going with me. And thank you Mr. Dog at Big D’s Tattoo Hacienda. A work of art is a work of art, you did a fine job, dear.”
Charlotte smiles at the camera once again before it turns off.
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| Blog post |
[25 Jul 2010|11:41pm] |
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I suppose there is an age when one is simply too old for a tattoo, isn't there? It has always been on my list of things to do but I never quite got around to it.
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[20 Jul 2010|07:38pm] |
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Oh yes, those primaries... I knew I forgot to do something that day. Well, congratulations to those who won, those who ran for being brave, and those who remembered to vote. We might not be the first democracy, or the last, but we are certainly my favorite.
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[05 Jul 2010|09:45pm] |
I am looking forward to the Norman Rockwell exhibit. It is always interesting to see an artist's life work displayed in one space, so you can almost walk through the years and changes in their life. Rockwell was kind enough to have a long and prolific career. While I wasn't even born or still a small child during what you might call his peak years, I cannot express how deeply some of his later work touched me. The Problem We All Live With is particularly moving. Please go see the exhibit while it is here, if you can. This is Rockwell's hometown, after all.
On a slightly more disagreeable note. It occurs to me I dislike this idea of Rockwell's era being "a simpler time" as the newspaper put it. He lived through two World Wars, the Civil Rights movement and so on. There really was nothing simple about it.
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[28 Jun 2010|08:39pm] |
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I was thinking about this contest they have going. I have always lived the life of a patriot, as I define it, but never one much of a writer. I suppose it would be silly for me to enter anyway. What in heaven's name would I do with... what is the prize again? A newer version of something? I don't really need such a thing, at my age I rarely even buy green bananas. I leave this contest to the people who could put such a thing to good use. But, I do recommend to all people thinking of entering, talk to your parents and your grandparents. You may find inspiration from them.
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[22 Jun 2010|06:27pm] |
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Happy summer, everyone! I hope everyone has brilliant plans. I always enjoy the summer so, nice and warm for the bones, you understand. Don't have to worry so much about colds and slipping on ice. I just have to worry about getting sunburned, mostly, or run over by someone on a motorcycle. Not that the latter has ever happened, they just go by so fast I remember to be careful around them. I do hope everyone will be getting outside enough, you should take the chances to run about in green grass when you can find them. You will be surprised how much you will miss it when you are my age.
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[14 Jun 2010|10:54pm] |
Oh yes, I did always want to run like a Kenyan. This altercation to my genetic code is just what I've been looking for. No more slipping in the kitchen for me.
...Did that sound like proper sarcasm, Mina dear?
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[10 Jun 2010|06:26pm] |
I will say this, Bootylicious had some lovely dance sequences. Also, for people interested in movies, there is a small theatre around my gallery called The Cabana which will be showing only Judy Garland movies until Sunday in honor of her birthday. I saw The Pirate today, and it was as wonderful as I remembered as a child.
Be a clown, everyone.
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[05 Jun 2010|06:22pm] |
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Well, today was very eventful. Not as eventful as a week or so ago, but still it is nice to be able to put in a full day of work. I am not sure now much I can say about this week's Antiques Roadshow, but you should all watch it. There was one woman who brought in a very small sketch by Grant Wood, given to her father who had met him and done something for him at one point and received the sketch as payment. I know a lot of people frown on taking drawings or poems as payment for services, since it doesn't immediately put food on the table, but you should keep your mind open to it. That little drawing was done by probably, I would say, the most valuable artist in the country today, and will feed that woman's family for generations.
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[31 May 2010|07:17pm] |
I realize this is becoming the sort of memory that is increasingly unique to me, but I still think about it this time every year. And Veterans Day as well of course. I am talking about the first time I met my father. I am sure some of you can relate that it is something of an odd memory to have, but I have managed to preserve it in my mind, even though so many other things have been lost.
You see, my mother was three months pregnant with me when my father enlisted into what you all know as World War Two. It was 1942, only about six months after the attack at Pearl Harbor, and my father left Portland to join the Army. Which he did. I was born, naturally, and was raised by my mother and other women like her. My father returned in 1946, I was about three, and it was the first time I had ever met him in my life. I didn't have much experience around men at that time, any that I met were either too old or too young for the war. So my father struck me, a three year old, as a rather peculiar looking sort of person. Of course, he had lost two fingers and a section of his kneecap in France, so he would limp the rest of his life, but I remember, even now I still remember, thinking what a strange thing it was. My mother was crying with joy, he was crying with joy, and everyone was hugging and kissing. There I was being picked up and kissed by a person I had never seen before.
It must have been hard on him, not having been there when I was a baby, not forming that bond then. I was his three year old daughter, and he had to work to get me to love him.
Anyway, that is what I think of around this time of year. Mina dear, have I ever showed you the picture of my father in his uniform?
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| Vlog post |
[17 May 2010|10:54pm] |
The camera fades up on a close-up of a large painting: the flat image of a faceless man in a faded denim jacket, standing behind a woman with drooping lips and blonde hair twice as wide as her face; she is standing on her toes before what appears to be a slanted stovetop, and something like a Dali-inspired platter is falling from the table; all blues, pale yellow, and ambiguous light source.
Mina speaks from off screen.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you that international sensation--Madame Charlotte! Otis! Parker!"
The camera zooms out and pans over to reveal Charlotte seated at the corner of the painting.
“Oh my, quite an introduction.” Charlotte squints at the camera for a moment, checking to make sure it is on. “Yes well, I promised a story so here goes. It was New York City, 1975, if you can even imagine such a place. I had been married to your grandfather,” she looks at Mina off camera “for only about a year. I would have been about thirty-two or thirty-three then, if you can imagine that as well. I was still working at Christy’s Auction House, which remains an excellent establishment, I think, so I already had a good foot in the art world. And just as it happened I, with Donald as my guest, was invited to attend a showing of some of Andy Warhol’s work.” She looks at Mina again. “You know who that is? Of course you do, dear. Now of course the 70s weren’t a very big decade for Warhol, at least not like the 60s had been, but he remained busy and the show was a decent size and he was still very much a name so there were plenty of people there. Not Warhol himself, I don’t think, but frankly he was so quiet he could have been there and I’d have missed him.”
Charlotte coughs slightly into a handkerchief and adjusts herself in the chair, her movements slow and shaky from age. She readjusts her brightly colored top and again finds the camera.
“Now, at the time Mr. Warhol had, well he had many friends, but there was one woman by the name of Bianca Jagger, who was a very beautiful Nicaraguan woman and the sort of generally all around good person. She did a lot of human rights work in her later years but that is off topic. She attended this particular show, and she and I got to talking because she had a young girl with her who was very cute, and since I had a young daughter of my own at home.” She looks at Mina again. “Your mother would have only been a few months old that that time. But Bianca and I got to talking and like I said she was a sweet woman, with an amazing head of hair. I think your grandfather was quite taken with her but I didn’t blame him one bit. So after a few minutes of talking, Bianca’s husband at the time, and father of the little girl, comes over to say hello. And of course he was Mick Jagger, lead singer of the Rolling Stones. You know he was surprisingly hard to identify when he wasn’t busy being a Rolling Stones and was instead a husband and father. Of course he ended up being a less than stellar husband but that can happen. So Bianca introduced us, your grandfather was really beside himself, having been a big fan. We talked for a few more minutes about Warhol and art and the state of things before the little girl needed caring to and we parted ways.”
Charlotte smiles and folds her hands in her lap. She continues looking at the camera for a moment before looking at Mina. “Was that all right?” The camera turns off.
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| Vlog post |
[14 May 2010|10:33pm] |
There is a moment after the camera turns on to when it stops moving, and unfortunately it comes to rest on a puff of thin, whitish blonde hair and a corner of a pale, slightly wrinkled forehead. Behind that is a beige ceiling corner and the top of an archway. So not much can be told about the room, aside from it lets light in well and the ceiling is free of cobwebs. The hair and forehead move as Charlotte speaks.
“There I think I’ve got that right now.” She clears her throat, a phlegmy, ugly sound. “Hello New York City! We’ve come a long way from the radio, haven’t we? Yes an awfully long way. My name is Charlotte Otis-Parker. That’s hyphenated, the last two. My father was the Otis and my husband the Parker. I’m the Charlotte. At least some of you may recognize me from Antiques Roadshow, since I know we do have a viewership. I may even have met some of you, so I hope things went well.” She clears her throat again, an even uglier sound this time. “Oh sorry about that. Anyway, I am also the owner and curator of The Otis-Parker Gallery, so named so I wouldn’t forget it.” She laughs and a small dog can be heard yipping in the background. “No, no, my memory isn’t so bad as that. But the reason for this, what is it called, a vlog? That’s barely pronounceable… Anyway, the reason for my recording this is to leave a message for the new artists out there, or rather, anyone creating new art. You can be as old as you like I don’t care. But I am thinking of putting a show together in honor of The Bomb, and so am looking for post-Bomb pieces for my gallery. Anything which looks at that moment or the moments since, I would be interested in giving a look at.”
Charlotte leans in closer to the camera, which just results in her forehead disappearing from view and her hair becoming larger and slightly out of focus. “Now I realize some of you young, up-and-coming artists may think that because I am as old as I am that I won’t ‘get’ or understand what it is you have on canvas. So let me reassure you… if your art speaks, I will listen. So bring it by anytime.”
There is a pause before the camera turns off.
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