I’ve sold 10 of my fruit and body prints so far. Officially, I’ve made a small profit, with the money being used to pay off the debt incurred from the purchase of much photo gear.

When Dan did my reading two years ago, he mentioned that I see colours differently from other people, and that I should try making money off my art.

Back then, I was far from considering myself an “artist”. I used my camera to express myself in capturing memories, not in delivering messages. At the first Emergence Exposition, Nisha would introduce me to people as a photographer. I would add the word amateur as a prefix, but Nisha would correct me and say aspiring. I suppose I’m more inclined to agree with her now. Being able to support myself like this (albeit in a small way) makes a big difference.

The best part of the entire process though, is meeting people. Not just meeting people I ask to model for me, but when I’m delivering prints as well. I get to see where they’re going to hang the pictures, and I get to meet their kids, their parents, their pets, their friends.

Most recently, it was Tiana, who has two dogs, a cat, and a husband. I didn’t get to meet Brent (or the cat) but I’m sure the opportunity will present itself at some time in the future.

The last three months led up to this night.

After attending Opus 01, I knew I wanted to be a part of this.

John, as a true friend, flew from Toronto to be there for the night. Alex, who was doing a medical internship at a family practice in a nearby city, drove there. Even Pearl also dropped by and I got to meet her.

I was so busy talking with my guests that I didn’t even have time to go into the other rooms to see how the other artists were doing. The house was packed with people again, young and old.

Performances

Jacqueline’s second piece was Sonata in A Minor, by Franz Schubert (unfortunately, her first piece was over ten minutes long, which isn’t allowed on YouTube). I found it to be a rather masculine piece, beginning like a sombre funeral march, leading to a journey of bubbling emotion, so it was mesmerizing to see a girl play it with such conviction. Pay special attention to the burning trill at 5:28, which leads back to the main theme.

Misun told me that when she handed Jacqueline a rose after the performance, it looked like she had run a marathon.

Afterwards, Jacqueline told me after she couldn’t stop looking at my penis through her performance, then quickly corrected herself and said the penis picture, which was hung across from her.

Louise plays the harp by feeling only. She doesn’t have formal any musical training, so she doesn’t write any of her compositions down. It just flows from her fingers, and quite well I might add. As a result, her music is semi-improvised.

John kept telling us how not drunk he was, even though you can clearly seeing him downing glasses of wine in this video.

The after party

When the people left and the doors closed, the real party began for the artists, their guests, and the volunteers. Frédéric and Misun broke out the cold cuts, the fresh and fancy bread, the wine, the cheese and we celebrated a successful night. We had been standing for five hours, so it was time to take a break.

When Dan gave me a reading two years ago, and said that I would be making money off my art within the next 15 years, I never would have believed him.

I feel utterly intoxicated.

With a hammer and a ladder, we hung my pictures tonight, carefully deciding where to place each one to balance the colours, the orientations, the shapes, and the concepts.

Amongst the wine and the wood, the kids and the colours, we stopped to admire the art in the house. Adrienne dropped by to share her latest graphic poems with us, along with her alcoholic findings. “From The Desk Of” Penelope was written that day, dense and deep, full of details taken for granted. The words must write themselves, I thought.

Misun and I seem to share a kinship through our appreciation of expression, something I’ve never had with my friends. Not that there’s anything wrong with them, but I’ve always felt like they can’t relate to me when it comes to emotions or creativity. As I seem to be the creative brother she’s always wanted, and she seems to be the supportive sister I’ve always needed, we agreed to be adopted siblings.

In a recent interview, Frédéric said, in his ebullient Parisian accent, that one of the reasons he wanted to open the Salon is to promote dialogue and interaction. Perhaps it’s this hunger for dialogue that connects us. He also mentioned to me he was stressed out about being interviewed; being put on the spot made him freeze up. I told him I had the same problem with pretty girls. “You’re affected by beauty”, he said, something I knew, but not something that everyone understands.

I left, feeling like I was a part of something wonderful, something greater than myself.

I once made an origami rose for a friend. Written inside was a poem I composed one night when I had an excess of forlorn emotions. One of my best pieces. In order to read the poem, she would have to destroy the rose, ruining the piece in itself, though satiating her curiosity. If she never opened it, she would never be able to see exactly what I wrote.

For me, art must have three attributes; it must be aesthetically pleasing in some way, it must carry a message, and I must be able to understand it or relate to it in some way. So many people seem so superficial to me when they put paintings in their house, or statuettes, about things they don’t understand. They own these pieces because “they like them”. They enjoy looking at them. Do they understand what the artist was thinking when he or she used a certain stroke of the brush? For all they know, the sculpture could be a message about anything they normally wouldn’t agree with. They don’t understand what the artist was trying to do. They can’t appreciate the piece. It saddens me.

So I made another piece, as a representation of the rose I made for my friend, because I enjoyed it so much, it is a symbol for something I created. It is a similar rose, but with the words “art for art for art for…” written all over it. When I look at it, it reminds me of my friend, what I was thinking when I gave away such a precious piece, and what she’s doing right now.

And to this day I don’t know if she opened it.

I should end off every night with a hot shower, and the addition of an entry. I swear, it’s like therapy.

I’m still waiting for my iPod, which should be coming in this week. The idea of being able to bring my entire music collection with me wherever I go is just too tempting. That way, when I need a Tool song, I can simply bring it up, instead of bringing a Tool CD, just in case. I love you already iPod.

I happened to stumble upon a song apparently called Dan Automator, by Tomahawk. There’s something about this song that is just speaking to me right now. I can’t even understand 90% of the lyrics, but Mike Patton just does such a great job with bittersweet emotion on the lyrics. The melody is just so…wrenchingly tragic, yet dulcet. The only problem is that I’m pretty sure it’s not a Tomahawk song. I saw them in concert once, and they didn’t sound anything like this. Also, there’s a DJ called Dan the Automator whom Mike Patton worked with as a side project, and it’s just not likely that Tomahawk would name a song (incorrectly) after him. That and the fact that the Tomahawk discographies never mention Dan Automator as a track listing. I wish I could get the real name for this song, so I could give it the respect of a proper track listing. I’m surprized that I was able to hold off on an entry yesterday. Usually when I start up a page again (I don’t like the word journal, because it’s not, and half the time I’m just ranting about something), I’ll just flood the database with entries, and it will slowly become less frequent as time goes on. Of course, when I have a girlfriend, I feel I can’t write anything at all. It’s like my page is a girlfriend, who just listens to me hate so well, and never questions what I’m thinking, or why I’m thinking it. I love you too, you porcelain faced webpage.

I was flipping through some fashion magazines, and read about an art exhibit being held about the evolutions of fashion and styles. They mentioned a ballooning-dress by a Japanese designer as a witty piece, and a perforated-wing outfit as breathtaking. The art of fashion has always puzzled me; it’s something that I’m completely ignorant of, that I don’t think I will ever understand unless someone explains it to me.