And the momentary fall...

I haven't really evolved that much. Once again I have been virtually ignored by the media who just don't seem to see my art. I've been selling that Jell-O for a year now and neither of our local papers has seen fit to even mention it. I don't get it. If I weren't still so elated with my coronation for a day I would be really hurt. I still have those tender feelings. But the people who count, counted.

Last year my display took up the corner of the room and was still invisible. It must be something about pride goeth-ing before the fall. It seems the more I revel in my gloriousness the less the mainstream notices.

I suppose it's partly my own fault: you can't have it both ways. I don't really participate in mainstream culture, though I do subscribe to the R-G with my frugally hoarded pennies. I like to know what is going on so I can criticize it with a little background. And last year I was expounding on my desire to be a FAMOUS Jell-O artist and I suppose those who go for fame deserve whatever they get.

I did show up on the first page when you google Jell-O art but now I'm down to page five or six. It's my own fault for choosing the word *Gelatinaceae* to identify my art, since that kind of reeks of the effete intellectual snobbery that is botanical classification and science in general in our 21st century culture. And I do get caught up in that narcissistic souffle which probably is offensive to those who don't know how well developed is my poor-me side. It took me until age 60 to actually be proud enough of myself to crow! Except maybe that isn't how I present.

When I was a kid I used to shinny up the clothespole and sit there singing the Mary Martin classic *Er er er er!* (otherwise known as Peter Pan's ode to self-adulation *I've Gotta Crow). Maybe I exude that still, that false pride that hides the low self-esteem and terrified inner child of pretty much all of us. I mean, women are still the oppressed gender, and women artists are still marginalized. It isn't just me. And I do work in Jell-O.

And of course this is just one more example of how even the most diligent reporters seldom really get it all right. The headline should have been

*Radar Angels Honor One of Their Own*

Jell-O artist of all 24 years Diane McWho won the dubious pageant *Jell-O Queen For a Day* on the gallery stage last night, beating out Sarah Palin, Newtie's wife, and the cross-dressing Deen Diabetes blah blah blah. McWho, who has made over twenty different hand-printed t-shirts for the annual show, is a temporarily disabled starving artist who has also sold at the Saturday Market for more than thirty-six years blah blah blah. The benefit for her medical bills raised a couple of Benjamins after the shirt costs were tallied and her awkward acceptance speech was roundly cheered anyway. The Angels had kept the secret plan for a year and the Queen was successfully surprised and most visibly embarrassed and delighted with her momentary honor, which expires at approximately 8:00 pm on April Fools Day.

There, FYP, as we say on the internet. For the record, Indi Stern promotes the show. She is the glue of it, she makes it happen every year. She has certainly been interviewed a few times and is graceful anyway and doesn't care if other people get the attention. We're all happy when the attention is spread around, particularly to the new artists who bravely step forward with their peeps and their murky fishbowls. We've all been there. You have to start somewhere.

Joanie, aka Queen Scarlett, is similarly essential. She forged the important connection with the Slug Queens, who usually remember to come nowadays. They are asked and honor us with a lovely benediction. Old Queens sometimes attend as well, and there were two prospective candidates for 2012 Slug Queen there, perhaps more.

Rich, aka Rico Suave, grandly escorted me and my stuff and caught me in his strong and dependably manly arms when I almost pitched off the steps as I descended my throne all shaky. Although he is a professional musician of considerable repute he grandly plays for many a show and seldom complains very much. His costumes always look stunning and his particular Jell-O talent is the ability to make anyone and everyone look and sound good in any musical situation. He often has come by the Market with his guitar to encourage me to use my rusty singing voice and pretty good repository of lyrics to amuse the passers-by. He was invaluable last night with all the logistics necessary to surprise me and get me to the stage.

Everybody deserves credit. That's the trouble with singling people out. It takes everybody to make a good show, and this was a good one. And oh yeah, I stole most of these photos from the Slug Queen. Thank you!

One of the high points last night was right in the beginning when three little guys with notebooks came to do research so they can display something next year. They pushed their glasses back up their noses and carefully took my business card with my blog address so they could find out about the dried kind. They were great. I gave away three or four *starter kits* with instructions for kids or other kid-like prospective artists who got interested. We older artists do want to shift attention to encourage younger artists, since the show should be bigger than us by now. We want it to go at least another 26 years so we could be the 50-year old Jell-O Art Show. There's some chance that some of us won't be around then.

And let's face it, I was right inside the door with my crass commercial Jell-O Art emporium which was clearly not there to benefit Maude Kerns Art Center per se. I forgot to put out the sign saying some of my proceeds would be donated to the gallery, which, as a temporarily disabled person, I can see needs the money. Their poor mimosa tree that graces the courtyard split down the middle, and their wooden decks and ramps are a teense inadequate for those who have compromised mobility. They need support! The show is intended to support art, not the individual artist, and there is a bit of a poor taste in trying to make money there. I'm usually the only one who takes any home, though this is one of the first years I have actually made enough to pay for the shirts I generally end up giving away. Believe me, I was really conflicted about accepting cash.

I would always prefer to give things away than to take money for them, really. I struggle with retailing every time I do it. The more you want the thing, the more I want to give it to you! I would not have predicted that I would ever use the show to line my own pockets. And if I weren't pretty much out of work for three or four months, I wouldn't have done it this year either. The show isn't about money at all. Putting monetary value on Jell-O Art is counter-intuitive even to me, selling it for a year now.

But there it was, and here I am, still confined to a chair. Fortunately for me, as of last night my chair became a throne and I reign in queenly repose for one day. I don't need no stinking newspapers. (And there was no TV coverage again either! They just don't know what's cool.)

I was there. The room was packed. People crowded in to get a picture with me, and the Slug Queen paid her respects. I laughed, I cried, I had my moment of glory. Like all the good stuff in life, you had to be there.

We have now blinked, and it is all legend. A particularly tasty one. If you were there, you are hip. That's just all there is to it.

But don't worry if you missed it. You get a second chance to be hip next Saturday when the Market opens on the Park Blocks for the 40-somethingth season. You all have a wonderful time. I can't go. Pride wenteth, and I fell. Now I have nine more weeks of rest, elevation, ice, rest, and elevation. And then I get to graduate to crutches and a cane. I am so humbled.

Last night was so timely and so magnificent. My heart is so full of joy and benevolence. This is as close as I will get to a nasty letter to the editor. I get too sweaty in the spotlight anyway. I'll just sit here as my souffle quietly deflates, contemplating my next creation.

I do it for me. I'll do it for you for free. And you don't even have to thank me. Thank Indi, and Joanie, and Rich, and Jen-Lin, and Larry, and Anne Marie, and Jennifer, and Marvin, and Drew and Jorge, and Karen, David, and Julie and her family, and Johnna, and all of those many many people whose names I have forgotten. You know who you are; you were there too. We did it together. See you next April Fools!