So What's Next?

Talk about afterglow. I don't believe I have ever packed quite so much into a day, and my body tells me to not make a habit of it. Doing Market on opening day is already a rush; it happens so hard and fast and includes everything. It no longer surprises me when I'm brought to tears by some person, some news, or some witnessed moment, because that happens every week during the Market season.

First, a big thanks to Willy, stellar friend who not only loaned me a pop-up booth, but he brought it down to the Market and took it home. It saved me from having everything wet, and helped me greatly to pack up early without causing a huge disruption. I apologized to all my neighbors but there was no way to make it to the Jell-O Show without leaving Market early, and I was too broke to skip Opening Day sales, which were heart-warming.

The supreme moment of my Market life found me on stage, where Rich Glauber effervesced and called me the Pre-Eminent Jell-O Artist in the World! I accept, though of course you know it isn't true, or is anyway built upon the foundation laid by E. Celeste LeBlanc, who took Jell-O Art to the fine art arena decades ago. She always experimented and came up with the next technique, and amazed and delighted every year. The yellow dress underneath my sculpture was gifted to the Jell-O Art Museum by her and launched my ambition for this year's show, and I owe her more than thanks.

I'm not a performer, generally, but because Rich got me up there, with the gorgeous and poised Joanie Cypress, aka Old Queen Scarlett, who graciously wore the other pair of Jell-O wings and carried the bird through the crowds amazing the populace, I tasted adulence and liked it. (Spell-check says I either want opulence or flatulence, hee hee.) That much time in the spotlight was just right.

So in mid-afternoon I loaded up the trailer and dashed home, trying to take a moment on the way to look around and feel relaxed. By the time I schlepped all of the Pudding Plops and wings and things to the Jell-O Show, it was almost opening, and the wing attachment to the sculpture was an utter fail. She fell over to the left, her feet slid out from under her, and as the crowds gathered I pushed her into place and carefully balanced things just well enough to make it. I abandoned the full display and wore the pink wings myself, which turned out to be the perfect choice. There was a bit of crackling now and then as people got hooked on the various snags of the wing edges, but the crowd wasn't too crushing and it gave people a chance to touch and feel the Jell-O and they really wanted to do that.

I had a glorious moment, tears again. I stood resplendent in Hope's dress, with my apron added, winged up and holding the bird aloft, while being interviewed about my Jell-O mythos. I was well prepared to hold forth, having written about it for years, but looking out upon a packed circle of smiles, cameras, and admiring, amazed fans, I felt I had reached an artistic peak I may never reach again. Full approval, what a concept.

A day or two ago I googled Jell-O Art and found some of mine, but under Jell-O Artists I did not find myself, so I recognized a goal to be a famous Jell-O Artist, not just locally, but googly. Alas, pride and hubris will not get me there. I told the Emerald photographer to make me famous, and he utterly failed to include me in his photo post, although you can see my sculpture in the background of one of his wonderful photos. Kim took photos at the Market, so maybe those will get me there, or I will have to find another way. It's time.

Self promotion is a double-edged sword, but I feel a confidence that might just propel me to take one more step toward claiming my hard work and delightful creative energy. It's not just about the life-long slog of doing things that satisfies us, but moments now and then when we accept credit for what we have done. I felt that at the Historical Society panel, and yesterday, and once in awhile when I am thanked for some small thing. One of my goals for a long time has been to be one of the Weekly's Happening People, I guess it would be on the merits of the many clever and uplifting t-shirts I have made over the decades, but it's hard to justify promoting myself into that, since I have done those things mostly for profit, not really out of that much altruism. My giving has not been active like true Samaritans (spell-check say Martians) and I have not done it as a selfless volunteer like so many.

They would all say similar things, though, that they get back much more than they are given, etc. It's a form of grace to be at least somewhat self-effacing. I can see that because of my strong Catholic and anti-feminist indoctrination as a child (Sunday always still brings Catholic thoughts, especially in the morning when I am supposed to be at Mass) I am confused about what is truly saintly and have stops built in to keep me from pride and satisfaction.

Saints aren't supposed to even let people know how good they try to be. Women and saints are supposed to support, feed, and stay in the background. If you say you are good, you are automatically less good. You will be arrogant, you will be selfish, you will be greedy and you will be a fool.

Ha! I stopped being afraid to be a fool one Hallowe'en when I dressed as one with that Bali mask in previous photos of the sculpture, and went around my neighborhood strewing writing and inspiring quotes and craziness. I should dig up that essay I wrote about it, and post it sometime. At any rate, I can play the Fool. This is another gift from Jell-O Art.

Yet when I stood up yesterday in those two great moments, I did not feel the least bit foolish. I felt honored. And all the honor came from others, from watchers and people I didn't even know. So there is something in there to build upon. Honoring oneself for one's accomplishments can be done in a saintly way. Service can be done without self-sacrifice, and a big part of that is acceptance. Accepting that we are all doing these good works all the time, all promoting what we think is important, and all feeling the appreciation and lack of it that comes in any normal day.

One thing I keep returning to as I watch my fellow Market artisans and try to hear how they tick, is that we are all so very similar and generally unaware of that. We all tend to be overly self-involved in our struggles and isolate ourselves in our romantic idea that it is me, just me against the giant and regularly cruel world. Then in our contradiction we gather together, not in competition (though of course we sometimes feel that) but in cooperation, each one bringing a tiny piece of what becomes the essential whole, that is so much greater than what any one of us could do or be.

It's an amazing event we put on so dependably, and maybe because we are getting old now we can take the step of truly seeing it, and ourselves as we are. Forty two years of Market, and twenty-three years of Jell-O Art. That is, in the giant world, just about nothing.

But in our little world, good heavens, that is something.

Thank you Saturday Market, and thank you Jell-O. *takes a bow*