Call Me If You Need It 

LA Photo 2003

 

by pam ashlund

 

I have always attended photo shows to bathe in the delights of the arts.  But tonight I am arriving at 6:00 to a show that ends at 7:00 in order to join friends in a perfectly timed quick coffee and then entrance to a dinner party at 7:30.

 

A local photographer, Patrick Alt, has taken nudes of my friend, and although she herself is not on display, we have agreed to attend the show to give a nod to Patrick.  Instead of time to browse, I have seven dollar parking and five minutes to breeze through the show.

 

I find that each booth is organized by Gallery not by photographer and my interest drops considerably.  In the chaos, I aimlessly wander and in passing I see, tucked into a corner, a small silver print signed by Ansel Adams, somehow sadly not as spectacular in the original to one whose tastes have been spoiled by 3 foot framed prints, and Christmas calendars.  In another booth I found the Beatles, left behind in someone's drawer, now revealed; a pale flabby Paul from the waist up.  And seeing these Georges and Johns frozen in time was beyond nostalgia now, just a loss, just a time that has passed.  Not remarkable after accepting the fact. 

 

I wander off from my friends, staring at the unknowns, and the knowns, often comparing the price tag to the work, and find it, as usual, inexplicable.  Why $25,000 for ugly and $2,500 for remarkable?  At risk of gauche faux pas I ask and find that the value is linked to associations and ownerships, stories and histories.  I found my pic pick in a surreal coffee mug by Chema Madoz and asked the dealer for a card.  "Call me if you need it" he whispers in my ear, penning a home number on the back of a postcard replica of my coffee mug. 

 

Stopped in a crowd my attention turns to people watching, and I felt a brief gasp of desperate inadequacy.  How stellar these photo people were.  How do these sunglasses, hats, hairstyles and oh-so-much leather combine to intimidate me?  Narrating in my head (as us wanna-bes are wont to do), as I stare at a floppy hatted, hippy glassed women, I voice-over to myself "Oh god if I see one more fake-photo person dressing up like Annie Hall I may throw up".

 

Behind me, my lost friends run up to catch me.  "Pam, Pam, did you see Diane Keaton?" Melissa stage whispers in my ear.  Chagrinned to be caught yet again in the art imitates life imitates art plague that is Los Angeles, I say "oh yeah, I saw her".