rose at 7:30--late for a Friday, but I had a big day planned. After seven years of making art, I was finally ready for a trip to the galleries to show them my work. Oh, sure, I had sent out slides before by the hundreds, but this time was different--the dozen or so new works of the past year had a resolved consistency unlike my previous work. They were professionally photographed, and I had written a brand new artist's statement.

I usually went to work on Fridays, but in an effort to increase my fine art productivity I started taking Fridays off to work in my studio. By 10:30 I was completely ready for my day and pined in my studio, trying to do something creative before heading out. I wondered if I should I go first thing, when the galleries opened, or wait until after lunch? And, if so, is lunch done at 1:00 or 2:00? I finally left the apartment shortly after 2 pm, hopping on the MUNI subway for downtown.

I arrived at the first of the two San Francisco galleries on my list shortly after 2:30. The director was there, at her desk, talking on the phone. I looked around the gallery nonchalantly waiting for my chance to show her my slides. The work in her gallery was varied but did include large works on paper somewhat like my own.

As she wrapped up her conversation with, "Okay, well, I'll be right over... Bye, bye," I made my move. We made eye-contact as she rushed toward the door. "You have something to show me?" she asked. I didn't want to be rushed, but I acquiesced to her inquiry and told her my story: "I'm new to town. This is my new work. It's on paper and large scale, etc." She grabbed my slides and held them up to the window and, to her credit, looked at them for a fairly long time.

"It's nice. Where are you showing?"

Nowhere, I replied.

"Well, I'm not taking on any new artists, but..." which was followed by some suggestions for some co-op galleries to inquire with. She declined to keep a copy of my slide sheet and rushed away with a "Good luck!"

I feigned interest in the rest of the show in her gallery, glancing at her assistant to see if she could see how awkward I felt. After another minute of feet-shuffling I was back on the street. Not too bad, I thought. I survived. Next gallery.

The next gallery took a hike to get to; but I was told that the owner would likely be supportive of work like my own. When I arrived, he too was on the phone, chatting away. His assistant told me to wait, so I looked around the large space. The show featured small figure photographs that had been "distressed"--very post-modern. After fifteen minutes of my milling and his chatting, he finally hung up. "Hi, my name is Pete Howells, I'm a new artist in the area, and I was wondering...."

He shook my hand, took my slides and said, "Have you followed our guidelines for new artists," as he lifted my slides to the light. "Well obviously you haven't...."

I glanced briefly at the sheet he pushed at me telling me to submit a slide sheet of at least 30 pictures. "Well, actually," I said meekly, "I'm a new artist in town and didn't even know where to start. A friend of mine recommended I talk to you."

"Who was that?"

"Darren Burnstein."

"Who?"

"Darren Burnstein. He's an artist. He said that, well, he knew you. He's involved with charity, does some sculpture."

"The toilet seats?" he asked.

"No, not toilet seats."

"No, wait, the gym stuff."

"Yeah, the pieces using leather from workout-benches."

"Oh, yes, Darren. So what's this?" He was looking at my slides. "Are these greeting cards."

Huh? "No, they're large drawings. Quite large. Much bigger than greeting cards." They're supposed to be art, I thought.

"What's your medium?" he asked.

"Pencil. Color pencil, though I do some painting." I lied. I haven't painted for years.

"Oil paint?"

"Well, no."

"Well, the first thing I'll tell you is that collectors only buy oil paintings. Nobody on the west coast collects acrylic paintings. Acrylic's a dead medium. And nobody collects male figures. Those might be nice for posters in the Castro, but nobody buys them, not even gay men."

"There's also my flower pictures and the fish."

"Yes, well, as you can see from my guidelines, you don't have nearly enough pieces here," he pointed out warmly.

I felt like my head was going to explode. He continued, "And these pieces are too big. See that piece there on the wall. A lovely piece, and nobody wants it because it's too big. And its smaller than these. And it's an oil painting."

We continued talking for a while--he hadn't quite dismantled all of my dreams yet. Some of his words of discouragement included the fact that he considers a show successful if four pieces in a show of twenty sell (I would only have to make 30 times as many paintings a year to make a living), and that everything, essentially depended upon what his well-heeled, monied, stuck up, selfish, obnoxious, bourgeois, bigoted, two-faced, straight-laced, white bread, right-wing, fascist patrons decide goes with their new couch. His advise was to get to work and "Good luck!"

Back on the streets, walking back to the subway, I was devastated. Everything I held of value was destroyed. The past two years of recreating my artwork in a better form was for nothing. Nobody wanted it. Nobody cared. I went home, crawled into bed, and pulled the covers over my head.

TWO YEARS LATER

I don't know if I'll ever recover all I lost that day. The most enduring realization from my trip was that neither of these gallery owners asked me what my work was about, and neither cared. My ego did rebound, and I'm still committed to my new work, even if I haven't been as productive as I'd like. Maybe, someday, I'll give the galleries another try.