There is a painter whom I assume to be either second or third year at COFA that comes into the gallery religiously every time there is a new show. My first impressions of him essentially had me pinning him down as prissy, fussy and overtly pedantic above all else, characteristics I normally despise.
We always have short conversations reliant on little blips of communication, with body language and general interpersonal acknowledgment to fill the gaps like grout. When I told him he could interact with the volleyballs filled with confetti strung from the ceiling, he reacted with “I just have no energy today, I’ll just walk into them.” In the same manner, when I told him there was indeed information available on the artworks, he replied with “I just have no energy today, I’ll read them later,” and gave the flimsy sheets of paper a sidelong glance.
I laughed. I have always found him ridiculous, and I doubt that will ever turn around any time soon. And yet, I find the guy actually quite palatable. This is strange because aside from his horrid personality, I rarely (if ever) get along with painters.
Last Friday he came in again, and brought along a friend: someone I now recognize to be the older brother of a friend of mine who is studying jazz music at the Conservatorium. He was carrying what appeared to be a tub of gloss medium; often-wise he lugs about tackle boxes full of paint and primer. Once I saw him with bits of wood. Perhaps he stretches his own canvas. I wouldn’t put it past him, actually.
Just before he left, he gave me a painfully awkward thumbs up. Oh lord.
Oh, who am I kidding. The guy has the body of Morrissey and the face of Clement Chabernaud wrapped up in American Apparel. His hair is a perfectly styled undercut and has unexplainable streaks of paint on his arms. I bet he does that on purpose. Stupid fucking ridiculously attractive pedantic hipster painter. I hope he gets dull pains in his scrotum.
