The air was buzzing. I stood watching my work being put up in it’s temporary living space. As far as I knew, the art was just there for this exhibition. There was one thing I wondered to myself though, what was the purpose? What would my art do here other than just be analyzed by critics? I made my pieces to be shown and get people to act upon them, not to just look pretty. I wanted social action, but I wasn’t going to get that from critics. They would just look at the art and say something they think is clever. I think that was the most frustrating thought, that they would look at my art and not take it seriously, I wanted to be taken seriously. My art should be out there, living and being seen by the general public eye. With the thoughts still fresh in my brain, I went to do something. “We should show the art somewhere public, I want people to see the meaning behind them, I want it to cause something.”
“Why? What does it mean to you what audience you get?” the organisers had questioned me.
“The work is more than just something to look at, it needs to be interpreted. I need to be taken seriously” I had argued
“Fine, if it works for you, we will display the art in public areas with your guidelines after the exhibition.”
“That will be enough.” I said curtly, and went back to observe the scene.
The organizers had agreed after the exhibition that the work would be put up to live in public areas, that was the best I was getting.
The exhibition had started, it was how I thought they would be, just a bunch of critics. I didn't receive anything direct to me, just something to themselves mostly. I had made a couple of speeches talking about my art and inspiration, but they didn’t get it. There were people who understood my motive, why I wanted the art to live in a public place. It had all been for the purpose of becoming something people talked about, to think about what the interpretation was, to really think hard about the work. I had wanted my voice in art to be as loud as my voice in political justice, to have them compliment each other. I couldn’t do that if only art critics saw my art. I knew that in the end, it would work out. I kept reassuring myself that I had arranged it to be that way. It was going to work out and be ok. This exhibition is so painfully long and dry, nothing exciting other than the fact it was my first solo exhibition. Just a few more hours to go, then it will be over.
Finally when the exhibition ended, I went to the organizers to start planning where my work was going to live. I had decided on a few places and got them confirmed, all there was left to do was move the art. A few days later the art had been moved to the places I decided on. After that I was being shown in other public group exhibitions. Where I talked about how my art and political voice went hand in hand with each other, that they weren’t entirely separate. I had talked about my inspiration and what I had learned over the years. I had a pretty good audience there, in the group exhibitions. My work was appreciated there and people understood. There was no sign of me having any other solo exhibitions, which was fine with me. I was finally satisfied, but now I am getting old. I should take this opportunity to rest, maybe just a few interviews, nothing crazy.