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| The New York Optimist |
Like any run of the mill virgin, I’m trying to figure how everything works while all hot and bothered. As you can imagine, at lot of it comes down to instinct and pure
animal drive. Great artists, past and present, seem to be in touch with their primal nature, which can be at once liberating and alarming. So after working with Bob for
about a month, this is where I’m at.
Since this column will follow my trek into new territory with Bob on my heels, I’ll catch you up this week. Then you’ll get the week by week commentary. Bob has me
reading Lindsay Pollock’s book, The Girl with the Gallery, and Richard Polsky’s I Sold Andy Warhol (Too Soon). He’s sent me links of Gallery & Studio articles and artist’
s sites. He’s explained the basics of the business side of art and the current status of the NY art scene at a mile a minute over the phone. (Good thing I’m a fast thinker
‘cause he’s a fast talker.) Shortly after we began working together, he suggested that I incorporate a particular technical idea into my next work, and I got busy on that. It
all sounds fairly standard, right?
Yes and no.
On top of what one might expect from a mentor, Bob has a unique way of sinking in and pulling out the inner machinations of the soul in hopes to eventually see it on
canvas. Interesting. So while my guts are being kneaded, pulled, pinched, and twisted (which feels surprisingly good),
I’m trying to take in all sorts of left brain facts, history, and lingo. It’s coming at me fast. I’m trying to catch my breath, assimilate, create, and build a lasting relationship
at the speed of light. Did I mention that I’m not a sweet, young thing? Although forty is the new twenty, and women born in the 60’s seem to be hot lately, there’s no
time to waste. So, yes, there’s yet another forty (ish)-year-old virgin in your life.
And the potential popping cherry
on top of this new experience is my fear that I’ll somehow fail to impress. And the twist making it even dicier is that at the creative heart of who I am, I could honestly
care less whether he ultimately likes what I create; I create what I need to create. Failing to do so would be my greatest loss. No matter what other positive outcomes, a
personal let down of that kind would make it all crap.
I told him so.
So, as you can see, working with a creative mentor can be tricky. In nearly the same breath as “I honestly could care less whether or not you like my latest work,” I told
him I hoped he wouldn’t suddenly tire of me now that this column is running. Ouch! If that happens, the Art Virgin will have to write, “I’m screwed.”
animal drive. Great artists, past and present, seem to be in touch with their primal nature, which can be at once liberating and alarming. So after working with Bob for
about a month, this is where I’m at.
Since this column will follow my trek into new territory with Bob on my heels, I’ll catch you up this week. Then you’ll get the week by week commentary. Bob has me
reading Lindsay Pollock’s book, The Girl with the Gallery, and Richard Polsky’s I Sold Andy Warhol (Too Soon). He’s sent me links of Gallery & Studio articles and artist’
s sites. He’s explained the basics of the business side of art and the current status of the NY art scene at a mile a minute over the phone. (Good thing I’m a fast thinker
‘cause he’s a fast talker.) Shortly after we began working together, he suggested that I incorporate a particular technical idea into my next work, and I got busy on that. It
all sounds fairly standard, right?
Yes and no.
On top of what one might expect from a mentor, Bob has a unique way of sinking in and pulling out the inner machinations of the soul in hopes to eventually see it on
canvas. Interesting. So while my guts are being kneaded, pulled, pinched, and twisted (which feels surprisingly good),
I’m trying to take in all sorts of left brain facts, history, and lingo. It’s coming at me fast. I’m trying to catch my breath, assimilate, create, and build a lasting relationship
at the speed of light. Did I mention that I’m not a sweet, young thing? Although forty is the new twenty, and women born in the 60’s seem to be hot lately, there’s no
time to waste. So, yes, there’s yet another forty (ish)-year-old virgin in your life.
And the potential popping cherry
on top of this new experience is my fear that I’ll somehow fail to impress. And the twist making it even dicier is that at the creative heart of who I am, I could honestly
care less whether he ultimately likes what I create; I create what I need to create. Failing to do so would be my greatest loss. No matter what other positive outcomes, a
personal let down of that kind would make it all crap.
I told him so.
So, as you can see, working with a creative mentor can be tricky. In nearly the same breath as “I honestly could care less whether or not you like my latest work,” I told
him I hoped he wouldn’t suddenly tire of me now that this column is running. Ouch! If that happens, the Art Virgin will have to write, “I’m screwed.”
| Penelope Przekop "The Art Virgin & Boundaries Part II " |
Penelope Przekop is an emerging talent to watch, according to acclaimed journalist and author, Marcia Layton Turner.
Penelope is an author and artist whose talent and imagination seem boundless.
Her books include Aberrations (Greenleaf Book Group) and Six Sigma for Business Excellence (McGraw-Hill). For nearly twenty
years, she wrote while pursuing a successful career in the pharmaceutical industry where she was most recently a global director at
Johnson & Johnson. In late 2007, she took a step back from the pharmaceutical arena to focus on her writing. At that time, she also
began painting. After painting just short of two years, her work has gained attention in New York. She is currently working closely with
Bob Hogge (Monkdogz Urban Art Gallery) on artist projects and exhibition works.
Penelope’s writing has been featured in the New Jersey Star Ledger, the Shreveport Times, the Baton Rouge Advocate, the Detroit Metro
Times, and several other publications. Her blog, Aberration Nation, has been praised by acclaimed authors Anneli Rufus, Marya
Hornbacher, Terri Cheney, Marisa Acocella Marchetto, Melissa Walker, and Susan Cheever. Her blog post, NOTE to … Glamour
Magazine, garnered a personal response from Glamour’s top editors, and helped spark the current Lizzie Miller body image craze.
Penelope Przekop
Author, Consultant, Artist
Site: http://www.penelopeprzekop.com/
Blog: http://penelopeprzekop.blogspot.com/
Art: http://penelopeprzekop.mosaicglobe.com/
Agent: Christi Cardenas (christi@ThePlainsAgency.com)
Penelope is an author and artist whose talent and imagination seem boundless.
Her books include Aberrations (Greenleaf Book Group) and Six Sigma for Business Excellence (McGraw-Hill). For nearly twenty
years, she wrote while pursuing a successful career in the pharmaceutical industry where she was most recently a global director at
Johnson & Johnson. In late 2007, she took a step back from the pharmaceutical arena to focus on her writing. At that time, she also
began painting. After painting just short of two years, her work has gained attention in New York. She is currently working closely with
Bob Hogge (Monkdogz Urban Art Gallery) on artist projects and exhibition works.
Penelope’s writing has been featured in the New Jersey Star Ledger, the Shreveport Times, the Baton Rouge Advocate, the Detroit Metro
Times, and several other publications. Her blog, Aberration Nation, has been praised by acclaimed authors Anneli Rufus, Marya
Hornbacher, Terri Cheney, Marisa Acocella Marchetto, Melissa Walker, and Susan Cheever. Her blog post, NOTE to … Glamour
Magazine, garnered a personal response from Glamour’s top editors, and helped spark the current Lizzie Miller body image craze.
Penelope Przekop
Author, Consultant, Artist
Site: http://www.penelopeprzekop.com/
Blog: http://penelopeprzekop.blogspot.com/
Art: http://penelopeprzekop.mosaicglobe.com/
Agent: Christi Cardenas (christi@ThePlainsAgency.com)
Boundaries Part II
Page 2
I continue to stare, lost in thought, until he finally comes slouching toward me. Comfortable. Not like a nerd at all.
Type B.
“Is that always what you drink?” I ask as he comes close enough to hear above the music.
“Yep,” he says. Then he asks me to dance with a silent cock of his head.
Excited by our obvious attraction, we move toward the dance floor on what seems a journey toward inevitable closeness. But we’re soon blocked
by the crowd and find ourselves staring at Lolita’s nipples.
“Cute girl,” he finally says in that awkward, charming way nerds sometimes communicate. In that magical moment, he glistens like a treasure
hidden in a dark place only I can see.
I flash a smile and then fill a plastic cup with jungle juice. “I hear she has a great personality.”
He rocks toward me. “I like her,” he says, staring at me without a blink. I feel naked and bald and woozy as if I’m filled like Lolita.
Now I realize these fantastical moments in life are fairytales, perhaps the only ones we ever find. Who can fault the young for believing in them?
The dance floor is in the formal dining room. Thirty or forty posters of models and rock stars line the walls, and layers of wallpaper peel from the
corners. The flat poster faces make the room appear more crowded than it is. Once at the edge of the dancing mob, we hesitate, waiting for an
opportunity to fit in. I swing around to face him and then realize I don’t know what to say. He gazes at me until I feel silly. Then we quickly shove our
way into the drunken crowd.
“I’m Peyton,” I shout above The Blues Brothers.
“I know,” he says. Then he tells me his name and it’s perfect. He’s a good dancer, which contradicts my suspicion that he’s a nerd. His dark hair
and eyes against his pale skin bring vampires to mind: charming, elegant, and in control. Someone turns on a strobe light and his flashing face eases closer.
In a bold move, he kisses my soft, full cheeks and they’re miraculously endowed with high cheekbones like his.
Cheekbones like my mother’s.
“I like you,” he whispers into my ear like a prince sealing my approval.
Hours later as the partiers trickle away, we sit on an old piece of yard furniture behind the house. The frat music meanders around us like a last call. The
rusted latticework frame and its ugly green cushion are perfect. No deep conversation takes place; it isn’t necessary. That’s how it is when you’re
seventeen, still waiting for the depth to peak through.
“How did you know my name?” I ask, still amazed that he knew what it was.
“I’m a smart guy,” he says, running a hand through his super-short hair as if worried it may be out of place. “You’d be surprised what a person can
learn through observation.”
I reach up and smooth a stray curl pointing off the side of his head. “Have you been spyin’ on me?”
“Would that be so terrible?”