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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 III " |
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?”
Boundaries
Page 3
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?”
The idea is appealing. I picture him lurking in dark corners, creeping down alleyways. “I’m just surprised,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve ever
seen you before. I wouldn’t forget those legs.” I smile.
“Maybe you saw me with pants on.”
“It’s possible,” I say just as he kisses me. Afterwards, I snuggle close until it becomes awkward. “So what else have you observed about
me?” I finally ask because I feel compelled to bring some noise into the silence that has lasted too long.
“Well, I know you started school in January. Your hair keeps gettin’ shorter. And you’re a loner.” My eyes widen as he tells me about
myself. “I hardly ever see you with the same people.”
A crack opens and I wonder if I can close it before he notices. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“I think you have a quality that attracts people, but you don’t seem to hang around with the same crowd for too long.” My lips slowly part
along with the widening cleft. “I think there’s more to you than meets the average eye, somethin’ a little dark.”
I stand up. Part of me wants to cling to him as if he’s divine; I want him to come into my heart and save me. And I want to say something
equally perceptive, but instead, the part of me that feels compelled to run, falls back into the shallow flirtatious mode that I’m so good at. “Well, I’m
clearly at a disadvantage here.” I sink down into the ugly green cushion.
“Depends on how you look at it.”
I want to kick myself because I suddenly feel damaged and unbelievable.
“But just so you don’t feel too invaded,” he says, scratching his head, “my parents are from New Jersey but moved down here before I was
born. My dad went to MIT and teaches at the Med Center. That’s my life in a nutshell.”
“Well, that doesn’t tell me much,” I say, squinting as if it will help me understand who I’m looking at.
“My detailed bio is on a need-to-know basis.”
“What’s the big secret?” I ask. “Do you have a police record or somethin’?”
“You’re tough,” he says, shaking his head.
There’s a long silence; I hear crickets.
Then finally he says, “Somehow I skipped second grade and I’m startin’ med school in the fall.” “Aren’t you young for that?”
“I’m in the six-year program.”
“Oh,” I say, realizing he must be extremely smart. “What is that exactly?”
“You apply in high school,” he says as if it’s embarrassing. “You have to do two years of undergrad and the regular four years of med
school. I’m just finishin’ year two.” He pauses, and then says, “So far, I’ve made it farther than my sisters.”
“What happened to them?”
Page 3
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?”
The idea is appealing. I picture him lurking in dark corners, creeping down alleyways. “I’m just surprised,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve ever
seen you before. I wouldn’t forget those legs.” I smile.
“Maybe you saw me with pants on.”
“It’s possible,” I say just as he kisses me. Afterwards, I snuggle close until it becomes awkward. “So what else have you observed about
me?” I finally ask because I feel compelled to bring some noise into the silence that has lasted too long.
“Well, I know you started school in January. Your hair keeps gettin’ shorter. And you’re a loner.” My eyes widen as he tells me about
myself. “I hardly ever see you with the same people.”
A crack opens and I wonder if I can close it before he notices. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“I think you have a quality that attracts people, but you don’t seem to hang around with the same crowd for too long.” My lips slowly part
along with the widening cleft. “I think there’s more to you than meets the average eye, somethin’ a little dark.”
I stand up. Part of me wants to cling to him as if he’s divine; I want him to come into my heart and save me. And I want to say something
equally perceptive, but instead, the part of me that feels compelled to run, falls back into the shallow flirtatious mode that I’m so good at. “Well, I’m
clearly at a disadvantage here.” I sink down into the ugly green cushion.
“Depends on how you look at it.”
I want to kick myself because I suddenly feel damaged and unbelievable.
“But just so you don’t feel too invaded,” he says, scratching his head, “my parents are from New Jersey but moved down here before I was
born. My dad went to MIT and teaches at the Med Center. That’s my life in a nutshell.”
“Well, that doesn’t tell me much,” I say, squinting as if it will help me understand who I’m looking at.
“My detailed bio is on a need-to-know basis.”
“What’s the big secret?” I ask. “Do you have a police record or somethin’?”
“You’re tough,” he says, shaking his head.
There’s a long silence; I hear crickets.
Then finally he says, “Somehow I skipped second grade and I’m startin’ med school in the fall.” “Aren’t you young for that?”
“I’m in the six-year program.”
“Oh,” I say, realizing he must be extremely smart. “What is that exactly?”
“You apply in high school,” he says as if it’s embarrassing. “You have to do two years of undergrad and the regular four years of med
school. I’m just finishin’ year two.” He pauses, and then says, “So far, I’ve made it farther than my sisters.”
“What happened to them?”
In his book, Maps & Legends: Reading and Writing Along the Borderlands, Michael Chabon wrote, "Sometimes I fear to write, even in fictional
form, about things that really happened to me, about things that I ready did, or about the numerous unattractive, cruel, or embarrassing thoughts
that I have one time or another entertained.” I’ve often thought about this; I suspect most writers do.
Compared to creating art, fiction is easier to hide inside. As scary as it is, there’s a never ending cast of characters a writer can use to gloss over
the dirty, ugly truth about how one feels and views life, what one has experienced, or wants. Art, I’m finding, is a bit more explicit. As I said to
Bob this week, creating art feels like standing naked in front of a crowd or worse, on a runway. Fiction is more like being naked with someone
behind closed doors. You share yourself in an intimate way that’s safer. If you choose, there are lights to switch off, costumes to wear, words
to whisper, music to set the mood; those are the tools of truth in fiction. Standing naked in a crowd is sure to elicit an instant widespread
reaction, bright lights illuminating who you are, people chatting as they stare, relatives gasping as they cover the eyes of children. And yet there’s
a strange need to stand there exposed, to be seen, opened up like a sliced onion even if it stinks.
Last week I finished the first piece I tackled since linking up with Bob. This week it was time to start another project. Bob suggested some type
of self portrait, and I agreed. So if, like Shrek, I’m made of layers, how many am I willing to peel back for this piece? How deep a view am I
willing to give the relatives, the crowd, the children?
My mother, whom I’ve written about, has already disowned me based on some of my blog content. I did, however, speak to her recently, just
long enough for her to mention that if not for being her daughter, she wouldn’t care to know me. (I’ve decided to incorporate that hole in my
heart into the work.) But what else might I divulge, and risk losing her forever? When do we finally divorce ourselves from those who fail to
understand or accept who we are? Bob says that the depth of commitment to the work and to who I am will drive us home; if we drive exactly
how the booklet says, we’d probably all f—king kill ourselves.
You know, when you really look close at a sliced onion, it’s beautiful. If you try to ignore the smell, and manage to keep from crying, there’s a
translucent, delicate glow like nothing else on earth. It’s unique and while most people probably don’t care to take a big bite out of it, its uses are
never ending. The world needs onions just like it needs people willing to peel back layers and stand naked in crowds for all to see. Sometimes
that odd glow becomes a reflection.
form, about things that really happened to me, about things that I ready did, or about the numerous unattractive, cruel, or embarrassing thoughts
that I have one time or another entertained.” I’ve often thought about this; I suspect most writers do.
Compared to creating art, fiction is easier to hide inside. As scary as it is, there’s a never ending cast of characters a writer can use to gloss over
the dirty, ugly truth about how one feels and views life, what one has experienced, or wants. Art, I’m finding, is a bit more explicit. As I said to
Bob this week, creating art feels like standing naked in front of a crowd or worse, on a runway. Fiction is more like being naked with someone
behind closed doors. You share yourself in an intimate way that’s safer. If you choose, there are lights to switch off, costumes to wear, words
to whisper, music to set the mood; those are the tools of truth in fiction. Standing naked in a crowd is sure to elicit an instant widespread
reaction, bright lights illuminating who you are, people chatting as they stare, relatives gasping as they cover the eyes of children. And yet there’s
a strange need to stand there exposed, to be seen, opened up like a sliced onion even if it stinks.
Last week I finished the first piece I tackled since linking up with Bob. This week it was time to start another project. Bob suggested some type
of self portrait, and I agreed. So if, like Shrek, I’m made of layers, how many am I willing to peel back for this piece? How deep a view am I
willing to give the relatives, the crowd, the children?
My mother, whom I’ve written about, has already disowned me based on some of my blog content. I did, however, speak to her recently, just
long enough for her to mention that if not for being her daughter, she wouldn’t care to know me. (I’ve decided to incorporate that hole in my
heart into the work.) But what else might I divulge, and risk losing her forever? When do we finally divorce ourselves from those who fail to
understand or accept who we are? Bob says that the depth of commitment to the work and to who I am will drive us home; if we drive exactly
how the booklet says, we’d probably all f—king kill ourselves.
You know, when you really look close at a sliced onion, it’s beautiful. If you try to ignore the smell, and manage to keep from crying, there’s a
translucent, delicate glow like nothing else on earth. It’s unique and while most people probably don’t care to take a big bite out of it, its uses are
never ending. The world needs onions just like it needs people willing to peel back layers and stand naked in crowds for all to see. Sometimes
that odd glow becomes a reflection.
