Bad glass juju?

I ask the question because I got some bad juju going on today...

My day started at 0545 with my Blackberry (yes, I still use a Blackberry, and I believe that President Obama and I are the last two users left on the planet) vibrating in its alarm mode to wake me up gently without waking up the other sleeping members of the Campello household.

I reached over rather quickly, as I always do, in order to attenuate the device, as the vibrations eventually shift into a rapidly escalating "Sunrise" music if the person being woken does not pick it up and turns the alarm off.

As I did, I accidentally hit the glass of water that I always have by my bedside, and which is usually a plastic glass, in case I knock it off in my groggy state, and it falls on the floor. The problem is or was, that last night I had a glass made out of real glass.

The fall from the night table to the wood floor usually wouldn't break a tempered glass like this solid one was, but the laws of Murphy took over and the glass, full of water to the brim, took a trajectory between the night table and the bed itself, and its edge managed to hit the metal edge of the undercarriage of the bed itself.

Luckily, it a good tempered glass, and it only broke into 347 pieces instead of a million shards, while at the same time, and in defiance of nearly every physics laws of any planet with significant gravitational pull, soaked the side of the mattress.

It also made a lot of noise.

"Mom?", came Anderson's concerned voice from his nearby room, now awoken by the noise and slightly alarmed. He has been well trained, and only calls on Mom if there are any issues during lights out operations in the Campello household.

"It's OK honey," responds my wife's fully awake voice, not the usual early morning, vocal-fry voice, "Daddy dropped his glass of water... go back to sleep."

"Good luck with that," I say softly (very softly) to myself softly as I wander into the bathroom to grab a towel to soak up the water off the wooden floors and scoop up the broken glass before anyone steps on that. Ten minutes later the floor has been taken care of, and in somewhat of a miracle, not a single shard of glass has made its way to my hands.

A quick shower and I'm ready to head out. 

As today is the day that I pick up Anderson from school, and take him to his swim practice. Since while I'm there I usually spend that hour surfing the net on my iPad, I grab my iPad, my WiFi device, my Blackberry, a bag of nuts, his giant-assed backpack full of his swimming gear, three slices of cheese, a little plastic container with some leftover chicken, my water bottle and my car keys.

Should have made two or three trips, because as soon as I get to the van and start unloading, I drop not the WiFi device, nor the Blackberry, or bag of nuts, or his giant-assed backpack full of his swimming gear, or any of the three slices of cheese, or the little plastic container with some leftover chicken, or the water bottle, or the car keys.

Nope, I dropped the iPad, which of course, and as designed by Apple, does a perfect corner landing which results in multiple cracks across the surface of the device.

Hey! I'm still not mad - but now I'm aware that shit like this comes in threes... so Lenny is gonna be super alert this morning while driving on the beltway as I head north towards a Maryland fort named after a Union general, but I'm not naming names in case NBC alleges that I'm heading to someplace named after a Confederate general, if any of those still remain.

I get to my destination safely, and once in the nice office, I log into my computer, get distracted by something on TV about some lady with a lot of names who's been busted as a leaker at the Treasury Department, and my screen saver times out. Now fully distracted and not as wary as I was just 30 minutes earlier, I absent-mindedly, and for the first time that I can recall, ever... ever... type the wrong password into my system, which immediately locks me out, as I have it designed to allow only two tries, beacuse the Lenster never fucks up his password.

Until today, that is.

Now I need to go to the IT gods to get help, and thus I start that trek, now slightly wary once again of the way events are turning out this morning - it's not even 9 o'clock yet, but I'm back in DEFCON 3, just in case.

I get my computer unlocked rather easily by a nice IT guy who looks to be about 12, and breathe a sigh of relief - crap like this comes in threes, and in my mind the three bad things had already occurred and the kid is home free.

Not so fast - you see, there were two "glass" things (the glass of water and the iPad glass screen), so in reconstructing what happened next, it is clear that another "glass" thing was in storage.

Ready?

There is some kind of code in Montgomery County that dictates that floor levels between doors have to be even and have some sort of ramp if the floor descends on the side of the door that opens. This is clearly not the case (or it is not enforced) in Anne Arundel county. How do I know that? Because as I was leaving this building on a side door, on the other side of the exit door, there was a lower floor which descended a full human step.

As if that was not bad enough, as I stumbled upon the unexpected drop, there was a well-worn furniture dolly on the floor... right in front of where my foot, or anyone's fucking feet coming from the other side of the blind door, as it opened towards the lower level floor, would land.

 Notice that I described it as "well-worn", as this is important to the series of events which took place next. The dolly's protective carpet edging around the corners were all but gone after many years of service... nothing at all like the image to the left - but nothing but sharp wooden corners at the edges.

Someone was either moving in and out, and (I think) the dolly was being used to help carry some loads from the edge of the door to the sixteen milimiters to the double glass doors leading to the steps which descended to the street in front of this building's side entrance. And someone had left it right in front of a door that opens towards that area, with a blind drop of eight inches or so.

I accidentally stepped onto the empty dolly, which lurched forward as my momemtum was progressive (cough, cough), and I lost my balance. I managed to grab the door push-bar and did not fall, but the dolly shot forward towards the double glass doors.

Normally, those doors would have been closed, and normally, a carpet-edge-protected dolly would have just bounced off the thick glass doors, and normally - even if well worn and sharp as these dolly's corners apparently were -- chances are that the dolly would have struck the door on one of its sides, rather than a sharp corner - a 50% chance to be exact.

Even if a dolly's sharp corner struck the glass dors while the doors were closed, the incidence angle would most likely just cause the dolly to bounce off the doors... the double glass doors.

However, in this case, whoever was the Einstein who was moving in or out -- and whom had left the fucking dolly on the other side of a blind-opening door which descends onto a blind step -- was in the process of coming back into the building. And he had just pulled one of the glass doors towards him, so when the dolly (now at a perfect 45 degree angle of incidence), struck the glass door (also at a perfect and no longer perpendicular or horizontal angle, but perfectly angled to receive the sharp corner in the most destructive manner angle posible) was hit, it shattered into a perfect cobweb of fisures threatening to explode into a burst of broken glass.

I know it was him, because he was carring a medium sized box - certainly not dolly-worthy, but maybe he had more boxes coming, although it seemed to me (in retrospect) that this Einstein should have placed the dolly (if he was moving in) on the other side of the door and thus the higher step level!

And thus, in the precise timing sequence that I step on the dolly, and it goes flying forward, and Einstein opens the glass door, and the dolly smacks the glass door and shatters it, a third actor enters the stage, as another twenty-something gent is coming up the steps, absorbed in something important going on in his phone, and not looking at the Keystonian (reference to Keystone Cops for you Millenials - look it up) comedy developing in front of him.

And he was coming up the steps and the dolly was flying down the steps, having bounced off the glass door, and now looking for more victims.

And phone boy, of course, now steps on the descending dolly and goes lurching slightly forward -- and his phone goes flying south and lands (on its corner of course), not on the soft grass that cover 75% of the area in front of this entrance, but on the 25% cement sidewalk, which - as we'll find out soon - shatters the phone's glass screen... cough, cough.

Did you notice that I wrote that phone boy went "forward"? This is important to the story, because some part of phone boy - not sure which - then hits the shattered glass door, which, up to this point has valiantly been holding all the shattered glass within the frame of the door, as a good, well-tempered glass was designed do.

But upon being hit a second time, the glass door lost its temper and exploded into a trillion pieces, covering both Einstein and phone boy in glass shards.

"Are you guys OK?", I ask, truly concerned about these two young guys, and somewhat impressed that Einstein didn't drop the box that he was carrying during this whole sequence.

"My phone!!!!", screams phone boy in horror looking at his empty hand, apparently not caring that he's covered in glass. He looks around, sees the phone on the sidewalk and runs towards it.

"What happened?", asks Einstein slightly dazed, and certainly confused. "The door just exploded...", he adds.

"Somebody left a dolly on the other side of that door", I point out to him, and stop there. I can see that he's reconstructing the incident in his mind. "Are you OK?", I ask him. He nods - not offering any more contributions to the conversation.

I walk over to phone boy, and ask him the same question. "My phone!!!", he responds in agony.

Later on, it dawns on me that - technically, if you count his phone - four "glass" incidents have happened today.

I hope that the bad juju is over for the day... although my lower back is feeling a little tender after that "funny" step onto the dolly.

And it's still morning...

Part II of "Miami Bound"

On the flight over to Miami to participate at the Context Art Miami art fair during Art Basel Miami Beach week, I began the first of two postings discussing why visual art establishments and arts organizations of all sorts should and must participate in the visual art world's largest art party. You can read the first part here.

As I return home, having had a terrific fair, this second part is being written on the flight home.

The first part used The Art League as an example of a visual arts entity (and a great one at that) that should participate in art fairs. I noted that they have several thousand members and run a very successful and important program at their space inside the Torpedo Factory and assorted classrooms all over the area.

So the issue is, how does The Art League (again, you can fill in any of multiple DMV area membership-based art organizations) pick or select the 3-5 artists to take to an art fair?

Once again I am going to make the very important point that the "good" art fairs are nearly always tightly juried. There are many other art fairs where one just pays and anyone and everyone can go - those usually suck and unfortunately by now some DMV galleries and many DMV solo artists have discovered this (along with good Cuban food) during this last week in Miami.

And thus I noted that for Miami/NYC fairs I am thinking (in no particular order) about Art Miami, Context, Aqua, Pulse, NADA, Affordable Art Fair(s), Scope, Miami Project, Untitled, Frieze... some of these are very, very hard (some nearly impossible) to get into, but they're listed nonetheless, because there is a "food chain" of art fairs, and the bottom-feeders usually spell disaster for the participants. For example, we've applied many times to Pulse and have always been rejected. There were almost 30 art fairs in the Greater Miami area last week!

For this, The Art League would need to establish a process to pre-jury its membership to 3-5 artists and apply with those artists to an art fair. I would start with The Affordable Art Fair in New York this coming Spring. They are close by and they are a "proven" fair. Later, for Miami, I would start with either Aqua or Context.

The Art League then would need to canvas their membership and find out who's interested in being juried for possible selection for further jurying into an art fair. Everything that I'm going to discuss below has to be clearly explained in the prospectus for this process, so that each applying artist knows exactly what this would involve.

I suspect that a large number of artists would find this attractive, and perhaps a small jurying fee ($10?) could be applied to subsidize the art fair costs (I would budget anywhere from $12-20K, depending on booth size).

 I would make this jurying process independent from the Art League itself - just like they do for their monthly juried shows, and have interested artists bring their work in to be juried by an independent juror.

That juror has to be a very special juror - in fact 99.9998% of your standard-issue visual art juror (art professors, art critics, art writers, art center directors, artists, collectors, art symbiots, etc.) would guarantee a disaster to this process. There are probably less than a dozen people in the entire DMV who are qualified to jury this process, I kid thee not and I know them all.

This is a critical point, so I'm going to repeat it: The DMV the jury pool for this process is very limited and its members are only those gallerists who have successfully participated in multiple art fairs. In fact I can't think of anyone better to jury this part than me!

Whatever you do, DO NOT use an art fair director as a juror! They are usually interested in what would make the fair look good (usually from an unsellable trendy perspective) , rather than understand the delicate balance of good art, finances and peripheral issues that come to play into this process.

The juror would pick 3-5 artists and 2-3 alternates. This is because some art fair processes do have the option to accept an application while at the same time rejecting some of the artists in that application.

So now we have a group of artists, culled from applying Art League members, ready and willing to participate in an art fair.

The actual application process is easy, so I'm not getting into that - be aware that deadlines are usually months before the actual fairs.

If accepted, the next step is transporting the artwork to the art fair, and then returning the unsold artwork back to the owners. For this, the Art League has various options.

One option would be to hire a transport company. There are dozens and dozens of specialized carriers that do this and they pick up and transport the art to your booth at the fair, and at the end pick it up from your booth and transport it back. This is the easiest and the most expensive. From here to NYC and back I would budget $1200-$2000 depending on volume. Packaging also becomes an issue here.

Another option is to rent a truck or van and schlep the work to and from the fair yourself. This is what I usually do for New York and Miami.

A third option is to have each artist (or teamed artists) bring their own work in their own cars, vans, etc.

In this example, I would offer each accepted artist the choice to also come to the fair, and help hang and help to sell their own work. This should be an option, not a requirement, as some artists would rather spend a week in Baghdad than a long weekend in an art fair dealing with art collectors; but some artists do like doing that. In any event, just "being" and seeing what goes on at an art fair is a spectacular learning opportunity for anyone involved in the visual arts.

The Art League has the luxury of having a very skilled "front desk" team that is already well-versed in the arcane art of selling artwork - so they could and should also come to the fair to handle questions and sales, etc.DO NOT send your executive director or curator to handle sales - that would be a disaster!

We're getting dangerously close to having a lot of people crowding the booth, so let's please keep the number of people hanging around the booth at all times to less than three; the artists can "float" in and out.

There is strength in numbers in many other aspects: transporting artwork, hanging it, packing it, splitting costs of hotel rooms, etc.

Before you book a hotel room anywhere in the major US cities (especially NYC) always check www.bedbugregistry.com. Again, I kid thee not. Pick a hotel that is walking distance from the fair or public transportation to the fair.

The elephant in the room here is cost(s), but again there is strength in numbers.

Art fairs often offer discounted prices to non-profits; Honfleur Gallery in Anacostia often participates in The Affordable Art Fair in NYC and takes advantage of this special pricing. WPA participates (and has great success) at (e)merge and Hamiltonian is always somewhere in Miami.

Art fair prices are different depending on the fair. You can see the booth prices for the next Affordable Art Fair New York here. As you can see, you can actually get a booth for as low as $4600.

I'm my head I have this concept of having the selected Art League artists have a "financial stake" in this process by having them contribute some funds towards the art fair fees. Nothing works like putting your money where your mouth is. But then again, as a large organization, perhaps a more artist-friendly model would be for the Art League to cover all the art fair costs from a combination of jury entry fees and their own budget.

Of course, the Art League would also keep their usual commission on sales, so this also has a money-making angle for them.

What are the art fair costs? There are direct costs and associated costs.

Direct costs are:
(a) Cost of the basic booth
(b) Cost of additional booth stuff (extra walls, extra lights, storage)
(c) Some fairs have a "shared" advertising cost (AAFNYC doesn't)

Associated Costs are:
(a) Cost of required insurance (Art League would be able to use their current insurer or buy insurance directly from the art fair)
(b) Cost of transportation of the art. If using own vehicle, then also cost of parking it
(c) Cost of Art League staff at the fair (bus to NYC and shared hotel room and per diem for food)
(d) Cost of the juror to select the artists

Funding sources for all these costs are:
(a) Art League budget
(b) Nominal jurying fee for applying artists
(c) Commission on sales at the fair (this, of course, is putting the cart ahead of the horse)

Commercial galleries take huge chances at art fairs. My very first art fair all around cost was about $8,000 almost a decade ago - all that was charged on the gallery's credit card and we held our breath while at the fair. We sold about $30,000 worth of art, and thus after commissions to the artists we cleared $15,000 and paid off the credit card and then had $6,000 to put towards the next art fair fee.

I can count on one hand the number of times that we sold that much in any gallery art show in the DMV; and I've had a gallery here of one sort or another since 1996.

What's in it for the artists?

Usually a lot more than for the gallery. I will repeat this: more often than not, an artist reaps more good things out of an art fair than the gallery does.

These things include:
(a) Exposure to more art collectors, curators, press, etc. in a few days than in years of exhibiting art around the DMV. You will see more people in 4-5 days than in five years at a gallery in the DMV.
(b) Exposure to other galleries who may be interested in your work. I have multiple examples of this - Just ask DMV area artist Judith Peck what has happened to her career once she started showing at art fairs.
(c) A significantly higher chance of getting critical press.
(d) A significantly higher chance of getting your work noticed by both freelance and museum curators. The chance of getting your work noticed by a DMV museum curator is probably higher than the chance of winning the lottery. Most DMV area museum curators (AU's Jack Rasmussen being the brilliant exception) would rather take a cab to Dulles to fly to Miami to see emerging artists' works at fairs than taking a cab to see a gallery show in Georgetown.
(e) Being part of the art fair "wake effect" --- Read about that here.
(f) A much better chance to getting invited to participate in other shows such as university shows, themed-shows, group shows, etc. Ask Virginia artist Sheila Giolitti about that.

I hope that I've made my point, and I hope that some visual art groups and organizations are reading this.

Greater Reston Arts Center, Blackrock Center for the Arts, Touchstone, Gallery West, Art League, Washington Project for the Arts, Maryland Art Place, Multiple Exposures, Gallery 10, Washington Sculptors Group, VizArts, Artomatic, Waverly Street Gallery, DC Arts Center, DCCAH, Target Gallery, Torpedo Factory, Workhouse Arts Center, Art Gallery of Potomac, Rockville Art League, The Artists' Undertaking, Glen Echo... I'm looking at you.

Context Art Miami: Final Report

The street protests yesterday had minimal impact on the fair, and once again good crowds were present.

We had another decent day, and sold eight of my drawings, as well as an acquisition of two of my vintage Art school stone lithographs by the Museo de Arte Afroamericano in Caracas, Venezuela.

All throughout the fair, people have been admiring and taking hundreds of photographs of DMV artist Elissa Farrow-Savos' gorgeous sculptures, and myriads of cards with her name were handed out to the "we'll be back" crowd. Seldom does that happen... The fairs are big and overwhelming... You either get the work when you see it, or forget it...

As we were beginning to pack a few minutes after 6pm, a couple did actually come back and purchased the work. As we began to wrap it, a very pretty collector from San Francisco also returned and was a little... Well, actually a lot, to see that the sculpture had been sold. It had clearly made a powerful connection with her. I actually think that she was almost ready to make the new owners an offer for the piece and thus create a new record for the fastest secondary market art turnover in history!

She appeared truly bummed out, so I gave her one of my Art School vintage stone lithos as a present and promised to see if the artist would entertain re-creating another version of the work.

We were packed and out of there by 8pm, and after a heinous 4am wake up call, I now sit in the plane at oh-dark thirty as I head back to the DMV after a very successful art fair!

Back next year!

Art Basel MB week: Day Three

Definitely lots more people today walking about the art fairs, if not necessarily buying the art off the walls, although there were certainly a lot more interest, loads more questions, lots more people asking for business cards and info on artists, some museum curators walking about, etc.

About 1% of all that will lead to actual sales later on in the "wake effect" of being at an art fair.

Some of the close calls were of the "WTF" kind. Such as the fact that Judith Peck's gorgeous and intelligent (and signature piece) "Jus in Bello" was twice in a "first right of refusal" status; twice!

And one couple has come back three nights in a row to look at one of Lou Gagnon pastels.

MFA today sold two Sheila Giolitti resin oil paintings, a couple more of my drawings, and one more Andrew Wodzianski android gouache as well as the first Alexey Terenin oil of the fair.

As I noted earlier, towards the end of the night I almost had my clock cleaned by an older British gent who was irate over my Guevara video drawing. A small crowd gathered as he threatened to hit me. Apparently his Cuban-born wife had been mistreated by Che in the early 60s in Cuba and also her brother had been executed by Guevara during his reign of terror as the chief executor of the Cuban Revolution.

Since this has happened several times this week, by now I have a "system", and soon he was all "explained-out" about the ying yang meaning of this complex piece. In the background, the gigantic figure of DC artist Andrew Wodzianski was covering my back while snapping photos with his phone as a curious crowd gathered. That's one of 11 pics he took.

Two more days left, although from my experience, Saturday is truly the last "real" day as Sunday is strollers day and pack out nightmare evening.

Superfine DC coming!

Art fairs in cities across the world continue to remain as one of the key components of the planet's cultural tapestry, with Art Basel Miami Beach (ABMB) still holding the title of the "big dance of the art world" each December in the Greater Miami area.

Other cities around the world, London, Toronto, Madrid, Capetown, Frankfurt, Basel, Buenos Aires, etc., all host and have really good art fairs as well, and many American cities - besides Miami - also host excellent fairs, most notably New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Seattle, Houston, etc.

And yet, in spite of several attempts by art fair world giants such as the Art Miami group, and by ubercollectors such as Mera Rubell, the DMV's attempts to enter the art fair circuit have failed. Here's my review of the 2008 attempt by Art Miami to start a fair in DC.


It's a paradoxically confounding issue! After all, according to a recent poll, the DMV has the planet's second highest concentration of multi-millionaires, so the disposable income is present in the Greater DC area and surrounding counties (six of the top 10 richest counties in the United States are in the DMV). 

Thus it is a fact that although the money is here, as anyone who's ever tried to sell a piece of art in the area knows, the collectors themselves are far and few in between, and a significant number of the 125,000 millionaires who (according to Census figures) live in the DMV region do not generally buy artwork with the same zest and zeal that they obtain giant mansions in Potomac, and ride around in huge SUVs, or expensive weekend motorcycles.

Why? Because to a certain extent, many of them lack the "formation" (as a Communist would say) to really understand, appreciate and know the difference between a "picture" and a work of art.

It's not that they are stupid or uncultured - after all, most of them are first generation, self made "progressive" men and women, often from blue collar backgrounds, and who worked their way up the capitalism food chain and made themselves what they are today.


Savvy businessmen, too many sharp lawyers, brilliant computer geeks, enviable technocrats - and all with little, if any, exposure to the arts in their upbringing, and more importantly, exposure to the availability of the arts. The last due to the exceptional apathy that our local DMV media has towards the visual arts.

We also have a really good art scene, mostly centered around the many museums which we're lucky to have in the area - mostly all "national" museums, which sucks for DMV artists, since they seldom pay attention to their own backyard, but a lot of museums nonetheless. We also have a lot of great art programs, since we're surrounded by dozens of world class Universities and colleges in the area with terrific art programs. 

We also have highly attended and highly ranked outdoor art festivals - most notably in Bethesda and Reston, and the Artomatic open show draws as many as 1,000 artists and 75,000 visitors!

Our area also has the lowest unemployment rate in the Universe.

All of those things are ingredients which would lead one to think that an art fair would do well around the DMV.

No one has cracked that nut yet, and if you are a constant reader of this blog, then you know that (since I have been participating in art fairs for well over a decade now), I have often offered advice via this blog on how to stage a potentially successful art fair in the DMV. You can read some of that advice, given 10 years ago here.

Art fairs are a huge financial risk to art galleries - You drop $10,000 to $15,000 bucks on an art fair, and if you come home with little or no sales, and an empty bank account... that often means that it is lights out for the gallery. I've seen and heard this happen multiple times in the decade plus that I've been doing art fairs.

What are the art fair costs? There are direct costs and associated costs.

Direct costs are:
(a) Cost of the basic booth
(b) Cost of additional booth stuff (extra walls, extra lights, storage)
(c) Some fairs have a "shared" advertising cost

Associated Costs are:
(a) Cost of required insurance
(b) Cost of transportation of the art. If using own vehicle, then also cost of parking it and gas
(c) Cost of people transportation to the fair, food and hotel, etc.

Bottom Line: Commercial galleries take huge chances at art fairs. My very first art fair all-around cost was about $8,000 over a decade ago in New York - all that was charged on the gallery's credit card and we held our breath while at the fair. We sold about $30,000 worth of art, and thus after commissions to the artists we cleared $15,000 and paid off the credit card, and then had $6,000 to put towards the next art fair fee. 

I can count on one hand the number of times that we have ever sold that much art in any gallery art show in the DMV; and as a reference, I've had a physical brick-and-mortar gallery here of one sort or another since 1996 and through 2009. 

Since those galleries closed - the last one in 2009, three years after I left it, and we went virtual, we've focused on art fairs and done OK - and art fair prices kept going up, and up.  The last art fair that we did in Miami last summer cost over $60,000! It was a giant booth... too big!

But, in the 21st century, doing art fairs is a "must do" not only for independently owned commercial fine art galleries, but also for any and all other genres of visual art spaces (non profits, artists cooperatives, art leagues, art schools, etc.).

What's in an art fair for the artists?

Usually a lot more than for the gallery. I will repeat this: just as often, an artist reaps more good things out of an art fair than the gallery does.

These things include:

(a) Exposure to more art collectors, curators, press, etc. in a few days than in years of exhibiting art around the DMV. You will see more people in 4-5 days than in five ten years at a gallery in the DMV.

(b) Exposure to other galleries who may be interested in your work. I have multiple examples of this - Just ask DMV area artist Judith Peck what has happened to her career once she started showing at art fairs.

(c) A significantly higher chance of getting critical press, as art fair openings are a magnet for nor only the usual press, but also for every other scribe who has anything to do with writing about art.

(d) A significantly higher chance of getting your work noticed by both freelance and museum curators. The chance of getting your work noticed by a DMV museum curator is probably worse than the chance of winning the lottery. Most DMV area museum curators (AU's Jack Rasmussen being the brilliant exception) would rather take a cab to Dulles to fly to Miami to see emerging artists' works at Miami fairs than taking a cab to see a gallery show in Georgetown.

(e) Being part of the art fair "wake effect" --- Read about that here.

(f) A much better chance to getting invited to participate in other shows such as university shows, themed-shows, group shows, etc. Ask Virginia artist Sheila Giolitti about that, or (now) Ohio artist Audrey Wilson.

Twice in the last five or six years I've been retained as an advisor to two giant international art fair conglomerates which were exploring the DMV as a potential site for expansion.

I was pretty brutal with them on the negatives (which I'll gladly expand on upon demand, but most of which have been documented here in the nearly two decades that this blog has been documenting the DMV art scene), and the many great positives, as well as what I thought was the secret code to break the art fair losing streak of the DMV.

Enter SuperfineDC! In their own words:

The Art Fair DC Deserves Arrives This Month

Fun, approachable, and chock full of art by local and global emerging artists, Superfine! DC descends on the capital from October 31st to November 4th for a fall art spectacular the likes of which the District has never before seen. The art fair that's built its chops in New York and Miami by serving up a clear, transparent, new art market friendly to both long time collectors and people interested in art who've never purchased a piece before is bringing its unique formula to DC's Union Market, and you'll never experience art the same way again.

Over 300 visual artists from DC and beyond will present new contemporary artwork throughout 74 curated booths, and with price points beginning below $100 and 75% of works available below $5,000, you're certain to discover the perfect piece for your castle or cottage. Join us for a chic sneak peek Masquerade Vernissage opening on Halloween night, or indulge your inner child with artisan scoops by Trickling Springs Creamery at our Young Collectors' Ice Cream Social on Friday 11/2. From panel discussions with local art luminaries to art movie nights and VR experiences, Superfine! DC has Washingtonians covered as your own local, global art fair.

2018 EXHIBITORS

HEARTLANDIA

Cindy Lisica Gallery | Houston, TX
Monochrome Collective | Washington, DC
Most Wanted Fine Art | Pittsburgh, PA
BoxHeart Gallery | Pittsburgh, PA
Antieau Gallery | New Orleans, LA
ArtShape Mammoth | Burlington, VT
Pure Artistry Works | Philadelphia, PA
Walton Gallery | Petersburg, VA
Sean Christopher Ward | Wichita, KS
Gallery O on H | Washington, DC

CENTER STAGE

Zenith Gallery | Washington, DC
Touchstone Gallery | Washington, DC
Vox Populi Print Collective | Madison, WI
European Design & Art LLC | Miami, FL
Art Village Gallery | Memphis, TN
XOL Gallery | Baltimore, MD
glave kocen gallery | Richmond, VA
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Susan Calloway Fine Arts | Washington, DC

FOTO KAIP-SOOL

Jeremiah Morris | Mount Crawford, VA
Lori Cuisinier | New York, NY
Alexandra Aroyo | New York, NY
The 36-24-36 Project | Brooklyn, NY
James Miille | Brooklyn, NY

ARTIST PAVILION

Brooke Rogers | Ocean City, MD
Julio Valdez | New York, NY
Svetlana Nelson | Madison, AL
Daniel Stuelpnagel | Baltimore, MD
Rogelio Maxwell | Washington, DC
Virago | New York, NY
Bruce McGowan | Montreal, Quebec, CA
JJ Galloway | Annapolis, MD
Deming King Harriman | Brooklyn, NY
Noel Kassewitz | Washington, DC
Kelly Moeykens | Washington, DC
Olan Quattro | Washington, DC
Fei Alexeli | Thessaloniki, Greece
Mary Westphal & Armand Fogels | Alexandria, VA
Susan Hostetler | Washington, DC
ALIGUORI | Fort Lauderdale, FL
Jaclyn Mottola | New York, NY
Emma Repp | Seattle, WA
Sheila Cahill | Washington, DC
Hannah Sarfraz | Gaithersburg, MD
Diana Contreras | Miami, FL
Brianne Lanigan | Arlington, VA
Brendon Palmer-Angell | New Orleans, LA
Dennis Crayon | Washington, DC
Julie Christenberry | Washington, DC
Joseph Meloy | New York, NY
Sarah Magida | Baltimore, MD
Scott Hutchison | Arlington, VA
Chaney Trotter | New York, NY
Joseph Shetler | Washington, DC
Aaron Patton | Wichita, KS
Stephen Perrone | Sylvan Beach, NY
Christine Ruksenas-Burton | Stone Ridge, VA
Sonja Rohde | New York, NY
Wayson R. Jones | Brentwood, MD
Michael Heilman | Alexandria, VA
Helen Robinson | Brooklyn, NY
Sarah Jamison | Washington, DC
Colleen Garibaldi | Washington, DC
Adam Chamy | Washington, DC
Steve Wanna | Mount Rainier, MD
Rod Webber | Boston, MA
Kathryn Jane Leung | Manassas Park, VA
D'Arcy Simpson | Hudson, NY

Will Superfine DC succeed? I hope so!

October 31 - November 4, 2018
1309 5th St NE
Washington, DC 20002

All the details that you need are here. Disclaimer: My own spectacular work will be exhibited at this coming fair by Zenith Gallery.

Memories from a Prostectomy: The Spirometer, the leak and the wasps

I've debated over and over about documenting my recent and brutal prostate biopsy (the brutality comes in the bloody evidence after the biopsy), the subsequent cancer diagnosis by a very aggressive form of cancer, the recent hospitalization for radical prostrate surgery, and the current harsh recovery. 

And I'm still not really sure why I started to do it here, because this is an art blog, not Lenny's diary or whine-blog, but here it goes.

Why? There are some excellent lessons learned in the process which maybe can help someone; who knows. If I had read this ahead of my own surgery, it would have made some things a lot easier. I also plan to print this and mail it to the hospital, as there is some good feedback in here for them.

It has been over a week since the surgery, which was done on Tuesday, February 16, and things are not all 100% good, but we're moving forwards (I hope).

As noted in an earlier post, I arrived at Suburban Hospital last Tuesday around 5:30AM for a scheduled robotic assisted prostate surgery. The road that led there was accented by multiple pokes, biopsies, meetings with doctors, nurses, and deciding between chemo or the knife.

I decided to get rid of the little fucker outright and quickly, rather than cook it to death. The end results are the same: your prostate is history, but with surgery at least it is out of your body, unable to spread, and they can also biopsy the surrounding areas so that they can verify that it hasn't spread. Surgery, especially the robot assisted surgery which eliminates surgeon's tremors, also has a decent chance that after recovery you'll be able to still get your crank up.


That's one giant-assed issue, know what I mean.

So, after arrival at the hospital, I was prepared for the surgery, which is done by a team of doctors and nurses and a robot. 

I'm imagining this guy from Star Wars, but I know that it must be something quite simpler looking; later on I discovered that I was pretty close! At least the top half.

To the left is what the DaVinci Robot looks like (note the artistic name).

My surgery was to be directed and done by a genial Mexican-born doctor who has loads of experience in this area.

The staff at Suburban is like Whole Foods, there are people from all over the planet, and the accents reveals Americans who were once Russians, Ethiopians, Filipinas, Jamaicans, Asians, Indians, Central Americans, Nigerians, and the Gulf States.

A smiling tech wearing a hijab puts the intravenous needle kit into my left arm, while a nurse reviews the pre-operative protocol for the 100th time at different stages.

At some point the anesthesiologist comes in and walks me through his part of the operation. Soon after, my doctor comes in and we converse in Spanish. He tells me that all will be OK.

As I am rolled to the operation room, all that is in my head is the fact that I will have to wear a catheter for 10 to 14 days. The thought makes me shudder, but the mind (and the gurney) rattles on. But at least I have been told by most people that I should be heading home the next day, if everything goes well.

At the operation room a smiling nurse puts a hair net on my hair and that's the last that I remember.

I wake up to a smiling and efficient Asian nurse who checks me out. I'm not feeling any pain or discomfort, but have a very sore throat. She explains that I had a tube going down my throat into my lungs. I am also very thirsty and start drinking lots of water.  I'm also beginning to cough, the familiar feeling of phlegm in my lungs ticking my throat.

Each cough feels like someone is stabbing my guts in five different places, the result of the multiple robotic probes and the macabre tube coming out of my stomach. I also know that it's there, but don't want to think about the catheter tube up my crank and reaching into my bladder.

My wife looks under the sheets and grimaces. "What?," I ask alarmed. She describes the multiple angry incisions in my belly, the stomach tube, etc. She also notes that I have been "manscaped down there."

Much later, when I've had a chance to get a mirror, I inspect the manscaping, which goes all the way from below my nipples to my testicles. Curiously, whoever did all the shaving stopped halfway through my balls, so the top of them are shaved, but the bottoms are still covered in pubic hair, somewhat making them look like balls with beards, or one of those Japanese haircuts where they shave your forehead all the way up to half of the top of your head.
Eventually I'm released from the recuperation ward and I'm taken to my room; and I'm pleased to see that I'm the only person there. When I was a teen and got whacked by a car running a red light in Brooklyn, I spent months in a giant ward at Kings County Hospital; not pretty.

My wife is there by my side with a bag of essentials, such as my iPad. I use it to snap this photo and Facebook the image. She notices that my eyes are watery, and I tell her that they feel very odd.

With the exception of my colleagues that were at Context Art Miami with me in December, my wife's immediate family, and my two daughters, no one knew that I had been diagnosed with cancer, much less that I was to undergo major surgery.

And thus, after the Facebook posting makes the rounds, the Cuban side of my family is surprised that I kept them in the dark. My reasoning for that is clear, as I explain it to them.

My mother is in her 90s and doing OK in her apartment of 40+ years in Florida; she doesn't need to worry about me, cancer, operations, etc.

My plan was to tell her after the operation (I did); had I told one of my relatives before the operation, I was afraid of the effects of Radio Bemba ahead of the operation

Radio Bemba is a Cuban expression that literally means Lip Radio. It's news, gossip, rumors, conjectures, etc. spread by word of mouth. In the Navy an equal expression is RUMORINT (Rumor Intelligence).

As soon as the Facebook news spread, I get emails from DMV artists Tim Tate and Elissa Farrow-Savos: "Avoid the Percocet!," they warn. "It will really mess up your bowels!".

The tone of their alarms gets to me and I insist to the nurses that I want to stay off that particular painkiller, even though they tell me that I'm on a stool softener. I also continue to drink a lot of water.

Considering the trauma of the event, the pain is mostly manageable. As recommended, I even get up a couple of times and do some walking zombie 15 minute strolls through the ward. A couple of other patients are already out there, and a nice nurse ties my hospital gown properly so that I can stop showing the crack of my ass.

We walk around in zombie patterns around the ward, rolling out the IV tower for support, and holding the urine and stomach fluids bags in the other hand.

I'm not hungry, but I know that I must eat, so I consume some clear liquids: chicken broth, lemonade, green tea and (as directed by the nurse) some most excellent lemon ice. The food delivery people from the hospital kitchens, both the tiny East Asian woman and the clean-cut, elegant, young African-American youngster, are friendly and vivacious. In fact, nearly everyone that I came across while at Suburban, starting with the Central American and the Dominican ladies at the check-in station, to the always-friendly, talkative and smiley (and pretty) African-American cleaning lady who cleaned my room everyday, were an unexpected joy at the kind of workplace that usually yields jaded, glum workers.

So far, the only thing that it really bothersome, and pain inducing when it happens, is the constant coughing to try to get rid of phlegm in my lungs. It is mostly futile and my throat is really sore. Each cough hurts my gut with multiple deep lances of pain, and a nice nurse brings me a HUG ME pillow.

"Hug it against your stomach when you cough," she advises.

I cough a lot; it hurts a lot. Otherwise, everything else is manageable.

My eyes have been feeling odd since I woke up, as if they were full of eyelashes inside your eyelids. After dinner I zombie-up to the bathroom to brush my teeth and look at my eyes.

What I see scares the crap out of me. A jell like substance, looking like the vitreous, jelly like substance that fills the center of the eye accumulates at the edges of my eye lids. As I tilt my head, it quickly slides around the eye ball to whatever direction gravity pulls it, but never spills out of the eyeball.

I am convinced that my eye vitreous has detached during surgery and is now floating around my eyeball. I bring my alarm to my nice Nigerian male nurse, a smiling, kind man always willing to help. He looks at my eyes and is also somewhat alarmed, although he tries to hide it.

"I will get the Physician's Assistant to look at it," he tells me.

A couple of hours pass, and I'm now obsessed with my eyes; even the coughing fits take second place to my concern about them. I get out of bed again, run into my nurse and ask about the PA. He assures me that she's on the floor and will soon see me.

Around midnight she shows up. She sits next to me and asks me if I get grossed out easy. From her friendly and smiley approach, I am somewhat relieved.

She describes the operating procedures that took place, including the fact that my eyes were filled with a thick lubricant, and taped up during the operation; that's what's in my eyes. She cleans them with a warm wash cloth, and tell me to do that gently over the next few days.

It sounds from her talk that she was actually part of the operating team that morning. She describes how my body is put into a 45 degree angle, with my head lowered, and how my pelvic and intestinal area is inflated with balloons to allow the robot arms access to the prostate, the seminal vessels, and the lymph nodes.

The main driver, in this case, my Mexican Doctor, sits at a console and does the cutting, re-attachment of the urethra to the bladder, and the stitching. I mention to her that the doctor had mentioned that the robot does "beautiful stitches."

She clarifies that it is the doctor, using the robot arms, who actually does the stitching. "Baseball stitches actually," she mentions. She adds that prior to the robotic advance, a surgeon could only do six stitches; now he or she gets to go all the way around and baseball-stitch that connection.

I'm curious as to how the prostate itself and other internal body parts are removed from the body, and I ask her. Her eyes light up. Apparently, that's her job at the operation; she "runs" the robot hand that contains a expansible bag that accepts the prostate as it is clipped off by another robotic arm. The bag is then closed and extracted from inside the body.

I go into a coughing fit and she looks alarmed at my pain. She asks me where my Incentive Spirometer is; my puzzled look is her answer, and she rushes out of the room and comes back with one of the devices.

"They were supposed to give you one of these when you came out of the operating room," she frowns as she teaches me how to use it. "It will re-start your lungs and help you get rid of the phlegm a lot easier."

I'm directed to exercise my lungs ten times an hour. As I do it, I wonder who fucked up the check list of what I'm supposed to do after a major operation. 

Within a couple of hours, my lungs are a lot better and a lot of gunk has been spit out. However, after ten hours of constant coughing, my throat has been abused and it is sore and the occasional cough from that issue still bugs me, but it's a million times better.


When my wife comes by the next morning, she's pretty upset that I had been Spirometer-less most of the day. Because she runs everyday, she actually runs from our home to the hospital (and back) everyday as part of her exercise routine; who knows how many miles this uberathlete logs on each round trip!

I'm expecting to be released later that day, but there's a problem.

It seems that something called a Jackson-Pratt (or JP drain); which is a soft, round plastic bulb that looks like a grenade and is attached to the end of my stomach tube, and "sucks" the fluid out of my body (from around the operated area), has been sucking too much fluid - there's a lot of fluid in that area.

Tests also indicate that there's elevated creatinine in that stomach tube liquid, higher than the creatinine levels in my blood. That essentially means that there's urine in the fluid. It doesn't take a medical degree to realize that the bladder (or something) is leaking piss inside my body.

I'm to be kept overnight and monitored; no one has mentioned the word "leak" yet - as in urine leaking from your bladder into your body. Later that night, the smiling female doctor from my doctor's practice assures me that things will be OK and that they just want to monitor the creatinine to see if it goes down.

Day two arrives, and the wasps make their first appearance... right after lunch.

DMV artist Tim Vermeulen has had a brutal couple of decades where his body has been wracked by pain due to side effects of some medical issues a couple of decades ago. He depicted this is pain in this chilling painting:

 The Seat of the Soul, Mixed media on panel by Tim Vermeulen

When I first saw it at Context Art Miami last December, it scared and chilled me to the bone. Little was I to know, that in a weird way, it would help me a tiny bit from Wednesday to Friday of last week. That's Tim at the bottom of the painting, hugging his stomach in quiet agony while the wasps go to town in his innards.

For me, it started as a little crampy sensation in my right pelvic area; suddenly one of my balls was in pain hell quickly and out of nowhere. It happened fast, so fast that it floored my senses, but soon the worst pain that I have ever felt was coursing through my pelvic region and my stomach. It was so unexpected, intense, fiery and full of living movement, that it surprised me and astounded me with the violence and level of the pain.

It felt like a million points of pain, each one a little needle poking into the meaty parts of your insides, drilling into your pelvic bone, and then moving quickly to a new spot to poke a hole inside your gut; it felt like a million wasps, and I remembered and recalled the Vermeulen painting.

The first time, after an agonizing 15 minutes, it was gone.

"Probably gas," said the nice nurse when I told her about it. "Call me if it comes back and I will give you some Percocet."

"Fuck that," I thought to myself, "I don't want to trade up to chunks of cement in my bowels."

The wasps came back three times or so that day. I cussed them out, begged them to leave, whined like an animal, and in my mind's eyes killed each little motherfucker one at a time inside my bowels. But there were so many! The clock became my friend, as I looked at the advance minute hand expecting the end of the agony. Within 12-15 minutes the wasps were usually gone and I was back to "normal."

That Wednesday night the JP Drain is out of control, filling up about once an hour. At one point it turns from the reddish, bloody discharge that it is supposed to be, to the same color as urine. I'm alarmed by that and mention it to the nurse. He tells me that it is not urine.

As Thursday arrives, the decision is made to keep me overnight once again, and my doctor comes in to visit. He explains that there's probably a leak, but that this is not uncommon. He also changes my stomach dressing and directs that the JP ball be changed to a gravity bag to hold the body fluids coming out of the stomach tube. He mentions that since the JP ball works with suction, it's filling out so quickly because of that.

Nature abhors a vacuum.

By now everyone is telling me not to worry that urine is leaking inside my body, because "urine is sterile."

"People even drink it," someone says grossing me out. 

At lunch, for the first time I sit down to eat. When I get up I notice that I am leaking fluid on the floor. It is coming from the stomach hole where the tube goes into my body. The nurse comes in, put me to bed and changes the dressing; as soon as she leaves the wasps make an appearance. 

I fight them with my own mental violence as I imagine pulling them off my insides one at the time, their stingers stretching my stomach walls as it refuses to release its penetration, and then the meat slapping back as the insect, angrily buzzing in my hand, is crushed between my fingers. But there are so many...

A couple of hours later, a nice PA comes in to check on me, and while he's checking me, the wasps make another appearance. He listens to my bowels as I'm whimpering in pain and talking to the little bastards. The nurse is called and she injects some pain killer into my IV; it is no of use, the pain is not affected by anything but time. Everyone has been telling me that the wasps are either gas or bladder spasms. I am told to be proactive, and that as soon as I feel the spasms begin to call for painkiller.

These wasps do not listen to painkillers.

There's a double nurse team on duty today. One nurse is young and pretty, the other is much older and wearing a formidable tool belt of medical supplies, sort of like a Medical Bat-belt for nurses. They are both efficient, friendly and concerned.

Bat Nurse is especially active. As I zombie around in my ward walks, I see her all over the place helping patients; she never seemed to rest.

Later the young nurse comes in with the PA to switch my stomach bag and there's some jury-rigging involved in switching the bags, and much tape is employed in the process. By now I've noticed that my stomach dressing is soaked because the hole in my belly, where the tube enters my body, is leaking again.

Bat Nurse switches my dressing efficiently; she's a nice lady on top of being a very dedicated nurse; she tells me that she's only been a nurse for six months.

Later that day, my doctor returns and quickly disassembles what the nurse and the PA had done and makes an efficient water-tight connection to the new bag. He also changes my belly dressing, as it is soaked again. He re-assures me that the leak will heal itself.

I sleep fitfully and then it's Friday; the wasps are not nocturnal.

On Friday I am to be discharged and sent home with the body bag. "Make an appointment for Monday to evaluate the situation and see if we can remove the stomach bag," my doctor advises.

I'm feeling fairly decent, and that day I walk around a lot. The wasps make an appearance after lunch, and then just a few minutes after they had left, as if they knew that I'm thinking of going home, while I'm standing in the room, they come back with the whole hive.

This time the pain is not only outside the pain scale, but the wasps have even conquered the clock! An hour passes and I'm still being attacked; these are extra-terrestial wasps from the planet Waspathron; this pain are a million Janices from 1959's The Wasp Woman; maybe I should not have insulted them earlier; for every one that I kill, a dozen more show up, their long stingers dripping with pain venom.

They are joined by hornets, not just any hornets but those giant Chinese motherfuckers called Vespa Mandarinia. "Is there a difference between hornets and wasps?," I ask them as I fight them.

My wife calls and detects the pain in my voice; she's alarmed. I try my best to sound OK, but she knows better and she heads to the hospital. This time she drives.

By now I'm nauseous with pain and lay down; it's no use, the pain won't leave me. I call the nurse and ask her to bring me the puke basin. She's alarmed at the level of my pain, but reacts to the nausea as well. She injects me with something and the nausea goes away, while I battle the wasps and the Mandarin hornets.

A new PA walks by and hears me talking to the wasps, begging them to leave me alone, and she comes in and listens to my belly. "The pain is because of bladder spasms," she notes, "It's very common when you have a catheter." This is the hundredth time that I've heard that diagnosis.

"I'll order some muscle relaxer to treat the spasms."

Wait, what?

This is the first time that anyone has mentioned something specific to treat the spasms; so far it has been painkillers to treat the pain. A fucking light goes on in my head and I warn the wasps that payback time is coming. I also wonder why nobody has suggested this treatment the entire three fucking days that the wasps have been attacking me.

She orders something called Oxybutynin which according to the Mayo Clinic: "Oxybutynin belongs to the group of medicines called antispasmodics. It helps decrease muscle spasms of the bladder." 

Memories of the Wasps Attacking at Suburban Hospital
2016 F. Lennox Campello
Ink and conte on paper 11x8 inches

I get it into my system and the wasps and hornets die. This is Raid to these fuckers; it's over... technology and modern medicine have won.

But, why on Friday? How come none of the other medical professionals realized that bladder spasms are very common when a catheter is first introduced? Why didn't anyone came to my aid to fight the wasps?

I'm discharged later that day and sent home with two tubes in my body. An awesome Filipina nurse trains my wife and I on the process of keeping track of the fluids coming out of my stomach and my penis, and also the process of switching the bags around as needed. She then walks us to the exit and hugs me, and wishes us good luck.

I read somewhere that over 97% of the men who go through this operation go home the next day and it's very rare when anyone has to go home with a stomach tube.

Welcome to rarity.

Next: This is what a Borg feels like at home.