Dennis Hollingsworth

Cajas Fuerte

I've waited for this day for a while now, the time when the paintings are off to the show. But still, I'm not feeling too comfortable.

The shippers arrived yesterday and after much hoopla. They aborted the pick up because the streets are closed to commercial trucks in the afternoon. I said that we could use my cart to roll them across town, I said that I've done it before. But he wouldn't go for it: "Jueves en la ma?ana." . I couldn't believe it. We're so close. "?Estamos aqui ahora!", my body language with arms outstretched in the classic "Aw, c'mon" posture. The guy, Jaime was his name, wouldn't budge.

"Vale, vale, vale, conoces." I wanted to say "fine, it's your call.". I'm not sure what actually came across. (Shrug) I've heard that one must be shameless when trying to learn another language. So be it.

So I was surprised to get the call at eight the next morning from another guy from the shipping company. Juan. Younger and much more can-do. He parked at the beach and we rolled the crates to the truck, a little parade. The only thing that was tough about it was that I was up until almost four that morning.

Less than four hours of sleep.... more than usual.

The other day, I was happy to see Kiko's eyes all sleepy and glazed over. Finally, this Spanaird/Catalan is running out of party gas. After I finished the last painting, I lost my license to hoard huge blocks of time in the studio. Kiko and the three or four or five families who have been flocking together are already hard charging into the August summer vacation. The general attitude is more like college spring break, on steroids. "Dennis, we must snorkel for mejillones tomorrow because if we don't, the summer will be over and we won't be able to do this until next year!" The good life as vigorous leisure is crystalized in toasts over drinks and this measure of the good life is taken in the highest count possible.

The general schedule goes like this: The night ends tight around five am. Towards the end of the night, promises are made for when to rendezvous at Bar Josep. Nine thirty. Later, ten thirty. Later, eleven. No, ten thirty. Breakfast and coffee and the entourage arrives, straggling. We troop out to Kiko's Quicksilver boat stored on the beach and unwrap it and roll it into the surf. We have this routine down pat now, we motor out to Xerlo's party speed boat, process in and unhook Xerlo's and hook up Kiko's boat to the buoy in its' place.

Boating, boating, boating, boating, boating, boating, boating, boating*.

Boating, boating, boating, boating, boating, boating, boating.

Then, we moor Xerlo's craft and leave it in good ship shape as we transfer back to Kiko's rubber Quicksilver craft back to the beach, in which it too is stowed away properly. Right about this moment, the time is around seven or eight in the evening. At these lattitudes, the sun hangs in the sky very late into the night. A quick clean up under the open beach showers and we saunter back for a pit stop at Bar Josep for a cortado where plans are made for the evening.

Rest if you can, but get cleaned up because Kiko's call will ring in around ten if dinner is in the plan, or eleven if not. Another rendezvous at Bar Josep and from there, a daisy chain of bars in Tossa. By the third bar, I'm patting around for my rip chord but Kiko has perfected his technique: "Just one more drink, Dennis." Ok, Kiko. "Dennis, let's go to this other bar and then we will call it a night." Fine, Kiko. "Let me buy you one more drink." ?Como no? "We have to go to this other bar, Dennis!" Well... by this time, the fifth hour is approaching and the sky begins to lighten up a little. And usually by then, we will have a commitment for a rendezvous around ten-ish for another high sea adventure.

You can work up an appetite tooling up the Costa Brava, checking out grottos, getting gas at the various ports and generallycarving arcs into the Mediterranean. There's a little restaurant that you can only get to from the sea. It's called Calla Bona. It's run by a cantankerous Catalana and her family. Paella, cava, salads, bread. A good lunch by the sea.

Of course, all of this is happening while I still have work to do. It's like having final exams as your fellow students are raging on into Spring Break. It may not be as obvious as a studio of blank canvas, but as the paintings are drying, there's important stuff to do to prep the paintings for shipment.

The other day, I had an appointment for a studio visit in the evening with Mirenxtu and Miguel, the proprietors of my gallery in Barcelona. Kiko called closer to ten in the morning, he'll be at Bar Josep, we are going to go out on Xerlo's boat with his son Oriole and his girlfriend Maria. Cool, I'd like to get to know Oriole better. So we got out to sea, boating, boating, boating, boating and the hunger sets in and we decide to cruise to the port of Blanes to the south for a bite to eat. It's three-ish, four in the afternoon and a question mark mentally appears on my appointment rendezvous for the evening. Kiko is good to bear my commitment in mind but a just-in-time regime is in effect.

We find a place to moor the boat and Xerlo realizes that he has no shirt to wear to the restaurant. The establishment is cool about it and Xerlo makes a funny by tying a scarf around his neck. He's the lion of the pride, his piso is filled with women and his son. He's the capit?n and designated alpha male, and therefore he has the huevos to flirt with his feminine side. The act is exploited for every ounce of its' comic effect. More paella, cava, beers, tossts, brindis, chin chin, a clink of the glasses and a firm look in the eyes. This is the good life. These moments are golden.

I wasn't wearing my watch but I figured that it was approaching six. Kiko reassures me that we will get back before eight. I mentally rehearsed the shower and studio prep I'll have to do before I receive my guests. As we got out onto open sea, the conn is handed over to Kiko's daughter Nerea. She kept pushing the throttle up a little more, a little more. Good, Nerea. We're on a mission now, we've got to get back.

I still understand only a fraction of what's said in Castellano/Catalan and therefore I missed how we decided to stop for a swim along the way. Fine, I massage my appointment back into the corner of my mind and I reach for the camera to document the swim. It was a fine moment indeed. Skylarking and horseplay and shouts out of "?Ole!" and "?Guapa!" and teasing all around. This is how you enjoy life, Dennis. Of course. But it was all the better to get back with a half an hour margin to prepare for my next appointment, another important part of my life.

So with all this, you might see how relieved I was to see Kiko's eyes glaze over from exhaustion. I wasn't the only one who had to recharge their batteries. And even in this state, Kiko was generous enough to help me install my paintings into the crates. The day was fun, punctuated with cortados and questions as to the meanings in the work. We established a system and a rhythm and everything was smooth.

Alberto dropped by to say hello that evening. He will be going to art school in a town called Olot nearby this Fall. He's full of questions and I'm happy to share what I know with him. I told him that art school may not be worth it even in the best art schools, but that an acculturation into the interior dialog of the art world is important. What's more important is to find your curiosity and make it vivid. I advised him to get to Berlin or London or New York or LA. It was good that he could see the crating process, a sign of a larger art world beyond Catalunya.

Still, I won't be comfortable until the work arrives in Haarlem safely. Everybody is telling me that these crates are strong... and maybe the ones we build back in the states are meant to withstand gorilla shippers across country, I'm still uncertain. Did I drive in enough screws? Was it alright that Ramon didn't use glue to assemble them? Should I have used more than eight screws to fix each of the paintings to the supports? Is the blocking method sufficient to keep the paintings from ripping apart inside the crate due to acceleration forces along the way?

I won't rest fully until the paintings arrive safely.

UPDATE:

Check this out.

*These pics feature my cousin Patricia and her boyfriend Franz.