I’m visiting my parents at the moment, having faithfully quarantined for months, and traveling by car. At breakfast today, my mom gave me the little signature book from my undergrad final art show, from back in Reagan’s second term. The book had unearthed itself in their process of moving house to their current delightful retirement digs.
It’s a tiny bound book I painted black and attached a cut mirror diamond on the front. This was relevant to the show subject matter, which was large pastel paintings of a broken glass sculpture I built and photographed from many angles in different lighting. I had sort of forgotten about it, both the show and the book. It’s a fun read, lots of kind words from friends, a few unkind words from malcontents, a shocking number of fairly graphic propositions—one was illustrated (!), and a few strangely hopeful dinner offers with phone numbers.
There was one comment I always remembered, because I couldn’t decide if it was positive or negative. Still don’t know; my opinion of The Clash is similarly wavering, but it was nice to see I hadn’t imagined it after all these years.
Difficult to tell the “a” from the “c” in what is likely a discontinued youthful writing affectation. Weird to think it was a time when I wouldn’t think to make (print!) the book myself, and that the culture was so cohesive that the signer was relatively sure we had a common music knowledge base.
Things have changed.