BEND QUESTION #5:
"Describe a situation you have been in that was really uncomfortable. How do you avoid these kind of situations? Or do you?"

Edith Abeyta / edithabeyta:
(continued)

Last year I was invited to do a three month residency in the Netherlands as part of a larger year long collaboration with a scholar funded through a well known Dutch organization. The project was interesting and had potential for a great deal of social interaction. We would be brewing large quantities of beer and giving it away free at cultural events. I believed it would be an excellent opportunity to be able to work uninterrupted for three months with no financial concerns, meet other artists, see a bit of Europe, and have a
successful project. But prior to my departure in early April 2007 there were clues that it might not be as an idealistic situation as I had built it up to be.

January 2007: The curator and the director of the residency tried to put heavy pressure on my collaborator for the director to be included in the project as they did not like my aesthetics or the inclusive nature of the project (an open call for beer label designs had been circulating and would be a significant part of the piece). They thought it best for the aesthetics to be branded and perceived my approach to be too all over the place.

February 2007: We were informed the overall project was going to get sponsored by Heineken — or that at least they were going to try and get a beer sponsor. Huh? This was one of the issues of our project — the commercialization and corporatization of the culture industry. We were giving away free beer so artists and art galleries did not have to plaster their announcements with corporate logos in exchange for free alcohol. Countless emails went back and forth for weeks ending with my collaborator and I writing a manifesto. (Another notch out of the "gee, I am going to Europe and will have a good time making art, drinking beer, and meeting people".)

March 2007: I am faced with budgetary issues. The overall budget for the project was 20,000 euros excluding artist salary. This is a lot of dough and the dollar was weaker than it is now. A brewery had to be set-up from scratch in order to brew enough beer for 2000-3000 bottles in three months in a space we had yet to see. The brewer was getting paid in room and board and a round trip ticket to Amsterdam. Another slew of emails going back and forth between me, my collaborator, the brewer, and the University who was the receiver of the funds. It took a great deal of effort for the brewer to explain why he needed kettles that cost 1000 euros each. As there was only one supplier we could get the equipment from in Belgium we could not do any price negotiating. The brewer submitted three budgets and the last proposal was for bottling water at a few pennies per. The brewer was going to abandon the project and after much convincing, begging, and pleading decided to stay on.

April 2007: A partial payment has been wired into my bank account and I have two round trip tickets to Amsterdam but have not heard from anyone at the residency. I am told someone from the space may meet us at the airport but if not it is easy to get there on the train. My emails to the residency space sent weeks ago have not been answered. My artist and arts administrator friends are warning me not to go. They can't believe I do not have a contract or any sort of document or letter in writing about the residency, project, program, etc. I see it as a bureaucratic free experience and the ability for me to duck out if things don't go well. (Worse case scenario — it's a European holiday.)

May 2007: Constant conflicts with the director of the residency and the expectations of what I am to be doing with the 12 art students who are also living at the space. I think they expected me to be a camp counselor or some sort of adult supervisor or teacher and it was suggested I should cook dinner for them. Eight hour meetings about how I want to market the project and more multi-hour meetings on announcement design and ideas all of which they reject. I tell them do whatever they want. At this point we have done so little work and had so many difficulties I can't even imagine anything productive is going to come out of this experience. (The disillusionment sets in.)

May 2007 continues:
The brewer and I head to London. We have to get the fuck out of Hoorn the small village 40 km north of Amsterdam we are doing the residency in. We can't wait to see friends and chug some British ales and ciders. London seems like a friendly haven with good food. (Note how we have lost perspective.)

One of our London friends decides to return with us and help us with the project. I warn her it is like living in the movie The Shining. The space is empty, cavernous and was an orphanage for over 500 years. It is filled with sorrow. Not to mention the nuns who originally ran it got chased out once Catholic persecution was rampant in the Netherlands. Four days after our London friend arrives we are informed the building is to undergo an interior demolition. Walls will be removed, drywall, doors, etc. the constrtuction company is taking everything down to the studs. The contractors don't want us staying there (no surprise) but the director of the residency and her volunteer assistant tell us to treat it like a squat and not let anyone in. We can relocate to another part of the building without shower or kitchen.

The three of us, me, brewer, and London friend hop on a train to Amsterdam to formulate a plan in secret. We decide to pack everything up, get a hotel in Amsterdam for a few days, head to Cologne, and then to Munich to hole up in another friend's studio apartment until my collaborator can find an alternative living and working situation for me.

June 2007:
I leave the brewer and London friend in Munich to check out the new situation in Utrecht. Forty minutes into the journey a man runs in front of the train. I am seated in the chair directly behind the conductor..."



originally posted; 11/17/08

RETURN / RETURN HOME

Michael Burnett / Michael Burnett Photography:
(continued)

"You fuckin' did the right thing!" Mickey kept telling me, breathing hard into my ear, "I never fuckin' rated you until right now! I never rated you, but you fuckin' stood up for us!"

I went into the bathroom and ran my hand under the tap. The water stung as I picked out tiny slivers of glass. There were no towels so I wiped the blood across the pockets of my pants.

A small crowd met me just outside the john. Leading the pack was an Australian guy I'd considered my friend. He's always had a flair for the dramatic, (and had recently taken up boxing) so it probably shouldn't have been surprising when he began poking me in the chest.

"We're gonna have to take this outside, boy," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "You just put a good friend of mine in the hospital! We're gonna settle this out front right now!"

I gurgled my excuses, but the sickness that filled me at the thought of that kid in an ambulance left me dumb.

"Outside!" he kept commanding, '"Now!"

Rhino came with me as I walked down the stairs. Out on the street I completely expected to be met by a mob or a baseball bat, but no one was there — not even my former friend. We walked back to the hotel in silence.

Upon entering the glow of the lobby, I saw two guys sitting on the curb. One was very tall and had a bloody shirt wrapped around his head.

"Was that .... you?" I asked.

As far as violent encounters go, I couldn't have asked for a better victim than Matt Hooker. We both started apologizing, then chatting and soon we realized all the friends we had in common. I invited him and his friend up to the room and we emptied the mini-bar, much to Jake's chagrin.

"Are you sure you're ok?" I kept asking.

"Ahh yeah," Matt said graciously, "I'm just fine."

I woke up before dawn and phoned my wife, crying as I told her the story. If that wasn't a big enough tip off that I'm not cut out for barroom brawling, the depression that gripped me for the next 36 hours of my Australia trip did the trick.

Katherine's worried that I'm punishing myself by giving up drinking, but almost two years later I barely think about it anymore. Honestly, it is uncomfortable going into some social situations knowing I can't have a beer to break the ice. Still, that's nothing compared with the discomfort of knowing I have the potential to be the type of person that breaks glasses over people's heads. Now that's uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable.


originally posted; 11/17/08

David Slade / Fubear Studios:
Jack And The Dry Roasted Cashew Beer Nuts

Hello, my name is Jack, and I just want to straighten this story out because its been blown out of proportion.

I want to address the the facts as I remember them so that we can put this to bed:

First of all, we were all pretty hungry and all we had was the cow, and I was all for getting it chopped up and having steak but Dad says:

"NO, you're twelve and you don't get a say in things until you're older — take it to the fair and get a good price for it, then we'll buy a whole lot of different food besides steak."

Which in retrospect is one of the few details of the story that makes some sense.

So I'm walking along with the cow who we called Dolly —I pause here for effect better than explaining the name 'cause that would be crude and life's harsh lessons have taught me not to be vulgar when you can help it — when along comes this feller all dressed in a smart suit. He's the first person I've seen dressed well on the path for the two days I've been walking which kind of shows what sort of person my dad was as the subway was only 50 cents in those days, roundtrip.

So anyway this feller says,

"I'm going to make you an offer you will be hard pushed to refuse young man."

Immediately I'm intrigued you see, 'cause if I can get a good price for Dolly I can turn around and not have to sleep on park benches getting moved on by cops or propositioned by Scientologists for two days, I'm thinking, "....if I settle the price now I can get back home with a long walk into the night so long as I sprint through the crack alley halfway back."

So I say, "Well for sure the Cow's for sale..." and the man then seems to notice Dolly for the first time and gets a little flustered.

I feel a bit awkward at this point and so I say "What are you offering".

The man regards me for a while, and then says, "Well young sir what I am about to say may stretch the limits of your imagination, and you may dismiss me as a fool, but what I have to offer is worth more than any currency printed or stamped by man."

I didn't say anything to this 'cause I'm beginning to realise this feller is maybe off his meds and I should get going.

But then there's the suit which is nice and tailored so I figure if he's off his meds they must be decent meds.

He pulls out a small velvet bag with a golden drawn string and for a split second I distinctly remember the bag shimmering like gold, which it couldn't have 'cause it was overcast and there was nothing for it to reflect from and I remember these things.

He opens the bag and I get a glimpse of what seem to be dried beans and I'm thinking:

"This guy sure is off his meds whether they're expensive meds or not."

He sees the look on my face and he smiles, "Well my last customer wasn't dissatisfied, lets sit down and get to know each other he says."

"Get the fuck out you pede." I say, and turn to walk away but Dolly is not wanting to move and she's not looking too good, and in retrospect I know Cows don't much like walking the streets of downtown LA where the only grass to be eaten has been pissed on by a thousand dogs.

So I stop.

"These are magic beans young sir" says the smart feller and I know he's up to no good cause he really lingers on the word 'young' and my skin crawls.

But there's something about that suit that intrigues me and then there's the fact that the bag shimmered and I haven't eaten for 16-hours and I got a headache like you wouldn't believe, so I turn around.

"Plant these beans.." says the man

"..and the fruits of its growth will bring great wealth"

Now he's trying to dodge me off when we try and pass him, and it's at this juncture that Dolly throws up on the sidewalk.

I take a long good look at Dolly and its quite apparent she's not going to make it to the fair. I look at the offer, "Magic Beans" from a sketchy feller in an expensive suit.

Then a dead cow I've got to get rid of.

I figure if I slip Dolly to the Pede and also ask for the price of a subway ride home I could make up some story about Dolly going 'hooves up' on the way, which as far as I was figuring was going to happen anyway and get a ride home on the subway and not say anything about the beans. So I start in, "tell me more about these beans..."

The feller says if I come to his car he'll tell me all about the beans, but I'm not buying that for a second. I remind him he'd got the beans already in his pocket, he already showed me.

So he hands over the beans and I'm about to hand him Dolly's leash when I tell him I need the 50 cents for the Subway ride home as well unconditional.

He tries to get me to get in his car again, saying he'll give me a lift to anywhere I want AND give me the 50 cents, but I hold out, no 50 cents for subway, no cow, and I'm not getting in the car.

The feller digs in his pocket and finds two quarters, "You drive a hard bargain young man." He says, all creepy with the word "young" again and hands over the coins and the velvet bag which doesn't shimmer this time.

I throw the leash at him and run for it.

He chases me for three blocks, before he's out of breath and I can hear the screeches of cars in the distance as Dolly walks out into the traffic.

Now I get to the Subway and get a nice journey home on soft seats.

All the way home I'm practising the story about Dolly dying in downtown and adding lots of details to make it sound real, and I'm saying to myself, "Don't mention the magic beans" over and over like a mantra.

Dad is suspicious and it comes out of his eyes like an x-ray beam.

"...and these clowns that were dancing in the distance and not making a reflection in the window... what's that got to do with Dolly dying?" He asks.

"Having a Crump off or Clowning I don't know" I say cause I didn't know the difference... "Nothing really I just..."

I can't say anymore, I was all dried up.

"Son you're holding a subway ticket and if my eyes are not deceiving me there is some sort of velvet bag in your fanny pack"

I'm repeating the lines in my head "...don't mention the magic beans, don't mention the magic beans..." over and over.

Dad swipes the velvet bag and I say, as far as I can remember, completely unintentionally, "Don't mention the magic beans"

Dad looks at me and his head tilts like a dog that doesn't quite understand. "Magic beans?" he says "Why are you not to mention Magic Beans?"

"Oh nothing" I say with my most innocent voice, which sounds like I'm changing the subject, but Dad goes on...

"Cause I read a story in the paper about a man who just got caught near downtown trying to play funny with young boys and his line was something about exchanging whatever they had for a velvet sack of Magic beans, and you got a velvet sack here."

He paused and looked at me with so much rage that I was paralysed with fear. "...and we saw footage on CNN of Dolly walking through traffic and getting hit by a truck."

His face is going red now and he keeps talking but he huffs breaths between his words:

"Did you sell Dolly for a velvet sack of Magic Beans?" he asks.

"Well I start off..." and Dad's glare shuts me up.

"Did YOU sell DOLLY — that would be MY COW Dolly who, I loved more than my dead wife and your dead mother, and we know because we saw the news with the footage of her getting hit by a truck, did... you... for a velvet sack of... and his face was beetroot at this point and the pauses between words so long I thought he might be having a stroke, but unfortunately he wasn't 'cause he carried on, first repeating...

"For a sack, a sack of... Magic Beans?"

I tried to lie that the man had fiddled with me and that I was a victim but Dad didn't seem to care, his eyes seemed glazed over in a rage of such magnitude that it seemed I could see it shimmering like gold and I realised that I had a problem with my vision which could just be the cause of all of this, though it took me a while to remember that detail because I had much larger issues at hand.

He opened the bag and looked inside. Then... and I remember this distinctly, because he was not a man with a penchant for rhyming or poetry and this is why I remember it so clearly, he said...

Fee Fi Fo Fum,
You're gonna be in County Hospital
When I'm done

Then he poured out the contents of the bag which it turns out were beer nuts.

My Dad ate the nuts, not offering me or anyone else one. Then he looked at me with his eyes wide in a psycho stare he didn't seem to have any control over, then he wandered away for a while.He had a beer, then another then later he came found me and kicked seven shades of living shit out of me, and I remember thinking to myself, "Try and see this as a positive life lesson and remember your mistakes so you don't repeat them," but I couldn't because it hurt so much.

So there was no giant or golden goose or any such shit and I was out of county hospital in two weeks.

Would have been sooner but one of my wounds got septic while I was waiting in line for a day and a half.



originally posted; 11/17/08