ED HADDAWAY REDUX

My apologies for failing to write or post lately.
I am working, just very slowly. I have had way too many things on my plate.
More will be forthcoming.

Ed H

“How to Cope With Rejection” Seminars

Dear Sir/Madam

I recently signed up for your seminar “How to Cope With Rejection” but it seems my application was lost as I have not received a response. I look forward to participating as this is an area of my life with which I have had great difficulty.

Thank you

Ed Haddaway

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Dear Ed

Thank you for your submission to “How to Cope With Rejection”Seminars.

There were close to 1500 applications for the Seminar, approximately 750 of which were from Artists like you. The committee had hundreds of difficult decisions to make, as the quality of the applications was very high.

We regret that your application was not accepted for this Seminar at this time.
Because of the need for one on one therapy there can only be space for 300 participants.

We are in the planning stages for another Seminar which we hope to hold in 2014.

If you are interested you will need to resubmit your application.

We will soon determine where and when the seminar will take place.
In the meantime you will be placed on a waiting list for future Seminars and are eligible to partake in our on-line 15 minute after seminar phone conference.

Many of those who have failed to get into past “How to Cope with Rejection” Seminars have found this an excellent way to get the help they need.

The $75 fee you submitted for the “How to Cope with Rejection” Seminar will be retained for future submissions unless your notify us by January 23.

Should your on-line 15 minute after seminar phone conference application be accepted you will be notified and an activation code will be emailed to you.

We anticipate a decision in approximately 2 to 3 months.

There will be an additional fee of $45. for the phone conference.

The application for the on-line 15 minute after seminar phone conference can be found at our web site. It takes less than an hour to fill out, but please hurry as there is only a 10 day window of opportunity.

Thank you again for your application.

Betty Gordon
Coordinator of Submissions
“How to Cope with Rejection” Seminars

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Dear Ed

Good News!
If you are on our waiting list and have applied for the on-line 15 minute after seminar phone conference after being rejected for our “How to Cope With Rejection” Seminar we have an important announcement.

Although we have concluded our program scheduling and you will not be joining us for the on-line 15 minute after seminar phone conference, you are in luck.

The founders of our Seminars have decided to provide a 6 minute call by a licensed therapist to 30 fortunate artists.

If you submitted an application and enclosed the $45. fee, your name has already been entered into our drawing.

You may be a winner!

We want to thank you again for your patronage.

Betty Gordon
Coordinator of Submissions
“How to Cope with Rejection” Seminars

>>>>>>>>>>

Dear Ed

Your application for the on-line 15 minute after seminar phone conference was invalidated because you failed to submit some pertinent information.

Unfortunately, we are forced to withdraw your entry for the 6 minute phone call with a licensed therapist.

We know this will be a disappointment to you,however,if you resubmitted your application and if we retained your $75. fee, we are happy to announce that you will be considered for our next “How To Cope with Rejection ” Seminar.

The board has met and our next seminar will be held in Atlantic City New Jersey on August 12, 2014 at 11:00 AM.

We hope to see you there

Betty Gordon
Coordinator of Submissions
“How to Cope with Rejection” Seminars

Martin was on the phone to Glen Roberts immediately after hearing from Danny. It was during that conversation that the full import of what Danny had said became clear to him. He suddenly felt elated.

In fact as the word spread there was a mass ascension of confidence. Once everyone realized that Mrs.Rubin was going to foot the bill, relief swept over all those involved.

“Have them call Mrs. Rubin’s accountant, ” Danny had said.
And this became the mantra for the rest of the day.
Should problems arise, the phone number of Mrs. Rubin’s accountant was all anyone needed.

“But save every damn receipt, even if you spend a dime.” Danny went on.

That was it ….days of worry and doubt faded from existence.
“ Thank God,” Glen said on hearing the news, ”Mrs. Rubin and her accountant have really saved our ass.”

He was immediately on the phone to the tent people, the equipment rental place and 3 other suppliers in order to get things moving as fast as he could.

Glen then called one of the volunteers telling her that Thursday morning they would need everyone to meet at the site of the Biennale and help artists install their work

He thought about having people arrive that evening, but quickly dismissed it. There was no assurance that the electrical would be in place and they would need the generators and lights to accomplish anything.

Glen may have been the only person involved with the Biennale who truly knew what lay ahead. He was not looking forward to it.

Martin had stopped off at home after leaving the contentious meeting then headed out to the site of the biennale. He decided he needed to do something constructive. He had been on the field for just over an hour when he received Danny’s call.

As he arrived artists quickly accosted him, peppering him with questions. None of the other players were on the field, so it fell to him to be the spokesman.
He did the best as he could to answer everyone without going into too many details. He did not pull back from informing others of the difficulties he had been dealing with, however.
Martin had no compunction in telling people that problems were on the horizon.

Many people, in fact, considered Martin a supreme master of woe. He was exceptionally good at it. He relished being in this position of power, spreading bad news to whoever was receptive.

But Martin knew it was unwise to go too deep into the darkness of a story. He was not about to inform the public just how shaky the house of cards really was, nor was he going to get into the inner workings that were best kept hidden from view.

Besides he knew he could create more interest if he just hinted at the shadows.

Martin was a publicity agent. He had done it for years. It was his job to promote a positive message about the person or organization he was working for. That he was equally adept at disseminating both a positive and negative message was not strange. It all depended on what he chose to focus on.

As the news from Danny about Mrs. Rubin’s money settled in on him, he decided he would have to shift to the positive side and do his job.

Just as he finished his conversation and hung up his cell phone, another artist approached.
“When do you think the work will be installed? The sculptor asked.
“ Right away,” Martin said, “I just got off the phone with Glen Roberts and he will be here soon. He had some last minute items to take care of, but now everything seems to be in place. Once he shows up we will be off and running. ”

“I will have to moderate my tone,” he thought, “I don’t want to sound too optimistic”

If Glen Roberts had arrived when Martin had said, it would have been good for the artists but bad for him.

He was exhausted.
How had he gotten himself into all this?
Much of the fault could be laid at the feet of avarice.
He saw a chance to sell a piece of land that was definitely going to be hard to sell…..and Glen was owner of the land.
The particulars did not matter.
He had gotten stuck with the land, he smelled money, and he saw a way out.

Perhaps because of that, he had bought into Danny’s grandiose ideas.
One thing led to another, and suddenly he was working 12 hour days, having dinner with wealthy art patrons, and worrying all night about an out of control arts organization and an International Sculpture Biennale…….things he knew nothing about.

Glen had another beer and made another decision, one of many he had made that day; he decided that he would not go back to the field until the sun was ready to set.

For Will and the others who had waited days for some activity to occur at the Biennale, the afternoon seemed interminable.

There was nothing to do.
Finally Will called his wife.
Hearing the pain and frustration in her husband’s voice she said, ” If I can get an earlier flight I’ll be there tomorrow night…..you sound like you need some help.”

That was good news to Will. He really needed his wife there to do what she did best: talk to people.

He was confident that whatever needed to be done physically would get done. And he felt up to the task. But he dreaded meeting the collectors, the museum people and gallery directors.

He always feared the possibility that he would say the wrong thing. Often when he talked to art people it felt like his entire career hung in the balance.

Friday night there was to be a dinner and a reception to meet the jurors who selected the work at the Biennale and the board members of The Palm Beach Art Association. Will did not want to attend. He was determined to force himself to meet these people but he could think of a hundred things he would rather do. If he had his wife there to run interference, it would all be tolerable, maybe even fun.

As the day wore on artists began arriving at a very rapid rate. The field was soon swarming with them. Will noticed that although many of them seemed concerned about the state of the muddy field and the lack of progress at the Biennale, others appeared utterly unconcerned. Most seemed excited that they had been included in the show and they wanted to assume the best. But the lack of authority figures and workers worried almost everyone.

Every once in a while it was clear to Will, either by their accents or demeanors, that some of the artists he met had traveled a great distance to get there.
A sense of nervousness and anticipation swept across the place as more and more artists poured in. Will would even call it celebratory except he was too preoccupied to take notice.

Will had waited long enough. Toward 5:00 he decided he simply had to do something. He could no longer find Martin anywhere on the grounds and he was tired of seeking the blessings of people anyway. He approached the man on the backhoe that was taking a break. The trucks delivering sculptures had stopped arriving and though a few crates and objects would need to be moved, it was clear the day was drawing to a close.

“ I’m Will,’ he said holding out his hand to the backhoe operator, “I’m going to pull my truck up and I need some help unloading a few things.”

The man looked puzzled but he shook his head yes and Will headed for the truck that was still where he had parked it. The truck had not moved after being towed from the mud. Now there were a good number of other trucks in the lot as well,and several parked along the street leading to the Day’s Inn.

Sculptors had to be practical. Transporting large objects across the country was not cheap. Will had long ago settled into moving his work himself. In some instances he had hired others to drive. But those were rare occasions. Mostly he would pack his truck and trailer and head across the country. At times, such as now he would rent a truck. He accepted that to do what he wanted to do he was going to have to do the grunt work. It came with the territory.

Will approached the straw road with little trepidation. He assumed when it had been built earlier that day there was logic and road building knowledge involved. The sand, which was laid down first, was meant to hold the mud at bay while he trans versed it, and the straw on top was simply meant to clearly delineate where he was supposed to drive.

The heavy truck began this maiden voyage onto the field and trundled out onto the road. Will immediately felt sick. After driving this truck across country he had a pretty good idea what it was capable of and how it should feel. Now the steering felt extremely soft. The entire truck sank much further into the moist earth than he was expecting. Next Will felt the rear wheels break free and begin to slide and spin.

The truck was still moving forward but he felt like he was sliding on ice. As if in slow motion the truck began to wobble and veer in whatever direction it desired. As the rear wheels spun the truck made a graceless semi-pirouette, aimed for fresh ground, and came to an awkward stop.

Will did not want to look. He could see the faces of the bystanders and every one of them had their mouths wide open.
His own face was burning.
When he did look, the damage was serious.
The virginal straw road now had deep ruts in it, which meandered clear across the road and led right off the side. As Will slowly climbed out of the truck he decided that this was a good time to look as professional as possible.

“That road is not near dry enough,” he said loudly to no one in particular.
It might have been a silly thing to say, as the deep ruts were obvious proof that it needed to dry more.
But to Will’s ear he had uttered a profound truth…..a definitive statement that would withstand the test of time. At that moment he needed to see himself as a man in full control. Somehow the delusion was a success……at least for Will.

He stood there squinting his eyes, quietly contemplating the situation. He felt he possessed the presence of a rugged masculine archetype……a Marlboro man perhaps, standing alone, nobly resisting the forces of nature. Everything was quiet except for the hum of the idling truck motor.

He looked over at the backhoe operator. There was no sign of movement from him at all.

Out of the corner of his eye Will could see a truck slowly approaching. It was Glen Roberts.

Seeing Glen brought a burst of unexpected anxiety.

“ He must know I destroyed his real estate sign,” Will thought. The thought lingered and seemed strangely prescient, as if the concealed deeds from a few days before were now self-evident.

There was no empirical evidence linking Will’s initial act of destruction and this one, however. As far as Will knew, no one cared about the sign at all.

Glen arrived looking serene. He craved another drink, however.

Maybe everyone needed a drink. Will certainly did.

Glen Roberts walked over to the truck that Will was looking at so intently.
“ Just leave everything where as it is,” Glen said calmly,
“I’ll get more equipment and materials in the morning and we will straighten it all out.”

He returned to his truck and drove away as slowly as he had arrived.
Will shut off the motor, locked the doors of the truck and walked across the field in the direction of the Day’s Inn.

He had already made his mark twice on the Biennale and it had not even begun.

Martin looked upset and seemed resigned to failure when he left the office. Danny remained optimistic. He always remained optimistic. He oozed optimism. He made a practice of it.

Danny WAS tired of sitting and he itched to get out to the site of the Biennale after being tied up in meetings all morning, but this was “his”, and he would stick it out to the end. Besides he knew he could pull it off. He had faced similar catastrophes before.

By the time the last meeting was held, he knew he had accomplished all that was needed.
Not only had the new bookkeeper resigned, but he had convinced Mrs. Rubin to personally guarantee all-upcoming expenditures. This would allow Danny to spend what was necessary for the Biennale without dipping into the Art Association general funds.

The bookkeeper had caused turmoil ever since she was hired. Perhaps because Danny had long ago gotten used to doing things his way, she had been at the center of one conflict after another.
He freely admitted that he had been lax in keeping track of the cash. He also had failed to diligently follow good accounting practices. In fact there were no diligent accounting to speak of anywhere in the vicinity. But Danny thought of the Palm Beach Arts Association as “his”, and that made what he did ok.

And Danny did believe in the Biennale. It too was “his”. He had instigated it, stood behind it, and he was sure that once the world found out about it and it got the kind of accolades it deserved, the revenues were going to roll in. The Arts Association would get 20% of all sales from the show. Something of this magnitude should also attract the heavy hitters to donate to the organization.

With the resignation of the bookkeeper he had gotten all the problems behind him and his project would come to fruition. That’s why Danny was so optimistic.

Months ago a donor had provided the prize money. When things started to get a little tight, Danny had used that money for the little things that came up. He had also dipped into the general funds a few times and “borrowed” from a few other accounts that he had access to.

The new bookkeeper had insisted that the prize money be segregated and only days away from the event she discovered some of Danny’s other shady maneuvers and everything ground to a halt. She spread the word and once venders heard, they decided that they had been burned enough in their dealings with Danny and his Palm Beach Arts organization. No one was willing to extend any more credit.

The root of the problem, however, was that he had not followed the procedures in getting the board to pass a budget for the Biennale. Several members of the board had become suspicious and decided to go behind Danny’s back and use the bookkeeper to probe what was really going on.

It was all behind him now,however,and Danny sighed and started to relax.

Of course on top of all this Danny had promised the top prize to several of the “more well known” artists in order to entice them to participate. But he was sure that was a minor problem that would work itself out. “It will blow over,” he thought, once the prizes are awarded, For all he knew, any of those artists would win the top prize anyway.

All he needed to do was to persevere a little longer.
His grand idea was going to really pay off.
Danny could even see some potential political benefits on the horizon.

The people in Wellington were very enthusiastic about his drive and ambition. There was talk about what an asset he was to the community. “Maybe I can get a permanent position in the city office,” Danny thought. He had long hoped to run for the city council or mayor some day.

Danny felt so good he invited Mrs. Rubin to lunch. He knew he needed to go to the field and get things in place but he couldn’t resist. It would have to wait a little longer.

This was after all a moment of triumph and it WAS his idea to do the Biennale. He deserved to celebrate.

Danny had worked on some similar arts events before, but never on this scale. He had supreme confidence in his abilities however, and he was certain that it was all he needed. With the help of Mrs. Rubin this was going to be a spectacular event.

Mrs. Rubin talked to her driver, and then suggested they go to Tony’s. She knew Danny would appreciate the atmosphere there and she loved the polenta.
Hearing that, Danny swallowed hard.

Tony’s was a long way away, which meant his entire afternoon was gone, and it was quite expensive. He insisted the lunch was on him, however, and part of him was glad he didn’t have to go out to the muddy field. After all Mrs. Rubin had really come through for him when he needed her to. He decided to call Martin before they left, tell him the good news, and put him in charge.

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It had been a little after ten o’clock that Martin fled the Palm Beach Arts Association offices. He was more than a little nervous.
At that point things looked bleak. He was not at all sure Danny could talk his way out of all this.
He had been surprised before, and he had watched in amazement as Danny surpassed everyone’s expectations. He knew that Danny was fast on his feet and could get away with murder, but this time it looked different. Not only were there no entries to the books for the last 7 months, but also the audit that the new bookkeeper was working on had turned up a number of things that were very questionable.

And all this was coming down just when they needed every dime to pull this thing off.
Danny acted as if nothing had happened. It seemed that for him the lack of entries in the books was not a concern. It was simply a blank canvas.
Danny looked at that blank canvas and saw a masterpiece that was soon to unfold. Unfortunately, he was the only one in the room that could see it.

As Martin left the Art Association offices he tried to start a new list of all that would need to get done. The opening was Saturday night, a little over three days away.

First Martin needed to call Glen Roberts and see if he could patch things up. Glenn had confided in him that he had lost confidence in Danny and was no longer sure he would participate. If that happened Martin was sure the result would be a total disaster. Glen was the most capable person that Martin knew. He had a number of talents; chief among them was the ability to get things done.

“Enough with the grand visions,” Martin thought. “What we need is to get all the volunteers to work on the installation.”

Glen answered the phone on the first ring. After listening to Martin, Glen could see that too many people would be let down if he quit now.
He had already put in the better part of 2 weeks organizing volunteers and pouring concrete bases that still needed to be delivered.
“ I’ll be down at the field later this afternoon,” he said “ I don’t know if I can get the electrical started today or not. Also the tents are on hold untill some cash arrives.”

Martin understood and he was very unsure about what to do next.
“I’ll go out now,” Martin said,” I’m sure the artists are getting restless, and I will call you as soon as I hear from Danny”

“Danny,” Glen Roberts said, “Danny is so……”

Then he paused and after considering what he wanted to say for a minute, decided to let it go.

This is a painting titled “Pomegranate” by Marc Ouellete, which was done of the infamous “Big Red Ball” which Marc saw in the corner of Eddie’s parking lot.

If you failed to read about the fate of the “Big Red Ball” you will find it on this site in seven parts.

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The next morning Will arrived at the Palm Beach International Biennale to find hay. Hay was everywhere he looked.
Workers had only covered the roads and paths they had constructed in hay, but it had the effect of seeming to be everywhere at once. The sand was meant to provide a firm base in the mud and and the hay was placed on top to clearly define what was to be driven or walked on.

“It looks ok,” Will told himself. Having determined to believe in this venture and be positive, he was forced to practice being positive in every situation that arose.
The hay did make the field look as if something was about to happen, but it was hard to tell exactly what.

Artists had been allotted a 20 x 20 plot of land, in which to display their sculptures. At each site a small tent was to be erected for a week, to provide a place for artists to meet the thousands of collectors, museum curators, and dignitaries that would soon be visiting.

After that, the tents would be struck, and the artist’s work would remain on exhibit for 3 months.

As he scanned the field Will couldn’t help but wish that things were a bit more spread out.
In many of the shows he had been in, an effort was made to integrate the sculptures into the landscape.
He had assumed this show, like the Chicago Navy Pier show, would truly showcase the work, and that a great deal of thought and care would be taken in arranging the work. It was after all called the “International Biennale,” and this conjured up visions and expectations of grandeur.

Here it was as if many small cubicles had been arranged on the field.
Will looked up at the sky and though it was still sunny, a bank of dark clouds was off to the east.
“Perhaps over the ocean,” he thought.

A small group of crows flew over, laughing. Seeing the crows, Will realized that what he missed most were the seagulls.

In his fantasies seagulls were always in the background. Whenever Will thought of the beach or the ocean he thought of the birds.
In his mind they were soaring high above the horizon; the beautiful white sand beach lying far below.

Now crows would have to do.

At what was to be the main entrance a huge backhoe was unloading a crate off of a semi. Straps were encircling the crate and connected to a hook that was welded on the backhoe’s bucket. Two other crates stood on the ground nearby.
Looking around, Will wondered when the crane would be coming to install people’s sculpture.
He could make do with the huge backhoe or any machine that could lift heavy pieces of steel 15 to 20 feet off the ground, but a crane was much easier and safer.

As he watched the unloading of the semi, Monica approached him and asked if he had seen Danny.

“Not this morning” Will said.

“He is going to help me get my work out of Houston,” she said. A plaintive note could be heard in her voice.
Will was suddenly happy that he didn’t have her problems.

“If I see him I will tell him you are looking for him,” Will offered.
Will also needed Danny or Glen or someone to give their blessings, allowing him to start setting up his sculptures. He would need some machinery to unload his truck and the help of two or three volunteers.
“Someone must be coordinating these things,“ he thought.

It was only Wednesday.
Will’s sense of time was indistinct. It felt like he had been in Wellington for a very long time.
To get a clear picture of things, it was necessary for Will to sit down and plot out the events to come. He had to consciously work at it to know how Wednesday fit into the rest of the week.
With the changes in his schedule, Will had yet to figure out how or when he was now going to handle things in Miami, but he knew from experience that the sooner he got something done the better.

A small number of people were milling around the grounds and Will assumed this was the day that most artists would arrive.

Will enjoyed meeting new people but he was not very good at it. Small talk was difficult for him.
His wife, on the other hand, was very gregarious and outgoing. He relied on her a lot in dealing with most social situations.

Will saw no sign of either Glen Roberts or Danny. Nor did he see anyone doing electrical work. For that matter, aside from the distribution of hay, nothing but the unloading of trucks was getting done.

Will finally decided to go over and look at his own truck.
Looking at it and the load of sculptures would make no difference at all in terms of accomplishing the tasks that lay before him. However whenever things were at a standstill, such as now, Will felt a compulsion to look at the truck.
Seeing it in the parking lot gave him a sense of security.

Just as he reached the truck an older lady walked up to him. She introduced herself as Miriam.
The two talked for a while and it turned out she was from Boca Raton and this was the first show of large sculpture she had ever been involved with.

“ I do bugs,” she said, “I cast them in bronze.” Usually she worked small. The bugs were displayed on pedestals.

“But since my husband died I’ve decided to pursue their full potential…. I’m installing two 24 foot long bugs tomorrow ”. Will had not heard an artist talk about their work so matter-of-factly in quite some time. It seemed as if she was announcing to the world that she was a well known “bug woman”.

The mud distressed her.
”I thought they would at least have grass,” she said.

“It’s dried out a lot since I got here,” Will stated optimistically.
“ The forecast does not look good,” Miriam said.
“I just hope the sun stays out.”

“Do you know anything about the group who put this together? Does Danny have a lot of experience” Will asked, hoping for a bit of inside information.

“I have a friend on the board” Miriam said, but she did not divulge any more.

“What is your work like? “ she asked.

“Well….there it is, on the truck…..” Will glanced at the heavy steel pieces on the flatbed.

“Its hard to get a sense of it.” Miriam said.
The work was mostly covered in furniture blankets
“Well a critic recently called my work ‘sophisticated but raw and unrefined’,” Will said sarcastically.
”Hopefully I’ll have them assembled before it gets dark…… all I need to do is find Danny or someone in charge.” It was the best he could manage at talking about his work.

“ I think I saw Martin drive up.” Miriam said.

Will’s face lit up, not only with the prospect of finally talking to an administrator, but that he might escape something he truly hated…..talking about his sculptures.

Will hoped that the work spoke for itself.
”If I have to explain it, it must not be any good,” he had often said.
He had been away from the University for so long that he was no longer comfortable spouting the art jargon that he had once been so comfortable with.

Neither was he content to talk about his work in the way Miriam had, as if he was an ironworker or a craftsman who made animals or insects or some form of the real world. Will thought of what he did to be a primal and spiritual endeavor.

Will wanted to consider himself as a naïve or outsider artist. He was infatuated with folk art and work made by an uneducated hand.
There was only one problem…. he had spent years in the University system and try as he might he couldn’t escape the bondage that a higher education had produced.

Will said something about getting together with Miriam later that evening and set out to find Martin or any of the elusive authority figures.

Will had essentially wasted the whole morning waiting for someone to give him their blessing and help him get the sculptures in place. It was now nearing 11:30.

More and more artists were milling around, and a steady stream of trucks continued to be unloaded at the entrance to the field. Semis and flatbeds alike were leery of the hay-strewn road and stayed on the pavement of the one street that bordered the property.

The Crates and sculptures therefore were spread along a swath of ground that extended north from the entrance.
The backhoe had slowed things down considerably. What was needed was a forklift or maybe two. However the operator did not let up and he had continued to unload trucks steadily the whole morning without a break.

To avoid patches of mud it was necessary to take the long way around. Will made his way to the hay strewn entrance to the Biennale and there, looking decidedly upset, stood Martin. This was only the second time Will had seen Martin and he wondered if he it was just his personality or if once again Martin had just received bad news.
“How are things going? Will asked

“Don’t ask,” Martin said.

A man and the world each have needs of their own.

The world will twist a man’s pain into that which he desires…..leaving it to dance just out of reach, just out of grasp…… then slowly roast that desire on a spit and harden it into what a man needs.

Man craves certainty…….. reality. But reality is quite malleable.
It is pushed and prodded and shaped like clay.
It is bent to fit what one wills, and tortured into that which one needs.

It affects everyone good and bad.
A virtuous man is but a lout that someone, a woman perhaps, needs to be virtuous. He will desire the virtue to fulfill her needs, but all the while he remains the lout.

And to make his way in the world a man will simply confuse the issue and shut his eyes. He will then arrive at what he has and call it what he wants…. not knowing what he needs.

Will needed something.
He needed to believe.

He had put too much into this endeavor to do otherwise.
His doubts and uncertainties about being an artist had worn a hole in him.
He stuffed the hole with belief.
And so as the sun emerged from the clouds offering a clear view, Will chose something else. He chose to believe in the Biennale, in spite of himself.

Several people were waiting to talk to Glen Roberts by the time Will located him in the muddy field.

A huge pile of hay had been set down at the main entrance. The crew was finishing up spreading sand about; creating a grid of roads and paths that divided the field.
This was to counter the mud and muck and allow access to the vehicles. Delivery trucks and miscellaneous vehicles were scheduled to bring in tents, equipment, sculptures and supplies, all in the next few days.
The mud remained, however, throughout the field, providing a bleak patchwork of brown squares and rectangles. Far in the distance stood the lone palm tree.

Will thought back again on all that had occurred in the last two months.
First he had received a phone call from Danny with an invitation to apply to the show. Will then submitted his work to a jury in Florida and was accepted.

Three large sculptures were selected for the Biennale. Because there was so little time, Will was forced to decide quickly if this was a worthwhile opportunity.

Will called his friend John. John had also heard from Danny, and had his work juried into the Biennale.

“It’s going to be really hard for me to do this show,” John said. “There is just too little time, and I’m still unsure of the whole thing.”
“The jurors looked good on the internet,” Will countered. ”One of them has a PHD.”

“I never heard of them.“ John said.
“Neither have I,” said Will, ”but they sure looked good.”

There was a pause as each artist considered his future.
“Maybe you or I will win the $15,000 grand prize,” John said sarcastically.

“ I’m doing it,” Will finally said,” I have some collectors down in Florida and I have to do this thing in Miami anyway.”

And so for Will the die was cast.

A large contingent of people continued to jockey for time with Glen Roberts.
He was clearly in the thick of things, and because he was a realtor/developer he knew where and how to get things done.

“When the hurricane hit a year ago it devastated this area and the city took possession of the property.” Glen was telling someone.
“I am the agent for the property and so I was approached by the Palm Beach Arts Council. They have a donor who will match the money they can raise to construct an Arts Center here.
The city has agreed to lease the land to the Council for a dollar a year and we are excited about the Biennale as we think it will bring in a lot of money.”
“What is your title or position?” the person asked.
”I guess you could say I’m organizing the volunteers……but I’m doing whatever needs to be done,” Glen said.

This was all good news to Will.
As part of the agreement stated on the web site, he had agreed to donate 20% of all sales to the Biennale.
The need for funding for the Arts Center would insure that everyone would do all they could to sell his work. He knew there were people with money all over the place.

Soon another artist, who was in the crowd, asked Glen about installing his sculptures.
Will joined him.
“We will be getting the electrical in tomorrow.” Glen said. “We will set up the generator and run the cords. I’m asking that artists wait until then to begin installing their sculptures. That will give the grounds a little longer to dry out.”

So there it was. All of Will’s plans were going to have to change. He could not do what he had wanted.
To do two shows back-to-back Will was forced into a tight schedule.
He had hoped to get everything done a day or two early in Wellington, then drive down on Friday to Miami, unload the truck and get a start on setting up the sculptures for the show that was to start there Sunday night.
His wife was to fly in to Miami that Saturday and they were to drive a rental car to Wellington for the Biennale opening that evening.
Now it was clear that there was too little time.
This meant that after the opening in Wellington, he would drive to Miami, unload the truck, set up the show…..and try to do it all in time for the opening there Sunday at 7:00. There was a lot of artwork on the truck.

Will’s wife was to stay in Wellington to meet collectors all that week, while he was in Miami trying to do likewise.
Then they would pack the truck again and he would drive back home.
All of this looked feasible on paper but the reality was daunting.
None of it was what Will really wanted to be doing.

He was much more comfortable making his sculptures and having galleries and art reps sell them.

Lately things had not been going well in that arena, however. Two galleries that showed his work had gone out of business in the last year, and another was sold when the owner died. The new owners of that gallery “cleaned house” and Will was unceremoniously let go. It had been quite painful, casting Will into an ocean of doubt.

So Will was embarking on a new phase in his career. It was an opportunity for growth. Will would exert himself and meet new people. He would be positive and embrace these changes.

Realizing once again that there was nothing to do but wait for tomorrow, Will decided to go for a walk. His neck still hurt from the long drive to Florida and over all his 56-year-old body ached.
“The walk will do me good,” Will thought, “and maybe I can figure things out”.

As he left the field ready to face the challenges that lay ahead, Will said to himself quietly, “I believe, I believe, I believe.”

A crew was busy digging trenches to drain off the water from the muddy field.
The sun was out and Will was walking around the periphery watching several trucks arrive.
Some were filled with sand and dirt. Backhoes and a bulldozer were being unloaded. Will began to feel hopeful.

He never determined exactly how many days of rain had fallen but he guessed it was over a week. Seeing the activity had made him forget the rain, however, if only for a while.

Will called his wife to tell her the developments.

“You see… I told you that you were worrying too much,” she said, and then she went on about how “negative thinking” was bad for you.
This was all she talked about lately, She had read ‘The Secret” and was listening a lot to Oprah.

Will was “negative” according to her. But he didn’t see it that way.
He thought of himself as “practical and realistic” but then again he was an artist, and a life in the arts is hardly “practical” or “realistic”.

Whatever the case Will did have a tendency to worry too much.

But for now his worries were beginning to ease a bit as he saw people descending on the site of the Biennale. Something was actually getting done. Physical movement of any type was a balm to Will’s anxieties.

Will left the field, had breakfast and once again spotted a couple that he thought might be artists.
Will asked if they was there to exhibit their work and the lady replied that she was, although her artwork was stranded in Houston. She was from Brazil and Will told her he had spent a few weeks in Rio back in the 80s. The lady, Monica, introduced her boyfriend Armando, who was a painter, and was there to help her set up the show. She spoke excellent English with a thick Portuguese accent. Armando just nodded.
There was definitely a sense of excitement building. Sculptors from all over the world would be there, and the event had the potential to be a truly important venue.

After breakfast the three artists walked back to the field. They immediately spotted a well dressed man in his early 20’s standing next to the cut in the sidewalk. He was talking on a cell phone and watching the trucks that were arriving. He was too well dressed to do any type of manual labor and seemed totally preoccupied with his phone call.

As he finished the phone call, Monica, Armando, and Will walked over and introduced themselves. As Will suspected this was Danny.
“I’m Danny Fornia,”he said, in a manner that made him seem as if he would burst out in song.

“This is going to be an exciting week”

Danny plunged into a conversation that seemed designed to convince the trio that great things were on the horizon.
He mentioned the ” Palm Beach Arts Association” and dropped several names of “patrons” that Will had never heard of.
Soon he was weaving into the conversation something about a Jazz Festival that he had either worked on or was going to be working on.
Danny also mentioned the “SFOC”, which Will finally deciphered as the “South Florida Opera something or other”.
Will didn’t understand how Danny was connected to the opera but he immediately remembered the dream he had had that night.

In the dream Will was a visitor to a very contemporary house, which was all white inside and very spacious and serene. The house was at the same time an asylum and his grandmother’s house and people were walking about silently.
They were to have an opera in the dining room and it was up to the cooks to sing. Will, while in the dream, could not figure out how they could have an opera but keep it quiet for the mental patients in the asylum. Then he saw three men crawling on the floor and he took that as a sign that the mental patients had left the asylum and the opera could begin.

Will entertained several ideas as to what the dream meant. He was certain however, it had been brought on by the movie he had watched the night before. While he was thinking about all this he heard Danny mention the singer “Andy Williams”.
He tried to pick up what relationship Danny had to Andy Williams but he was finding it hard to concentrate.
Hearing the name reminded Will of his first major art show in an Aspen gallery. It coincided with William’s ex-wife, Claudine Longet shooting her boyfriend, a famous skier named Spider Sabich.

“ I had a show in Aspen in 1976,” Will offered, “It was one of the first shows I ever had and Andy William’s ex-wife shot her boyfriend the weekend before the opening.”

Monica, Armando and Danny stared at him and said nothing.
“No one came to the opening,” Will said as if that clarified the matter.
The conversation amongst the 4, which was still centered on Danny’s credentials to run the Biennale, moved back on course once Will’s remark was successfully ignored.

It did sound as if Danny had worked on a number of musical events and he was somehow involved with the Palm Beach Art Association but Will had yet to hear anything about sculpture in Danny’s background.

“Did you ever do anything with art?” Will blurted out.
“You know….such as this sculpture show?”

Will’s question was met once again with silence.
After a pause Danny said in an authoritative voice,” We think the Biennale will be our biggest success so far.”

Monica and Armando seemed dutifully impressed, and Will said “It sure looks good” while shaking his head in the affirmative. He tried hard to look convinced. He had not intended his question to threaten Danny, and he was sincerely interested in his background, but he knew that sculptures shows were particularly difficult to pull off, and Danny looked very young to him.

Within minutes the group broke up and everyone stated that they had something important to do. As Will walked back toward the Day’s Inn he heard Danny shout to him “ Find Glen Roberts, he can help you with the installation of your work.

At the Day’s Inn Will headed for the business office, which provided a computer for the guests.
He read his emails, looked at the weather (which sadly looked iffy for the opening) and quickly checked a few of the sites he normally paid attention to.

Then thinking again about Claudine Longet and Spider Sabich Will googled Andy Williams, his ex-wife and her boyfriend.
Reading the accounts Will was happy to learn that Claudine only served 30 days in jail for her actions and that most of those were on weekends. She was a beautiful woman and that obviously helped with an Aspen jury.
He also noted she was in a movie with Peter Sellers called “The Party”.

Will thought back on some of his other sculpture shows and was struck again by how many openings had coincided with some sort of disaster.

An opening in Atlanta occurred during a blackout.
They had to shut the doors.

A show in LA in ‘94 was held soon after the earthquake. No one came to that either.

He was supposed to have a show in New York but it was cancelled after 9/11.

As he walked out to find Glen Roberts Will ran into Martin who was listed as publicity director on the Biennale’s web site. Will inquired how things were going.

“Don’t ask,” Martin said.
“Aside from this rain,” Will continued, “what else can happen?

“Well….the invitations,” Martin said distractedly, “the invitations to the opening will not get printed in time”. Martin looked upset as if he had just received the news.

“ That cant be good, ” Will said.

“ We had 12,000 printed,” Martin went on, ”I know they will get people out for the show but its too late for the opening.”

“Maybe we will all get lucky,” Will thought, “and Claudine Longet will shoot a famous scuba diver or something”

Up early the next morning, Will called three tow truck companies. The best price he could come up with was $147, which he agreed to. Will wanted to be sure that he got the truck as far away from the broken sign as soon as possible. He was certain that with his luck he would get charged for it if anyone knew.

The rain had settled into a slight drizzle but looked as if it had no intention of leaving. The warmth of south Florida sun mixed with the rain had created a mist or a fog that lay close to the ground. It was at once beautiful, frightening, and dangerous.

Will had arrived two full days early. It was now Tuesday. Thursday was the day he was scheduled to unload the truck and set up his large sculptures. He liked to be early for things as he always relaxed once he knew what to expect.
If a situation remained too fluid for too long, his anxiety level made it hard for him to cope.Also Will was hopeful he could talk his way into unloading on Wednesday.

The tow truck driver, Bob, did not seem to be in a good mood.
“Too much rain?” Will thought.
Bob made quick work of pulling the truck out of the mud and left it safely on the asphalt.

As soon as he was gone Will drove the truck to the other side of the parking lot. The broken sign lay in a neat pile.
It would not take a detective to unravel the crime however, as a huge trail of mud was left from one end of the parking lot to the other.
Seeing the mud Will considered seeking a car wash to wash the rear tires and axles, but it looked like it would probably rain in torrents again any minute and he said the hell with it. Will went back to his room and promptly fell back to sleep.

Up again at noon, Will found a restaurant close by and sat down for lunch.
There were 2 people at another table who looked like they might be artists, but when asked if they were part of the Biennale, they knew nothing about it.

After lunch Will took a short walk to look over the muddy field. No one was there. Not a bit of activity was taking place. Will did see several small signs on the road that said “entrance” and had arrows pointing the way to a cut in the sidewalk.

The rain was starting up again and Will realizing there was nothing left to do, once again headed back to his room.

Will turned down the TV set, which he always kept on, and called Danny.
Danny was the person in charge of the Biennale. At least Will assumed Danny was in charge.
Danny had called him with the original invitation to the show. All email exchanges had been with Danny, and Danny was listed as the Director of the Biennale on the web site.
However, Will knew nothing for certain. In fact the more Will became aware of, the less certain he was of anything.

Where was the money coming from to put on such a major event? Evidently there was a board of directors. Was this in any way funded by Palm Beach? If so why was it held so far away?

The questions were beginning to add up.

As usual Danny was not in his office and Will was forced to leave a message. Always in the past, he had heard from Danny fairly quickly.

True to form within the hour Danny was on the phone.

Danny sure sounded good. He always sounded good. He was cheerful and positive although he talked much faster than Will was used to. He had the self-assurance of someone who had accomplished a great deal and was destined to continue throughout his life.
Danny assured Will that everything was going smoothly.

“The weather will clear tomorrow and I spoke to Glen about the grounds.” Danny said, “He has been working with his contractors and an earth moving team will tackle things first thing in the morning. Tomorrow afternoon the volunteers will deliver some of the concrete pedestals and help you set up your work.
The tents and sound stage will be there on Thursday and we will have the opening as planned on Saturday night.

It was clear Danny was a talker. Will had met plenty of talkers before and they usually made him nervous. But now, in this situation, Will was comforted by Danny’s words. Perhaps it was because he chose to be comforted. There were a lot of things about the Biennale that made Will nervous. Chief amongst them at this point was the location.
Nothing so far was the way Will had imagined it. There was no white sand beach, no beautiful palm trees (the lone scraggly palm did not count), no ocean roaring in the distance, nothing.

Instead there was mud and weeds and an empty lot that would make a great place to put a K-Mart. However, it WAS close to the Day’s Inn, as he had been told.

But Danny had been very convincing and Will really wanted to, no, needed to believe….. if only for the night. To do otherwise would bring on fits of anxiety, with which he just could not cope.

Will went to sleep that night while watching an old movie on the ever present TV….the Marx brothers movie “A Night at the Opera”. While hardly restful it did take his mind off things.