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Every spring, at the Dallas Museum of Art's annual Beaux Art Ball auction exhibition, I bid up what I consider the best pieces by local artists-especially those by my friends-and extra especially those that don't seem to be attracting enough attention already. It's such a shame when they go for a pittance or don't net any bids at all.
At the 1991 Ball, I followed my tradition. I bid on a half dozen pieces I really liked. And I hoped I'd be lucky enough to get one out of the bunch. But which one?
My friend Dwayne Carter's carved plastic Smiling George, 1991 was languishing on a busy wall without a bid. And I remembered Brad Metcalf's deceptively simple work from 500X with fondness and appreciation. Wouldn't it be wonderful to snag it? Lynn Gurney's Revelation Round-up: The Not So OK Corral, 1991 was a very different sort of work. Whoever got it should pay more than $175, I thought.
The piece that really gave me pause was Greg Metz' spectacular mixed-media, 3-D jet warplane Plane View, 1991. I had to hunt for its bid sheet and was surprised to find it blank. I looked at the plane, back at the bid sheet, wandered around some more, then back at the plane. The $300 minimum bid was steep, but not for such a politically astute piece. It was big, but it was also superb sculpture, and every time I read the text emblazoned across its belly, I laughed. Finally, I signed my name, hoping both that I'd get it and that I wouldn't.
I also bid on Tom Jenkins' camera-lucida standing photo box, which was covered with startlingly black and white, old wood-cut photos of cameras.
When the auction results were announced, I wasn't surprised I didn't get the Jenkins piece. I was, however, shocked to that I got everything else I'd bid on. A total of $837.50 worth of Dallas-made sculpture! What a boon for my burgeoning sculpture collection.
The grand prize hangs from my dining room ceiling. It looks like--and it was--designed by a seven-year old, Greg Metz' son, Zach. I can easily imagine the original crayoned drawing, multi-colored, one wing narrower and shorter than the other, guns and bombs hanging all over it, a bright red point at the front and flames shooting out the back. And that's just what it looks like.
It is blue and green, red, yellow, orange and brown in deep, colorful, crayon-like stripes and splotches all over. And although there's no cockpit, and the nose curves upward slightly, it is remarkably authentic to both a real jet and a kid's imagination. The wingspan is 52", and it is 76" long.
A sturdy wire threaded through the fuselage hangs the plane at steep, 60° angle. Along the belly, simple block letters proclaim "U.S. Peace Initiative," in stark contrast to the weapon-festooned warplane, which was created and exhibited during the American War Over Kuwait.
I love the piece, and it looks spectacular hanging from my ceiling. But I still apologized to Greg later for bidding on it. After the ball, he'd been offered a much higher price. But then was too late.
I'm proud of getting it and having it, but it was still a rip-off of his work, time and energy. That he only got a small percentage of the $300 I paid was even more of a rip — though that price was on the outer edge of what I could afford. I could never have followed the bid up in the required $100 increments.
I feel less torn over my acquisition of Brad Metcalf's elegant wind-up racer. You don't really wind it up, you propel it by winding its cabled hand-crank. The mechanically simple, monochromatic grey/black, 20s-style streamlined racer sits on the floor with four, exposed, metal fan-blade flywheel wheels.
Attached to the side of the car with a black, tapered metal spiral spring is a four-foot long rubber, tube-encased cable. At the other end of the cable is a heavy-duty gray plastic hand-grip to steady the winding mechanism while forefinger and thumb crank the wheel like a fisherman's reel.
Cranking the grey metal pulley twists the cable inside the long rubber tube, turning a pulley under the center of the car. That transfers torque to the drive wheel via a short, black rubber vacuum cleaner belt. And the car rolls front- or backwards. Except for arcing gradually at the end of its cable, it does not turn.
I dare not drive it on my hardwood floors--it leaves a vicious, rending wake on the rug. Although it's amusing to look at and fun to play with, there's nothing light-weight nor subtle about this toy. Its mechanisms are direct and in plain sight. It's screwed and bolted together with big, obvious fasteners, and it weighs more than 10 pounds. It's solid enough to out-last everything else in my collection.
On the self-containing box for Lyn Gurney's Revelation Round-up, a red, black and gold dragon, dying before a haloed lamb-a silver sword in its mouth-are painted onto the broad bottom of the wood toy box. An almost indecipherable illumination across the top banners "to aptiouvikyoei" in red, yellow and green segmented letters, a tiny "Rev.-17:14" tagged at the end. The removable top forms the base for the corral, bare wood outside with multicolored splotches inside.
(Over the years since I bought it, all of the fragile pieces have broken.)
At the gateless opening stands one of four, six-inch-high horses. This one is white with green, black and brown camouflage hindquarters, a red and gold crown on his head and a black roman numeral 'I' encircled with gold on his breast. His head is tilted back as if to laugh. Beside him on a fence post is a white, in-scale, probably plastic, human skull.
Inside the corral, a full rubber skeleton, dabbed with grey, rides a tan horse crawling with too-large spiders. His chest is emblazoned with 'IV.' Behind the white horse is a large brown bear, arms out and above his shoulders. His mouth is full of red dripping bones. Beyond the box's base, on the table is my favorite of the figures, a red horse, head tilted back in anguish, a gold sword pierced deep into his back, a big drip of blood down his side. A squiggly black line bisects him laterally. His number is II. Number III is a black horse. He is alert, his tale pluming up, his whole being at attention. In the scales on his back are two ears of blackened corn balancing a jug.
I wasn't sure where to place the lion and leopard-both winged. The leopard has gold wings and is spotted with brown, black and orange spots on its white field. The brown lion's wings are grey and white bird feathers. Its featureless face is circled by a mane of dark brown hair. The lion seems to be striding forward. After the defeated dragon, I was attracted by the four-horses of the Apocalypse feeling of the tiny milieu. I guess I'll have to read Revelations to learn its intentions. But I prefer the vague mystery.
Even my parents, who are fans of both, agree that Dwayne Carter's three-dimensional Smiling George looks more like Ronald Reagan. I guess I just like the idea of a big, stupid, toothy grin on a Republican president. And this smile is as big and toothy and dumb as any I've seen. The face is flesh pink to red, teeth white, tongue red. The short, combed hair is gunmetal to jet. The eyes are deep and squinty, cheeks pointy pink and poking out. This is not a flattering portrait.
Juxtaposed with Greg Metz's jet, it makes a poli-ticklish statement. Floating alone on my yellow kitchen wall, it's just absurd.
Metz and Carter collaborated on a row of cartoonish faces on the front of Club Dada. They used the same materials for their subsequent Bozo Ball pieces.
unpublished,
June 1991
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