PAINT ME RED

"Is that so?"

In continuing our quest for great art in Santa Fe last week, my pals Rat, Mary, and I meandered through the downtown Plaza area where there are more galleries. Mary took us to a photographer’s studio that had impressed her during an earlier visit. The photos were brilliantly colored shots of peasants from South America…or maybe India or China…I can’t remember. Anyway, they were big, blazing photos--nothing you’d want hanging from the walls of your home, probably, but they’d look good in a museum.

The Gallery Greeter Gal was effusive with her praise for the photographer, explaining what a wonderful connection she had with these peasants, who included a little boy with six toes on each foot, the haunting painted face of a disabled man in repose, and various smiling old women. Since the hostess repeatedly spoke of the impoverished living conditions they endured, I had to open my big mouth and make an even bigger gaffe. You see, since these photos commanded prices ranging from $5,000 to $15,000, without the matting and frames, which were up to $3,000 extra, well, I had what I thought was a legitimate question:

“Does the photographer pay them to pose for her camera?” I was hoping that they were at least getting a little cut of the action here to help relieve their poor lifestyles.

“Well, no,” answered Gallery Gal.

“You mean to tell me that she (the photographer) is raking in up to $15,000 a picture and not sharing a little of it?”

“Oh, they don’t want the money,” Gallery Gal responded.

I’m sure a skeptical look washed over my face at that point. I can make a really good skeptical look--where my mouth twists up, my nose scrunches, and an eye squints, as if I’m saying, “Are you sure about that?”

“You’re telling me they would refuse money if she offered it?”

“Well, she’s calling world-wide attention to their situation with these photos, plus she has lots of travel expenses, …and I’m sure she’s helped them out,” Gallery Gal muttered.

I could sense her defensiveness building, as well as perhaps a touch of anger. Rather than risk turning the art gallery into a mouth-shooting gallery or getting into a down and dirty bitch-slapping with her, I immediately dropped the subject, said I needed to take some medication, hustled up my companions, and we left. Probably not a minute too soon. One of the many triggers of my spazzy ear muscle is when I get riled about something.

You know, if I was making major money from taking pretty pictures of poor people and didn‘t spread the wealth around just a little, I think I’d be a pretty poor excuse for a person. But that’s just my opinion.