And The Goat Said To The Kid…

A few years ago, I had the honor of meeting and investing time with Kerry James Marshall, inspiration, fellow Alabama native son, luminary, and artist extraordinaire. Stay close with me now, because there are layers to this…

How I came to the meeting is a story all its own. When I arrived just before summer in Chicago that year, I intended to find and meet Kerry James Marshall. A day or so later, a friend shared with me that he would be speaking at the Art Institute of Chicago on June 21. At that moment, I knew I was in. I had already spoken and would consequently bear witness to the manifestation of my intent. Just go online, book my ticket and boom, done, ha.

That night, I settled in front of my computer musing over the fact that what I wanted had come so effortlessly and quickly. I followed the link only to find, at my dismay, large words across the screen that read – SOLD OUT. No, no, no I thought. I’m supposed to be there. I asked for it and the door opened. I’m supposed to walk right through. What is trying to be going on here. I felt anxiety mounting to frustration. Then I checked myself and found calm in the idea of just asking the program director or a professor about comp tickets. There had to be some…right.

The following morning I approached a professor and inquired about a ticket to the event. He was a major league gallery director, he had to have some horsepower. I saw his lips move but didn’t want to hear the words that came out of his face. After telling me what I already knew about Kerry James Marshall’s rock star status, he went on to tell me that there were no comp tickets. They had sold out in record time. No more tickets. My head spun a minute, then that thing kicked in. You know that thing in your gut that says, I hear you but… All I knew was that I was getting in. I’d called it. It had come. I was not going to miss out.

For the next few days I shared my resolve with everyone who would listen. I told a group of my cohorts that I was getting in even if I had to sweep the floors backstage or carry out their chairs. I was going to be in that auditorium, and it was no secret. And I kept saying it, every chance I got.

It was Wednesday, my bEARTHday, the day before the Kerry James Marshall presentation was to take place. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention that he would be talking about another one of my favorite artists, Charles White, who in fact was my first inspiration in undergrad. Charles White’s 100 year retrospective exhibit was on view at the institute and his son was going to be on the panel. Man, If I didn’t get in… I hadn’t fully fleshed out my plan on how I would storm the Bastille. I just knew, by hook or crook, I was going to be in that building. I showed up early at the weekly Wednesday night artist talk and made my way down the center isle toward my usual second row from the front, to the left, middle of the row, seat. That generally put me square in front of the podium. At this late date and time, feelings of defeat were tugging at the hem of my faith. Tomorrow was the day…

TO BE CONTINUED…