august slumber

every "field" operates according to a certain kind of calendar or sense of time. in fashion, for example, they work in "seasons," related to the weather and lifestyles of consumers. the "new" is always being planned a year in advance and "fall lines" arrive in stores in the early summer, when summer clothes are already sold out or on sale. different concepts of time can be seen in products like the old-school "planner" (who uses those things nowadays anyway?). there is the regular calendar which begins with the december of the previous year then ends with the january of the following year (or december of that year, depending on the company). then there is the "academic" calendar for students that begins in august and ends in july or august of the following year. 

no longer part of an academic institution, i have been hovering in the strange limbo typical of a recent graduate grappling with the anxiety of an uncertain future and worries about "the next move." these anxieties have to do with practical matters (get a job? where? how?) and often they are fueled by the lack of a "given" time structure. i have to find my own temporal structure, which will reflect what i "want to do" with myself/my life. the difficulty lies in picking and choosing whose calendars fit what i want to do (a ginormous issue in itself) and creating a new one tailored to my own identity, vision, etc.

that was a round about way of saying that it didn't really occur to me that august in the art world is very slow--and, well, dead. i knew, of course. but having this knowledge in one's own head differs from how that knowledge is experienced on a practical and visceral level. my current sense of time is rather monotonous--no high/low seasons, but only the same kind of day after another, after another. the only factors that cause fluctuations--and require some planning--are the opening hours of galleries and museums, certain short-lived events such as performance nights and special openings.

in a way it is nice--it's like receiving a blank sheet everyday for me to mark up anew. but the real new york art world schedule, which i have tried to incorporate into my own sense of time, doesn't quite work the way i pass my days. it is not monotonous like mine, but has its seasons like any other calendar. certain months are "vacation" time (end of july to august, and december), then some months are the "big" moments when art people return to the city and there are a million openings every week (september is a major openings month). some months host a multitude of art fairs, others (in alternating years) have biennials, triennials, or annual exhibitions organized by major institutions.

it's not all that different from an academic or other work calendars, actually. but there are small elements (knowledge?) that one will only come to embody if one lives immersed in that life and realm for a prolonged period of time--constant training until that knowledge is no longer considered separate information but becomes instinct. 

and i could feel myself floating in this no-person's-land when i asked a gallerist friend why everything was closed one saturday and she told me about summer hours. annoyed, frustrated, i felt like a hungry ghost that can only stare at what it can't have. but trying to "gain entry"--what does that even mean? i must have some sort of fundamentally unattainable, absurdly impossible, and completely fictional notion of "belonging" to the art world. and that is probably right. i set my own definition of legitimacy (the creation of which i angrily attribute to "the art world") and thereby deprive myself of it. it's like complaining about others' racist behaviors when i am only reaffirming their racist beliefs precisely by taking them for granted. 

and this is also just a very roundabout way of excusing myself for being slack. i haven't been out as often lately to see shows and another excuse: much of what i have seen haven't strongly inspired my writing about them. but maybe that's just what august does to people and that's why many people abandon the city to lounge around some place with more green or water. i should stop feeling guilty and let myself sit in my air conditioned room all day with a good novel. i am a master fabricator of excuses.