"Everyone loved your work. Sorry we didn't sell anything"
And with a halfhearted "oh, that's OK, it really was a very strong show though", my 8 foot crated works of art and I were out the door.
The walk of shame consists of the last trip out of a gallery after taking down and packing up your unsold work. Sometimes, from behind a desk and without even trying to pretend standing up, the gallery agent (usually an unpaid intern) will throw you a "Do you need help with the door?".
"No, I got it. But thanks!"
There are varying degrees of shame. The easiest to take is the summer group show consisting of older flailing artists at the urban coffee house where absolutely no one questions you when you unhook your work from the wall and walk out on the last day of the show. The coffee house experience usually is followed with a promise to yourself to never ever show your art in a place that lacks even the most basic security AND that sells vegan sandwiches. The promises last about a year.
A group show at an established regional non-profit gallery can be a little more bitter, especially when your art is part of an annual fund raising silent auction. When that shit happens you almost want to call the joint and tell them to burn it in the alley rather than endure the walk. I mean, when I get invited to be a part of one of those shows, I usually try and give them something of quality that will appeal on a broad level and that has an attractive price point. That is why it fucking hurts when no one bids on it and I get the email to pick it up.
The bitterest pill is the solo show walk of shame where nothing sold, not even the goddamn prints. The whole afternoon consists of taking down, packing up every goddamn piece of art and walking out the door past other artists bringing their work in for the next show. I compare this experience to that time in high school when, by some random act of Christ, you and the hottest girl in school hook up. Yep, you know she has a 'history' and she is completely out of your league but you really think you are hot shit and can rock her world. For exactly one month she giggles at your jokes, seems interested in the same music as you and makes out with you in your car. Then nearing the end of your month long 'relationship', the planets align, the heavens part and the opportunity to shank her becomes a firm reality. It the back seat of your car she and you are naked from the waist down and nothing can stop what is going to happen. Well, almost nothing. Maybe it was because you were nervous. Maybe you should have rubbed one out before the date; or maybe it was God having a big laugh at your expense. What ever the reason, your date is now yelling at you in the dark for 'getting that shit in her hair' and also ruining her new acid washed jeans that she just bought.
During the ride home, several quiet apologies are thrown up and allowed to drop without acknowledgement. The last words spoken by you is a quivering 'I'll talk to you tomorrow' addressed to her back as she is closing the passenger car door and almost running to her front door. You instantly know that whatever you had with her is now over, but you don't know how bad it is until Monday when you get back to school. She is now avoiding you in the hallways and when you do see her between classes leaning up against her locker flirting with other boys (athletic types) she whispers to them and they both look at you and laugh as you walk by. You never forget that feeling.
That feeling is the equivalent to the solo gallery show, nothing fucking sold, come pick up your shit, take all of the fucking show post cards too, walk of shame. While it may never get better, every walk of shame gets you further away from the first one.
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