ART GO HOME!

True to our collective nature, a few, proud operatives showed their mastodonic cahones today in a satirical display of false protest. I had read about doing a fake protest early on while researching performance art ideas for our motley crew to produce, and liked it immediately. I thought it would be fun to draw attention to our involvement in the festival in a way that would confuse people who couldn't see the irony in our actions. Mwahaha.

I sprung the idea on the group and was greeted on Facebook by enthusiastic catch phrases that some of our clever operatives wanted to tout on their signs: "Art Go Home!" "My Brain is Exit Only!" "GOD HATES ART" "I want a desk job!" and my personal favorite that wouldn't fit on a sign..."I got into Art, and all I could do was make this sign..in cross-hatched ink and gouache, 3-dimensional calligraphy type!"

Through the magic of texting, I assembled a small but hardy team of operatives in front of the Arts Council building to take part in this new activist movement. Jinx, James, Keith, Matlock and I all piled our materials up on the hood of my car and scrawled our angry protests against the atrocity of the notion of art in lovely ink onto our poster boards. I think we took our sweet time drawing out our posters in order to work up the nerve to face the public riot we knew would be stirred by our moving protest.

Matlock joyously scribbled "Boobies belong on TV, not in paintings" on his poster. Jinx, in my opinion, won hands down in the style department, her neat lettering made a pretty sweet looking poster. Mine were hastily scrawled in childlike scratches so I could pause to take some truly excellent pictures of our process, save for my opus poster "Art is Dum!" that I had painted on my handmade cardboard art portfolio the night before. Ah, irony. Keith bravely attempted the ultimately fruitless task of securing our floppy signs to tiny bamboo sticks I had grabbed from our backyards as signpoles, a feat which even pounds of scotch tape and staples could not surmount. James grabbed some Arts Sonoma Festival brochures and our Human Chess flyers to bring, just in case we aroused anyone's interest. In retrospect, I think people were afraid to ask what all the crazy screaming was about, because I think we only handed one out the whole half hour we were on the street, and even that, I think we had to force into her hand.

After much giggling, self-congratulation and downright procrastinating, the time had arrived to thrust our loathsome opinion of art onto the unsuspecting 5 o'clock drive time traffic on Mendocino Avenue. The second I lifted my huge, high contrast "Art is Dum!" poster up over my head while facing traffic, a cop drove by. He didn't stop, which I took as a blessing bestowed upon us by the great social satirists and performance artists that had gone on before us to the great city street in the sky.

We raised our signs to that very sky and marched down the street, loudly chanting "Hey hey, ho ho, self-expression has got to go!" which echoed eerily off the surrounding buildings. A few people stepped out of shop doors to see what was going on, and possibly to frown in confusion. I barely noticed them, euphoric in my engagement in this pathological public display. I glided down the street like a prom queen atop a parade float, gleefully shouting and waving my sign like an insane person. I believe James said "I feel like an idiot" at some point amidst the yelling. However, he was also giggling and smiling, probably because he cleverly avoided carrying one of the signs along with us. His reputation was safe. The rest of us were not so lucky.

We chanted and yelled snarky comments at every open car window that passed us. I even danced a little with the sign on my head on Mendocino and 3rd, the busiest corner in town. Matlock started chanting "2, 4, 6, 8, what do we appreciate? Not art!" *clap clap* "Not art!" *clap clap* In our ecstasy we even shrieked "shamona" like Michael Jackson between the beats in our made-up war cries.

People stared. Some laughed. Several frowned, the irony lost on them. About five, more sophisticated drivers honked and yelled phrases of support like "Yeah! Fuck art!" to which we responded with high pitched shrieks of glee. My proudest moment was standing in the crosswalk and shouting "What do we want?" to which the other brave operatives answered "Nothing!" "When do we want it?" "Now!" It was very nihilistic, and epitomized the heart of our protest.


At some point, we decided our voices and egos hurt too much to carry on. We started on the last leg of our strike, charging back toward home base at the Arts Council building. We each ad-libbed some of our own cheeky phrases to passing pedestrians, taking the last chance to make our stand known. With no less fanaticism for our fake war on art, we yelled even louder and with more feeling now, knowing we'd soon be safe in our cars, peeling away from the site of our possible public humiliation.

With a sigh, we collapsed on the car, hoarse but happy. We had made a difference. What that difference was, we weren't sure. Did anyone get it? In my opinion, causing even the slightest bit of confusion in the brain of some suit driving home to his wife, to whom he would share the story "Honey, I saw the weirdest thing on the way home from the office..." made it all worthwhile. Art lives on, much to our (fake) dismay.

I'm so proud of us. Cheers.