Night, day, noon, Oprah time – in the world of an artist, it just doesn’t matter. I had just taken a seat in the Rock and Roll – a bakery by day and jazz spot by night, pandering to carvers and the occasional wayward air guitarist. Money for stone was known to change hands there, making it an underworld hot spot. The owner and I went way back, although not quite far enough. By the time we met and the hot chems between us were realized he was already taken, leaving us friendship and the right to do favors. He had helped me get my second PhD by giving me the occasional do-re-me to do-re-me in his club. Now that I was launched the singing had ended, but he did pass on the occasional tip for a different kind of gig.

 

“Hey Doll,” he said as he slid in across from me. “Got something I need you to do as a favor – no cashola in this one – sorry. Where’s the Fluff, by the way?”

 

“Getting something waxed I think.”

 

He slipped me a napkin with spilled cola and an address on it. “There’s an art intervention going on there in one hour. This vic’s a friend and it’s a bum rap. Take your fancy psychology degree over there and babble some sense into them.” I called the Fluff, told her to meet me, and was out of there faster than sandstone eats rifflers.

 

The garage was a murky den of stone dust, crusty Rodin posters, duct tape, and way too many people. The Trix could tell who they were instantly. The sculptor was the one in the middle, looking dazed and crushed. It was also a give-away that he tried to hug me the moment I entered. There were three others. Ms. Had-My-Nails-Done-Don’t-Make-Me-Scratch-You wearing the “Free Martha” T-shirt had to be the significant other. The one handing me the postcard for their next show – the teacher. Mustard turtleneck, black Armani jacket and nostrils flared – the gallery owner. They knew me from my rep and although uninvited, they were more than happy to repeat everything for my benefit. Two mallet strikes are better than one, after all.

 

The gist – the sculptor made the same thing over and over – yak. The wife was almost hysterical by the time it was all re-told. At her bookclub they were calling her Mrs. Yak. The teacher said there was “no true and worthwhile” meaning in a yak, let alone 36 yaks – he should go back to doing breasts. “Now there was the meaning of all life summed up in one gland.” The gallery owner was proclaiming there simply was not a yak market in the Northwest. No market – and not tasteful.

 

Not having given much thought to yak, I had to see the art before I spoke. At that moment the Fluff burst in breathless and smelling of Armor All. I said “yak”, pointed, and together we looked at his work starting with his first, finishing with the most recent.

 

I spun around like the world was my potter’s wheel. No time for psychobabble. Another spirit was about to be bush-hammered into oblivion. I would have to use the rules of universal “art talk” to get through quickly.  “When did making art become solely about money (art lingo #1) and boosting ancillary egos? Have any of you really looked beyond their fundamental yakness or asked him ‘why yak’? You, Teach – or should I say Spirit Breaker (rule #2 - always throw in a phrase that sounds Native American).You make nothing but boobs.  They’re good, perhaps great, keep it up, but a truly good teacher helps the student find their own voice, not clone theirs. Perhaps it’s you that’s gone a mammary too far. And you Mr. Art Dealer, your gallery sells nothing but bronze donuts. Hardly makes you the authority on the yak market anywhere. You – the Mrs. – why do you care? He’s happy, home carving, and if you’d actually look at them, telling HIS story. What you three should be interested in is the evolution of his craft and his soul. It may take him a long time to figure it out himself, but he’s got a journey to make (rule #3 – use “journey” whenever possible) and his just happens to be on the back of a yak.” With that, a loud sob burst out of Fluffy as she gazed at his latest work, entitled “Sad Yak.”

 

Heads spinning like grinder blades, the critics hardly noticed as the Big F and I gave the artist a round of regulation hugs, leaving him to rock on.