Great turnout to the show, but no sales. The multitudes came; hundreds (Sorry, not millions) packed into their black SUVs. The streets of Torrington, usually a large town without major traffic jams, echoed with the blasts of horns. They wiped the dripping sweat from their jowls, cursed the blinding sunlight and burped as they drove towards the show, where the artists waited, hopeful but realistically cynical and without expectations.
The multitudes came, but they didn't come to buy. They came to fulfill family obligations: Aunt Trudy or Cousin Bob or Nephew Ned is trying to prove his talent, and family members must play their prescribed roles, read from the supporting actor's script and display the polite, encouraging smile on cue. They came for the experience of seeing art, much as they'd go somewhere else for the experience of tasting new flavors or hearing tunes or seeing the latest artful arrangement of merchandise on racks.
Maybe we should charge admission to the show, call ourselves "performance artists" who also happen to be selling a commodity. Charge them for the privilege of being spectators; charge them to get a peep at the stage-set (each piece of art, and the gestalt of how it's uniquely hung in a larger installation), and be in the audience that eavesdrops on artists' blather.
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