(If you started reading this in the print edition, click here to pick up where you left off)

By Aimée Hoover

As a painter, I have always considered myself to be a little out of it when it comes to the art world. I don’t read art magazines, I don’t know who’s hot and I really don’t care who is pissing people off by submerging something in urine and calling it art. Don’t even ask me what makes something art or not; I will just combust in frustration trying to come up with an answer and ruin your nice shoes.

This is exactly why I go to art openings: I don’t have to know anything about art because it’s really not about the artwork — it’s about the attendees. “Blasphemy!” you say, “of course art openings are about art!” Well, I offer an account of my most recent gallery experience about two weeks ago that begs to differ.

So I am headed down the walkway to my favorite gallery at Bergamot Station in Santa Monica to attend this big opening. Noticing the photography exhibit door adjacent to the gallery was open, I decide to stop and poke my head in. Upon entering I realize that I had seen the exhibit before, but thought I’d take a speedy tour to refresh my memory. As I was circling the gallery, in a very quick, very un-gallery pace, I felt this weird vibe. The weird vibe was emanating from the only other gallery-goer in the space — a man in his 50s with elbow patches and salt-and-pepper hair pretending to flip through a photography book in the corner. I sensed an awkward pick-up line somewhere on the horizon and since I had seen the show before, I hightailed it out of there to the opening to avoid, well, anything.

It is packed. There are people literally overflowing into the parking lot. I squeeze through the door slowly, repeating the apparently ineffective phrase “Excuse me” every two feet or so. Many opening attendees that I pass look at me as if I am crashing their private party. I feel very aware that I am not a celebrity, as if I need reminding of that by things other than my bank account. That feeling was accompanied by what I like to call the “elevator eye” — the up and down stare that barely disguises their contempt for my choice of apparel. Many individuals are looking at each other, scanning the room for something/someone more interesting than who they’re with and not really looking at the artwork at all. (Background: This particular gallery has a few famous people as patrons and many of the people here are quite possibly keeping an obvious eye out.)

I am now about halfway into the gallery and it is still not about the art because I can’t see any of it — there are too many people. All four sections of the gallery are filled wall-to-wall with dark clothing, a lot of it in the form of leather pants.

I am pushed through some sort of wormhole into the adjacent space, in which I am forced to look at a painting from a distance of about eight inches. Yes, this is how the artist must have intended it. But I think this is how close I had to be to realize what was going on. I was now face to face with a piece created with, and I am not kidding — puffy paint. Yes, puffy paint. The “I made this sweatshirt in my craft class, it’s an Easter bunny, do you like it?” type of puffy paint.

My first thought is, yet again, not really about artwork, per se. It is about the fact that someone made the decision to actually give a puffy paint artist a WHOLE ROOM in a prominent gallery to display his or her work. Well, maybe that is about the artwork but it is still baffling. This is really the type of thing that makes me hesitant to tell people I am an artist. I mean, what if people think of puffy paintings when I say what I do? I have enough trouble trying to verbally describe my style when asked what I paint — with a portfolio chock full of everything from a cackling T-shirt-wearing alien to a floating manatee to a human heart impossibly balancing on one pointy end, what can one really say in a nutshell? Over the years, my standard, embarrassingly vague answer of “I paint medium- to large-sized acrylic paintings” has mutated to the more specific, “I paint medium-sized acrylic paintings on canvas.” However, if I was a puffy paint artist, I could just say, “I paint things with puffy paint” and everyone would get it. Maybe that’s what this artist is thinking. Or not. Actually, if Puff Daddy, aka Sean Combs (who apparently is changing his name to PDiddy for some reason) or maybe even Puff the Magic Dragon was the artist connected to this work, I could then see taking it with a grain of salt and understand the obvious choice of materials.

While I am contemplating leaving based on sheer principle as a non-craft artist, I hear a loud, slurred voice. It said, “You shuddah stayed at the pphotography exhibit, you really missed oout by leaving so thoon.”

It’s Elbow Patches.

Although he is totally drunk, he instantly has this secretive/serious quality like he’s about to look over both shoulders and let me in on some government plot. Normally, I would say, “Oh really? Ahhh, hmmmm — is that a Picasso over there? I gotta go. Bye!” But since I was surrounded by a maximum capacity crowd and my plastic glass was topped off with free mediocre wine (which means half full), I decided to stay. So I bite:

ME: Oh, actually, I had already seen that particular show. Are you into photography?

PATCHES: (still drunk) Let’s just saaaaay ...(incredibly long pause while he bats his eyes in slow motion, sways back on his heals unintentionally and then back towards me alarmingly close) I happen to know a little about (insert air quotes) photography.

He leans back again, looks smug and attempts to fold his arms for punctuation but forgot he too had a plastic glass of wine and ends up spilling it on himself.

ME: (Trying be serious and not laugh) Really, I see — well, is that what you do full time.PATCHES: (Leans in close, my guess is now tequila) Well, let’s just saaaay, (looks around suspiciously, air quotes again) I am a bit of an artist.

Me: (trying not to imitate him and use air quotes myself) So, do you work in photography or in some other media?

PATCHES: Let’s just say — see, in the art world, some people out there (pointing randomly behind him and almost clocking some women) like to use the term (air quotes) installation artist.

ME: So you’re not an installation artist?

PATCHES: Let’s just saaaay, (enter LONG explanation that I couldn’t recall verbatim for this article but had something to do with him being too smart and that I wouldn’t understand because I am just a young (thank you) girl and he doesn’t want to confuse me with all of these “art terms.”

ME: “ ... “

PATCHES: I don’t want t — I shouldn’t bore you with all of these artsy terms.

He turns to leave assuming my blank look is confusion when in actuality it is disbelief because he didn’t use the phrase, “Let’s just say” to preface that last comment.

I say “Nice to meet y — yuh...you” (What is his name?) to his back as he barrels through the room towards the exit. Not the most graceful exit as evidenced by the crowd’s expression in his wake, but I will say that he made a lot more headway than I did on the way in.

Watching him leave, I caught Elizabeth what’s-her-name — Oh, Berkeley — walking in. You know, the star of that delightful little flick, “Showgirls.” She is amazingly beautiful and is wearing something satiny that has less shape to it than a plastic bag and she still looks gorgeous. She looks a lot different than when she was telling Zack what to do on “Saved by the Bell.” She sweeps in then sweeps out just as quickly with her boyfriend/husband on her arm.

So it’s back to the puffy paint. I am perplexed. Jealous maybe? I don’t know. I wasn’t alone with my thoughts for very long before I hear, “So, which one is your favorite?” I look around and it is the most casual individual I have seen at any gallery event. As a casual person myself, I was intrigued and curious and thought it might be someone I could relate to. I think I might have even let the elevator eye slip. He was wearing really old jeans and had thrown a nappy fleece vest over a wrinkled short-sleeved T-shirt. The vest strategically blocked the stain on his pocket that I could see when he extended his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Harold. What’s your name?”

I introduced myself and we ended up having a somewhat interesting conversation, as long as I gave him about three feet of space so he could talk with his hands and large amounts of saliva, uninterrupted by my face. We talked about the piece we were in front of for a nanosecond and then the discussion mutated into something more personal. Turns out he was a 50-something year-old surfer/teacher who just broke up with his girlfriend of seven years in Oregon. After that fiasco, he decided to move out here to So Cal to take care of his folks who were getting really old. He said he was driving by the gallery on the way to their home and decided to stop in. He was genuine nice and it was funny to hear his take on subjects such as why women change their hairstyle when they can’t seem to shake that extra weight, you know, to make up for the unwanted pounds. He hates that.

We spoke for another few minutes and then I realized that I had to leave to make in time for dinner with my beau back in Redondo. I said good-bye and went out to my car. Then I hear, “Amy (not my name), I forgot to ask you one more question ...” No! No! Avoid! I scurry to my car. I said, “What’s that?” while stumbling with the keys. Then he asked me out. That was so not about the artwork either, but part of me is impressed that he has the guts to ask out someone 20 years his junior. I politely decline, thank him, go home and tell my boyfriend that he has some fierce competition in the 45- to 55-year-old demographic.

On the way home, I find myself smiling and realize how much more entertaining it is at times to have a vague conversation with a puzzling drunkard rather than to look at what’s slapped up on those white walls. Don’t get me wrong; I actually came for the art, of all things. But, my encounters with Harold and Elbow Patches, although strange and somewhat unsettling at times, were really far more interesting than the paintings around us. I bet in a year from now, I will still remember them far more accurately than the artists’ work. Well, wait. I don’t know. I mean, puffy paint? That’s pretty much scarred my gray matter for life.

I hope to attend my own one-woman show sometime next year and will understand perfectly if you are more interested in the individuals rather than my artwork. My goal of course in the meantime is to create work than can at least grab your attention for longer periods of time than a crafty holiday sweatshirt.

Will I go to more openings? Of course. Did you read this article? It’s totally free entertainment. Let’s just saaaaayy, I’ll bring my boyfriend.

Aimée ("Amay)" Rolin Hoover is a fine artist and web/graphic designer in Redondo Beach. This is her first article since she graduated college in 1992. She hopes she gets an A.