"What do you mean, self-sabotage?" I said with a good bit of theatrical indignation.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I’ve walked away from business deals before. I once left a hunting trip in South Texas because my client sat there with a tub of popcorn, and when he wasn’t stuffing his face, he pointed and laughed at the other hunters. But that’s another story. Did they have everything I asked for?”
If that dialogue seems confusing, imagine how my brain did Olympic gymnastics trying to keep up. I was sure this otherwise brilliant woman had lost a few pages of script between her thoughts and her mouth. Then, in that peculiar way it happens, a memory surfaced and let me catch up with her runaway train of thought.
The previous day, Ms. Wonder had asked me to review letters she’d written to six different maritime museums. The letters proposed an exhibit of her abstract photography—mesmerizing images that transform marine cargo vessels into floating geometric poetry. They were part of her plan to introduce her work to a larger audience.
"Oh, I found everything," I told her, "but what I'd like to know is what I'm supposed to do with all this junk?"
“First,” she said, as confidently as if she were explaining how to breathe, “you write the proposal letter for my new exhibit on a puzzle, break it up, and mail the pieces. When the curators open it, they may think it’s from a psycho—until they see my name and credentials, put the puzzle together, and realize the proposal is from an unusually creative artist.”
"I don't know, Poopsie, it all sounds very high school to me."
"That's why it works. It makes them feel they're back in high school, receiving a Valentine from a secret admirer. Of course, you probably never got valentines from secret admirers, so you can't appreciate what I'm saying."
"Hey!"
"Just kidding," she said with a smile that suggested she wasn't entirely kidding. "And I have another idea."
"I can't wait," I said, managing to contain my enthusiasm to homeopathic levels.
"You'll love this one. Remember that online service that does business cards?"
"I don't use business cards," I said.
"You'll use these business cards. Order a box of cards with nothing on them but my photograph of the S.S. United States on them. Then when you hand out the cards..."
"Me! Why me? I'm not planning on running around the East Coast handing out business cards. I have a full-time job, disappointing you right here in Carolina."
“I know you didn’t plan on it, but you’ll do it for your Poopsie Wonder, won’t you, sweetie?” She patted my hand. “The museum curator will say, ‘But your contact information isn’t on here.’ Then you add my number and website to the card. That shows her we don’t work with just anyone—only people who meet our standards. And she’s one of them.”
"A lot of people prefer to I-gram," I said, desperately seeking solid ground in this quicksand of marketing concepts.
"Too chatty," she said, "Besides, staying low-tech will set me apart."
"Ecaterina," I said, resorting to the formal address that means I'm about to put my foot down. "No offense, but just what am I supposed to do with this Magic 8-Ball?"
"I haven't figured that out yet," she said, "I just thought it couldn't hurt to have one."
The next few moments were filled with silence. Finally, I said, "Oh, I almost forgot. Your agent phoned a moment ago."
"Oh, what did she want?"
"She asked about our progress on the New York project."
"But it's only in the planning stages; it isn't really a project."
"She suggested we sell the rights to dramatize the exhibit to a theatrical consortium."
"She thinks we should turn the photography exhibit into a musical?" she said, eyebrows reaching for the ceiling. "It doesn't seem to be the kind of thing that lends itself to becoming a play. '
"That's what I told her, but she insisted that we change the tone of our promitions to make them sound more like musical theater..."
"Despite my better judgment, I've got to hear more of this hairbrained scheme."
"Her suggestion was that we write something to catch the curator's attention, like, "Dear Maritime Museum," and I imagined it would use a bold font, "PREPARE TO BE BOARDED! By abstract art, that is!"
"Oh, yes?" said the Wonder, but not with any real zip.
"Yeah, and she thought the heading could be followed by a promotional ad that could be sung to the tune of a popular show tune."
"Can you imagine a musical comedy about abstract marine photography making the rounds off-Broadway?" Wonder asked?
"Not really," I said.
"Neither can I, though, in fairness, the subject of domestic cats is responsible for half of all internet traffic, and I suspect the other half is devoted to people trying to figure out what the government will do next. So who knows?"
We were quiet for the next few moments. I was unsure of what I should say, and she seemed deep in contemplation, forehead wrinkled and chewing her lower lip.
I don't know how I did it with so little notice, but I had one of those surprising ideas that make the Genomes the kind of men we are.
“Poopsie,” I said, “the Cape Fear River photography collection might not be the stuff of theater legend, but in abstract art it’s what Tiger Woods is to golf, and Taylor Swift is to pop music: not strictly necessary, but absolutely essential.”
She beamed at me with unexpected approval. Perhaps I was finally getting the hang of being her promotional partner.
“Here’s my suggestion—brace yourself, this idea may cause swooning. You have an exhibit scheduled for June in the Arts District. We can make it the premiere of your off-Broadway, Maritime Musical, so to speak. It happens all the time; just yesterday I heard that the John Cougar Mellencamp musical will debut in Whatsapocket, Maine.”
She looked at me in silence, and I took it as proof that my suggestion had left her speechless. Clearly, I thought, wooing maritime museum curators would be easier than I’d imagined, and I’d done it without even consulting the Magic 8-Ball.
Continue following The Circular Journey for updates on the premiere of Hidden Canvases: The Musical, coming soon to a thespian hall near you.
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