A Maritime Adventure

"I owe you an apology," she said. "I thought the reason you were having trouble reviewing my promotional letters was self-sabotage."

"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 a business deal before. I once left a hunting party in South Texas because my client sat with a tub of popcorn between his legs and, when not feeding his face, pointed and laughed at the members of the hunting party every time they missed a shot. But that's another story. Did they have everything I asked for?"

If the above spot of dialogue seems confusing, you can imagine how my brain was performing Olympic gymnastics trying to follow along. I felt certain the otherwise brilliant woman had forgotten several pages of script somewhere between her thoughts and her mouth. Then suddenly, in that strange way it sometimes happens, I remembered something that allowed me to catch up with her runaway train of thought.

The previous day, Ms. Wonder 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. The letters are part of a plan to introduce her work to a larger audience.

"They had everything," I told her, "but what I'd like to know is what I'm supposed to do with this junk."

"First," she said with the confidence of someone explaining how to breathe, "you write the proposal letter for my new photography exhibit on a puzzle, break it up, and stuff the pieces into an envelope. When museum curators open them, they wonder if they've gotten a message from a psycho, but when they see my name and credentials on the envelope, they put the puzzle together, realize the proposal is coming 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. "Oh, I thought of another good 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 with nothing but my standard postcard on them in matte finish. 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 weren't planning it, but I also know that you'll do it for your Poopsie Wonder, won't you, sweetie?" She gave my hand a pat before continuing. "Your prospective museum curator will say, 'But your contact information isn't on here.' Then you write my number and website address on the card. That lets her know you don't do business with just anyone. Only certain people meet your standards, and she's one of them."

"A lot of people prefer to tweet," I said, desperately seeking solid ground in this quicksand of marketing concepts.

"Too chatty," she said, "Stay low-tech and it will set you apart."

"Ecaterina," I said, resorting to the formal address that means I'm about to put my foot down. "No offense, but I don't know where you're coming from with this. I can't picture someone from Houston, Texas handing out understated business cards."

"You're right about that," she said. "Most people in Houston introduce themselves by honking the horns of their pickup trucks. But I've spent a lot of time in Charleston, South Carolina, and let me tell you they have some slick..."

I can't repeat the rest of her statement, but it left me strangely intrigued. I began to wonder if I'd slipped into an alternate dimension where her marketing strategies made sense.

"So what am I supposed to do with this Magic 8-Ball?" I asked, pointing to the plastic orb she'd placed on my desk alongside the puzzle pieces and postcards.

"I haven't figured that out yet," she said, "I just thought we should probably 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 promotions project."

"Yes, but it's not a project. It's simply a few letters."

"She thought we might sell the rights to dramatize the promotional effort to a theatrical consortium in New York."

"She thinks we should turn the letters into a play?" she said, eyebrows reaching for the ceiling. "It doesn't seem to be the kind of material that becomes a play. '

"That's what I told her, but she insisted that we change the tone of the letters 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 house cats is responsible for half of 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 the lower lip. Finally, she spoke.

"I recently received a comment from a patron who suggested my photography should have a recognizable theme," she said, making it clear she was entertaining some doubt. "Without one, he said, it feels like 'a random collection of images about nothing in particular.'"

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.

"Yes, Poopsie," I said, "the Cape Fear River photography collection may be about nothing in particular, but it is to abstract marine art what Tiger Woods was to golf, and what Taylor Swift is to pop music, and what your favorite sandals are to a day at Holden Beach looking for sea biscuits: unnecessary, but absolutely essential."

She beamed at me with unexpected approval. Perhaps I was finally getting the hang of being her promotional partner.

Clearly, wooing maritime museum curators will be more complicated than I'd imagined. Obviously, I would need to learn to use a Magic 8-Ball to say, "Please display my partner's art photos of ocean-going freighters in your museum," all the while avoiding a Broadway adaptation of "Cape Fear River Vessels: The Musical."