Wonder's Art Caper

Just when I thought I'd seen the full spectrum of Ms. Wonder's theatrical approach to art promotion—from puzzle-piece proposals to Magic 8-Ball mysteries—she's outdone herself again. And this time, she's recruited me as her undercover operative.

The news arrived with her characteristic dramatic flair: Ms. Wonder has been selected for a one-person photography exhibit at the Maritime College of the State University of New York. This is genuinely thrilling news—a prestigious venue for her "Ships of the Cape Fear" series, those mesmerizing images where she transforms massive cargo vessels into floating geometric poetry. 

I should be simply celebrating this achievement, but instead, I can’t help but wonder what elaborate scheme she’s planning to accompany it.

The Maritime Big-Wigs Conspiracy

"The marine big-wigs always support each other," she explained over her morning espresso, gliding to our table near the window with an effortless grace that I suspect is encoded in her DNA, "because most of the public just aren't interested in the shipping industry."

This revelation came with that familiar spark of visionary momentum I've learned to both love and fear. When Ms. Wonder starts talking about industry conspiracies and mutual support networks, it usually means I'm about to become an unwitting participant in some elaborate performance art piece disguised as marketing.

"The curators from the other maritime museums will attend the opening," she continued, and I detected a subtle shift in her tone, a shift that always signals the arrival of The Plan. "This could be the perfect opportunity to expand my reach."

I should have seen it coming. This is the same woman who once sent press releases printed on jigsaw puzzles to magazine editors. She reasoned that at first, they’d think they’d received a message from a psycho, but when they saw her name on the envelope, they’d realize she was actually very creative. Clearly, she had no intention of approaching this networking opportunity conventionally.

Enter the Contact Card Caper

"I want to have special postcards printed," she announced, "featuring my photography, of course, but missing my contact information."

I didn't ask because I suspected I was about to learn I'd been cast in whatever production was taking shape in her mind.

"When curators admire the cards," she said with the satisfied smile of someone who'd just solved world hunger through creative graphic design, "they will mention the missing details. That's when you'll handwrite my email, phone number, and website on the back. It makes them feel special—not just another bloke getting a mass-produced business card."

And there it was. I was no longer simply Ms. Wonder's devoted partner; I had been promoted to covert contact-information operative, equipped with a pen and a mission to make maritime museum curators feel uniquely valued through the strategic withholding and subsequent personal inscription of basic business details.

"Let me see if I understand this correctly," I said, employing the tone I reserve for moments when reality seems to be operating under different rules than I remember. "You want me to circulate among distinguished museum professionals at your opening, carrying postcards that appear to be defective, waiting for them to point out the obvious omission so I can dramatically produce a pen and transform their disappointment into gratitude?"

"Exactly!" she said, clearly delighted that I'd grasped the full theatrical scope of her vision.

The Undercover Assignment

And so, here I am, preparing for my debut as an art world operative. My mission—should I choose to accept it (and we all know I will)—is to spot curators in the crowd, engage them in conversations about Ms. Wonder’s work, present them with postcards, and finally perform the subtle magic of making them feel chosen, all through the simple act of handwriting digits and web addresses.

I’ve been rehearsing my “Oh, how silly of me, let me just write that in for you” routine, trying to strike the perfect balance between casual oversight and intentional exclusivity. It’s surprisingly difficult to make a calculated omission appear both accidental and meaningful.

Ms. Wonder, meanwhile, is preparing for her presentation with the confidence of someone whose Rube Goldberg approach to life has once again produced unexpected results. From those early days of mailing puzzle pieces to editors across the southeast to landing a solo show at one of the most prestigious maritime institutions in the country, her audacity masquerading as a business plan has actually worked.

The Bigger Picture

What strikes me most about this whole elaborate scheme is how perfectly it captures Ms. Wonder's approach to her art and her life. She sees poetry in industrial cargo ships, transforms massive steel vessels into abstract compositions, and now she's turning basic networking into performance art.

 There's something beautifully consistent about a photographer who finds profound beauty in the functional design of shipping containers, and also finds creative opportunity in the deliberate omission of contact information.

And if I'm being honest, there's something rather touching about being recruited as her accomplice. After all these years of watching her transform the ordinary into the extraordinary—whether it's finding the soul of ocean-going freighters or turning a routine gallery opening into an elaborate theatrical production—I've learned that being part of Ms. Wonder's schemes is never boring.

So this spring, when you hear about a photography exhibit at the Maritime College of the State University of New York featuring stunning abstract images of cargo vessels, know that somewhere in the crowd there's a slightly bewildered partner wielding a pen, ready to make maritime museum curators feel special through the ancient art of handwritten contact information.

It's not exactly how I imagined I'd be supporting the arts, but then again, nothing about life with Ms. Wonder has ever been exactly as I imagined it would be. And that, I've discovered, is what gives life its sparkle.

Operation Contact Card is scheduled for deployment this spring. Wish us luck—we're going to need it