I’m doing this. The next order on the books. Two days ago I decided to take it to @phillybikeexpo. As is. No matter what state it’s in by Wednesday. This, in addition to all the other tasks needed before we’re in the rental van. A naked frame. To display what few see but assume is there. This used to be a routine gig when I was more show pro-active. That ship sailed. Now it’s PBE and any engagement I can snag at MOMA or, if I’m downtown, Minetta Tavern.
We live in a world when so much is manufactured and so little is made. That would be made by hand for those in the cheap seats. But after so many turns at getting to the booth and letting folks see the wet paint, hopefully dry by then, I thought why not. I won’t spend extra time. It may not even be finished. But if you look closely, it’s what I do for a paycheck. Will it be perfect, and make others wet and sticky? It’s made by hand. Mine. And it will be perfect enough.
I came up in an era when making bicycles was a job of work. Labor. Not a creative process. Nor one of the decorative arts. No one (I knew) sighted down an outstretched arm and lined his thumb up with the metal to see if it passed some predetermined smell test. And we didn’t stop to admire the work upon completion. Because the next order was there, and begging to get started. And with every commission, you moved the line a small amount ahead of where it once was.
All This By Hand