The Fort Worth book show is over. Thank god. We did fairly well, but sold hardly any books. I guess book-buying isn’t in the forefront of everyone’s mind in this economic and political climate.
Since my brother was with me today I had the chance to go wander around the show for a while. As I was browsing, I was informed by another dealer that the freaky guy from yesterday was back. I rushed over to catch sight of yesterday’s bizarre, taloned gothic pirate. But as any forward-thinking poet worth his salt knows, fashion is ever-evolving. Today he was the gay gaucho, all in black, with a bolero jacket, a leather hat and “look-at-me-dammit” shades shaped like little pink triangles. There was more make-up on him than there was on Mary Kay Ash’s cadaver. Today he brought a doll with him. The doll looked like … him. He played with it as he was sitting at the “author’s” table not signing any books. He was seated next to a woman who was also an “author” (and who was also not signing any books). They shared the same last name. He looked to be 40, she looked to be 60. My guess is that they are mother and son. But who knows? Afterall, they are Poets (italicized and with a capital “P”).
Today John Graves was the only “real” author there signing books. To have John Graves on the same panel as these other people seemed so obnoxious. It was like having Toni Morrison sign books while Gallagher attacked a watermelon with a sledgehammer. I just kept hoping that clear-thinking would prevail and that Mr. Graves (a gracious man in his 70s and an icon of Texas letters) would not be forced to sit next to Gaucho Boy touching up his make-up and playing with his doll. Thankfully that didn’t happen. A crisis (…entertaining though it might have been…) was averted, and everything went smoothly.
That was about IT on the excitement front. I decided to walk across the Will Rogers plaza to the brand new National Cowgirl Museum and Hall of Fame.
Fort Worth seems as good a choice as any to be the site of a museum honoring cowgirls (although Montana seems to win the title of Cowgirl Central if the sheer volume of Montana-related pictures is any indication). It was actually quite entertaining. I’m a sucker for cowboy boots and cowboy outfits and cowboy music and cowboy kitsch. And it was all there. There were lots of interactive exhibits (including a very clever one which requires volunteers to get up on a motorized bucking bronc and “ride” it while a camera tapes them and then plays it back thirty seconds later, editing the “ride” into an old scratchy black and white rodeo film — sounds corny, but the two fourteen-year old girls and the two grandmothers I watched do this had a great time). Lots of movie and music and rodeo memorabilia. Belt buckles, spurs, side saddles (how do you have any balance at ALL on those things?), pistols and holsters. Short documentaries on the lives of very tanned women who work on ranches in the present day. Just lots of museum stuff. It’s a little heavy on the “cowgirl spirit” (strong, spiritual, noble, etc.), but, as hackneyed as I knew it was, I was also moved by these women who have a certain strength of character and confidence that I lack. And it was a strange experience to be in a (very large) museum where the women visitors out-numbered the men about ten to one. Guys don’t know what they’re missing.
Actually, my favorite things in the museum were the little decorative flourishes: the front door knobs were silver horse heads, light sconces were made of a delicate gauzy film with coils of rope stretched across them; the stairway was lined with delicate flowers that were made from hammered tin; iron benches had cut-outs of cowgirls on rearing horses; the little auditorium was filled with seats covered in tooled saddle leather. Every little thing was designed perfectly. I also enjoyed an interesting exhibit of photographs by a British woman named Evelyn Cameron who somehow ended up on the vast Western frontier, chronicling ranch life at the turn of the century.
Eventually it was time to head back to the book show. No books had sold, so I decided to drive the mile or so over to the fiberglass steer with Van Cliburn’s great big red-pompadoured head painted on it that I’d seen the day before. I was a little disappointed to discover that this was one of those irritating projects like the one in Chicago where cows were plopped down throughout the city, painted by various artists, done to raise funds for charitable organizations and to promote the city. Some of those cows were amusing, but other cities have tried to copy Chicago’s success and have met with only so-so results. Dallas tried it — with Pegasus statues (Pegasus is the symbol of Dallas because a big neon Flying Red Horse — the symbol of Mobil Oil — was set atop what was once the tallest building in the city and was the thing that people first saw upon driving into town). The Pegasus project was a huge failure. Oh my god. They were hideous. A flying horse is WAY too close to a unicorn, and these cutesy fantasy horses all looked like they had been painted by ten-year old girls with a fondness for pastel colors and lots of glitter. They were dreadful. Nobody liked them. But the Fort Worth project is using longhorn cattle. A longhorn with Van Cliburn’s profile on it is MUCH more agreeable than a pastel-colored rainbow ick-fest painted all over a winged horse. Van sure looked like Conan O’Brien on the side of that longhorn. The sculpture is titled “Van Cli-bull,” by the way. Yes. I certainly hope Mr. Cliburn (a Fort Worth resident) appreciates the homage.
Above, you see the head of Van Cliburn, the piano man. On the side of a longhorn. You don’t see that everyday. It’s hard to make out, but there’s a nice “VC” brand on the back and a tail and horns that sport piano keys. On the other side you can just make out disembodied hands that reach up from underneath to play yet MORE piano keys. Van Cliburn is sort of the Liberace of Fort Worth — except not as interesting. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.) I’m sure he must have given his okay for this. You’d think that an important local cultural icon would have had his homage placed in a more ritzy locale. This has been shunted off onto some non-descript Fort Worth side street, in front of a tacky run-down strip mall that houses a liquor store and … an art gallery. Classy!
After communing with Art, I headed back to the book show. Time to pack up! We sold SEVEN books all weekend. Hooray! Luckily there were some expensive books in there, but it was the slowest, dullest, most sparsely attended book show I’ve ever been to. Thank GOD for the gothic pirate gaucho poet dude and his little pal, the lookalike doll — they gave us something to talk about.
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