A Summer Group Show In Heaven

I went back to visit the group show some time after the opening. I took away one of the foam kickboards, which now seemed extraneous. The little constructions on the long plastic folding table had more room. Some olive oil from the little circle on the table had, over the intervening days, dripped and pooled neatly onto the polished concrete floor. Would it stain? It still looked right. While installing, I’d had the idea—unheard of—to pour this olive oil, almost hi-viz green, onto one of the little things. Was I ruining it? But it did look fantastic. And Marian was nothing but supportive. When I walked into the next gallery, edited kickboard in hand, she was there, smiling, standing next to another table of small assemblages, but not mine. I don’t think I’ve ever had a dream so specific, or of such a situation. Writing it down now, it feels like I can recognize a bunch of the elements, though I also worry that I’m replacing things I can’t recall with references, like how memories are…