From where I’m sitting I see three stuffed toys covered in fake blood and leaking entrails of polyester resin. Above them are colorful stickers announcing the
“Dead-ies” toy line. At the same time, there are squeeky and arhythmic sounds issuing from a computer monitor. It has been on endless loop since 4pm yesterday. It sounds like I’m trapped in hell, and at times it seems even worse. I’m at the Supermarket Art Fair in Stockholm’s Kulturhuset.
Our booth is looking good—red and light turquoise with posters announcing tomorrow’s Meatball Wrestling competition, some light box x-rays that I made, and fake travel posters featuring some selected Istanbul hospitals. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but it looks good anyway. These art fairs are really ridiculous—especially since one doesn’t sell anything. Last year we came because we were asked and neither of us had been to Sweden before. This year we came because we are stupid. But also because Arni lives here and we wanted to do something together.
It was during this week at the Art Fair that I realized my tolerance for having the same conversation over and over has dropped to the lowest level ever. I blame it on age. I feel like I’ve spent so much of my younger days flapping my fucking gums all over the place to anyone who will listen, that now I need to conserve my energy for conversations with people who I care about or with whom i feel I COULD care about.
Another gift that comes with age is the ability to judge things like that immediately upon meeting someone.