Hilary Moon Murphy

The Young and Disgustingly Talented

December 15, 2000

I went to two art events this week. One was a reading by a rather young Minnesota SF writer, S.N.Arly, and the other was a real gallery show for a friend of mine who is so young that she has not left high school yet. Before going to the gallery showing, I had great plans for this journal entry.

I was going to make snide comments about people under thirty who make old farts like me look bad. Hey, I was even going to name names: prolific young writers like Tim Pratt, Dave Kirtley and Tobias Buckell. Editors like Raechel Henderson Moon and Jon Hodges. And I was going to whine about how they each accomplish more in a week then I can manage in a year. It would have been a great entry.

Unfortunately, that’s not what I’m going to talk about.

There was a palpable difference in atmosphere between S.N. Arly’s reading and the gallery showing for my young friend. The first took place in a chilly room in the back of Dream Haven bookstore. The décor featured folding chairs, icky carpeting and an inadequate space heater. S.N.Arly was surrounded by friends, family and curious bystanders like myself. The roads had been so slick and icy that everyone came late. Yet they all came. We shivered through the reading still wearing our coats, gloves and winter hats. Afterwards, everybody applauded and half the group joined S.N.Arly for drinks at a local pub.

Back to the gallery showing. My young friend (let’s call her Y.F. for short) had a film screening and an exhibit of her photography at a big name gallery in Minneapolis. It was well-lit, warm and had all the trappings of classy art show: tasteful refreshments, sophisticated onlookers dressed primarily in black, and of course a plethora of well-known local artists. When I showed up, Y.F. ran up to me and said, “You came!”

And then I realized what was missing. I didn’t see any of Y.F.’s family there. No teachers. No adults that she knew who were not attached to the gallery itself. Where were they?

Y.F. had sent out postcards and made phone calls. She had been so excited to have her stuff selected by a real gallery, in a show where her stuff would be exhibited alongside established adult artists. Why had no one showed?

Y.F. made excuses for them, saying that they were probably all busy. I am chagrined to say that I almost did not make it either. Andy and I were trying to finish some last minute Christmas wrapping, and I almost skipped the gallery show to get it done. And if I had, I would have joined all the other well-meaning adults who let Y.F. down that night.

I’m not proud of this.

Art does not occur in a vacuum. Without the encouragement of friends and family, I would have never continued writing as long as I have. I think that S.N. Arly’s friends and family realized this when they showed up in droves on a cold and icy night. I wish that I could say the same thing of the friends and family of Y.F.

Y.F. is tough and determined. I’ve never met anyone else who was so focused so young. But no matter how tough or talented she is, she is still a child. A child who should have had her whole family there to celebrate a major achievement. Why they were not I cannot guess. Maybe Y.F. was right and they were all busy doing important adult things. But they missed a damn fine show.

In other news, my word count was dismal, barely 200 words. And judging from the number of responses to things that I have posted here, this journal has a grand readership of two people other than myself. I can’t let all this attention go to my head, now can I?

Hmm