![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Life and Death
Jan. 12th, 2004 07:05 amAnother one down: the Ansel Adams Gallery. Where once stood 5000 square feet of upscale wall coverings, postcards and tasteful glass objets now gapes a sign in an empty storefront: Thank You For Your Continued Patronage. Visit Us Online!
The grammarian in me winces at that “Continued.”
Plus there’s the suspense. Will the Thomas Kinkade Gallery next door (not to be confused with the Thomas Kinkade Archives farther up the street or the Thomas Kinkade Museum in the old part of town) expand into that space? And what happens if they don’t?
(I once infiltrated a Thomas Kinkade franchise convention. Made up a gallery in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, forged credentials so I could wander from table to table, peering at the merchandise. The Sea of Tranquility Lighthouse figurines, the Let Your Light Shine Before All Lighthouse candle holder, the lighthouse salt and pepper shakers. Kinkade runs a subscription service for Christmas ornaments. He also writes marriage manuals. And of course, he paints. Then other people highlight prints made from his paintings, and Thomas Kinkade signs those prints in ink that’s been specially infused with his blood. Thus Kinkade’s own DNA becomes a price point for the merchandise. If only Van Gogh had signed his paintings in blood, many famous art forgers would be out of a job.)
Well, things die so that other things may be born. In the commercial space just over my head, worker elves are busily transforming the restaurant formerly known as Crawdaddy’s, into a Cosa Nostra bistro. The Glengarry Glen Ross guy who wandered into my store back in September did, in fact, take over the lease and I see him now in the misty, empty mornings walking various prospective business development partners around the plaza, chuckling and patting backs. He has very thin lips. An interesting thing – he turns out to be the son of Art Hoppe, a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle many years ago. Art Hoppe was a notorious drunk and his columns were a kind of ongoing homage to that bitter, alcohol-infused nostalgia for golden moments that never really happened. It is very odd to think that Art Hoppe’s DNA could go on to make a fortune in the low-end souvenir racket with stores like After the Quake. But then, nostalgia is nostalgia.
And everything goes away eventually.
The grammarian in me winces at that “Continued.”
Plus there’s the suspense. Will the Thomas Kinkade Gallery next door (not to be confused with the Thomas Kinkade Archives farther up the street or the Thomas Kinkade Museum in the old part of town) expand into that space? And what happens if they don’t?
(I once infiltrated a Thomas Kinkade franchise convention. Made up a gallery in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, forged credentials so I could wander from table to table, peering at the merchandise. The Sea of Tranquility Lighthouse figurines, the Let Your Light Shine Before All Lighthouse candle holder, the lighthouse salt and pepper shakers. Kinkade runs a subscription service for Christmas ornaments. He also writes marriage manuals. And of course, he paints. Then other people highlight prints made from his paintings, and Thomas Kinkade signs those prints in ink that’s been specially infused with his blood. Thus Kinkade’s own DNA becomes a price point for the merchandise. If only Van Gogh had signed his paintings in blood, many famous art forgers would be out of a job.)
Well, things die so that other things may be born. In the commercial space just over my head, worker elves are busily transforming the restaurant formerly known as Crawdaddy’s, into a Cosa Nostra bistro. The Glengarry Glen Ross guy who wandered into my store back in September did, in fact, take over the lease and I see him now in the misty, empty mornings walking various prospective business development partners around the plaza, chuckling and patting backs. He has very thin lips. An interesting thing – he turns out to be the son of Art Hoppe, a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle many years ago. Art Hoppe was a notorious drunk and his columns were a kind of ongoing homage to that bitter, alcohol-infused nostalgia for golden moments that never really happened. It is very odd to think that Art Hoppe’s DNA could go on to make a fortune in the low-end souvenir racket with stores like After the Quake. But then, nostalgia is nostalgia.
And everything goes away eventually.
