Join us for a new exhibit: RL Watson’s “Blakonography” and “Invisible Woman.”

The opening reception is July 14th at 6pm. There will be an artist talk and other performances. Free Admission. One drink/ food item minimum from the cafe.

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Prelude to the Exhibit– Invisible Woman:
” I am the invisible woman. Or, as I like to spice it up: I am the Invisible Whoa, man.
I am the passion
of blood and entrails beneath
the bodies, shoes, and sweat of the Battle Royale.

“And there I remain, forgotten,
left to dry and harden
on the portable roll-out ring,
that afterthought of so much stretched mat,
its white elastic-y canvas
glistening with

black guts,
black fear,
black fight,
black bitterness;

left to dry and harden
on the portable roll-out ring,
that afterthought of so much stretched mat,
its white elastic-y canvas
glistening with

black guts,
black fear,
black fight,
black bitterness;
rolled away to make room for the money trick,
set in the big back room where such equipment is kept.
I wonder when the faithful, invisible cleaning crew will come to hose it down; to sweep me away in a wash of un-potable hose water onto the cracked concrete floor of this back storage room, which I imagine is supplied with a nice, big drain for just such a purpose. I can see them now, women who once looked like me, their heads tied, their backs bent, weaving a safety net of quiet gossip as they kneel to scrub away the more stubborn stains, shaking their heads inwardly as they ask, “How long, O Lord? How long?” in the silence of the unsound sanctum of their hearts.
Bless them.
Silence.
Bless them.
Have they come already, or have I missed the advent? Lord knows, I’m always behind the times. No, wait, here he is, come to inspect their progress . . . or perhaps he’s only a minion lost on his way to the restroom? No, no, it is he: entity eviler than the Evil One Himself. “No, sir,” they answer his authoritative and unintelligible murmur, their grin the grin of his proleptic torture and death, “We sure will move on to the carpet. It needs vacuuming, f’sure.” A curt, satisfied nod and he slinks from the room, the stench of unavowed iniquity flowing nauseatingly from his fresh-pressed coattails. And, woe betide, my would-be delivers, my beloved Charons, hurrying to carry out his command, take up their buckets and their brushes, roll up the hoses, and drag the elephantine vacuum from a dark corner toward the door. They are leaving me. He is making them leave me.
Wait!
Can viscera scream?
Don’t go!
Do entrails make a sound
if no one is there to hear them?

Don’t go! You’ve missed a spot! I’m still on the mat!
In God’s name, check the bloody mat!

The shuffling, silent answer is “No.” They cannot hear me. The heavy hand of metaphysics is against it. There is a brutal sound, the thundering pop of industrial lights going out, their retreating footsteps, the squeak, squeak of the vacuum’s rusty wheels, and darkness; only darkness. No electric bulbs for me, no purloined walls of man-made light. And now, stiff from the air’s dry tyranny over viscous matter, I find I cannot move. Time and future bloodlettings, I know, will fade me into obscurity. I, the undead agent of the mat’s deterioration, but not its destruction.”

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Tags: Blakonography and Invisible Woman, Chicago, Logan Square, RL Watson, The Beans Gallery