I haven’t been to a lot of art openings, but when my friend, Melissa, told me about the Mr. Winkle show over at Icon Gallery, I knew I had to go. If you don’t know who Mr. Winkle is, go over to his site right now! I mean it. His site isn’t the best, but that’s ok. Mr. Winkle is still special.
I first found out about Mr. Winkle in a 2003 newspaper article, and for some strange reason, I still have the clipping. Per the L.A. Times, Mr. Winkle is…
“A 5-pound dog about the size of a large squirrel, with fluffy apricot-colored hair, bright-as-glass button eyes, a koala bear's ears and a perfectly rounded little cherry-red tongue that peeks from one side of his mouth as if it had been sewn in place for optimum adorable effect.”
I will admit that I own one of his books and keep it at work for days where I need a little pick me up.
So, of course, I went to his show. Sadly, Melissa couldn’t make it, so I had to convince my boyfriend that this was really important. Really important. Like, important enough to sludge our way into Hollywood and ruin an otherwise lovely Saturday afternoon.
We make our way to a trendy loft building in the middle of a bunch of warehouses, and discover that we have to call upstairs to be buzzed in. An authoritative sounding woman answers. I am frozen. I didn’t expect this to be quite so hard. I collapse into silent giggles as my boyfriend says “yes, we’re here to see the Mr. Winkle.” He, of course, had intended to say "yes, we're here to see the Mr. Winkle show," but the lady cuts him off before he gets to that part.
We laugh hysterically (but quietly) as we ride the elevator. We try to stop laughing as we wander the hall looking for suite #312. In a small studio, the woman who buzzed us in sits at a round table surfing the internet. She nods at us. The room is tiny. We are the only ones there except for this silent woman. 20 or so framed photos of Mr. Winkle are hung on the walls. The concrete floor is decorated with a lone flokati rug and couch. There is a lawn chair on the balcony. I feel as if what I’m seeing makes no sense at all.
We tiptoe around the room taking in the photos of Mr. Winkle – which were great, by the way. There was one photo of him curled up in a little bowl on a nightstand with his furry little head propped up on a plastic cup. This one alone was worth the trip. But Mr. Winkle makes you want to laugh and gasp and scream “oh, he’s SO cute!” And yet, standing in this awkwardly silent room, I feel like I’m supposed to be dignified, mature… I feel rebellious letting out a serious-sounding, hushed whisper “Oh, yes, that pose is lovely. I agree.”
I’m not sure I’m cracked up for the LA art scene.
