The Most Expensive Gas in America

Posted on by Thor

I was running late getting to Brian Feldman’s “The Most Expensive Gas in America.” When I piled my art supplies into my truck I realized I was low on gas. Driving out of my subdivision, my bright yellow gas light flickered on. It is shaped like a gas pump to further remind me that I needed to fill the tank. To save time I pulled into a 7-Eleven where the gas was a bit more expensive than my usual gas station. The regular gas cost me $3.39/gal. The $50 plus price tag hurts each week, but I need to get places to sketch them.

Sun Gas, located just north of Orlando International Airport (5600 Butler National Dr., off of S. Semoran Blvd.) charges unsuspecting tourists up to $5.99 a gallon for gas. The gas station is now being fined $250 a day by the City of Orlando for not posting their prices. The gas station has a huge sign that announces airport valet parking, an Arby’s and 24 hour convenience store. There is plenty of room on the huge two story high sign to list the gas prices. A sign was placed in the parking lot behind the store (where no one will see it) but again no prices were listed. On the day of Brian’s performance, Sun Gas was in court challenging the city ordinance to display their prices.

Brian Feldman decided to take the issue to the streets by standing at the intersection and announcing the prices to passing motorists.

Current prices (as of June 30th 2011)
Regular (87) $5.799/gal.
Plus (89) $5.899/gal.
Super Premium (93) $5.999/gal.

Brian arrived a bit late saying, “I had to go and get more nines for the sign.” He had his portable theater marquee around his neck. That thing is made of metal and it is heavy. His sign had all three prices listed and he waved to passing cars. I was shocked when cars pulled into the station. Brian’s small sign probably isn’t easy to read from a passing car. A news photographer arrived and started shooting photos of Brian. The photographer spoke to me briefly stating, “You picked a strange day to be sketching. Look behind you. Those steel blue clouds will be here in 20 minutes.” I started to sketch faster. Shortly thereafter, a car pulled up to the corner and the driver started screaming at the photographer. “Are you reporting the news or creating the news!?” He was livid, thinking the photographer was staging the public service of showing consumers the gas prices. The photographer tried to explain that it was a conceptual art performance but that made the man’s face get redder. His wheels screeched as he sped off onto Semoran when the light changed.

Later, a leggy blond woman approached Brian from the gas station. After she left he shouted out to me, “Incident!” My drawing was just about done so I walked over to see what was up. She had made indications to Brian that she knew where he was parked. The implication being that she would arrange to tow his car. Brian handed me his car keys and asked me to move his father’s Ford Focus to the restaurant across the street where I had parked. I half expected to find his car gone, but I found it and drove over to my truck. I then drove over to where Brian stood and returned his keys. He had many hours to go, as he planned to announce the prices for 5.999 hours which is an hour for each dollar charged for the gas. As I drove north the rain pounded my truck. Is price gouging the American way?

24 Hour Embrace (after Young Sun Han)

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On Father’s Day, conceptual artist Brian Feldman vowed that he would hug his father for 24 hours straight. “24 Hour Embrace” was first performed by artist Young Sun Han at Swimming Pool Project Space in Chicago, Illinois on December 31, 2008. “24 Hour Embrace (after Young Sun Han)” marked the first time that Young Sun Han had granted permission to re-perform this piece, as well as the first time that Brian Feldman had re-performed another artist’s work.
I arrived at Orange Ave Gym (1616 North Orange Avenue) just before midnight on the eve of Father’s Day. Brian was a nervous spinning dervish. He kept knocking over his “Best of Orlando” award plaques as he adjusted them. He coached volunteers David Mooney and Christin Carlow on admission prices and the media press comp list. I was thankful that I was on that list. Admission was $10 for an all day wristband. Christin slipped the wristband snugly around my wrist. I asked where the boxing ring was and she directed me to a cavernous back room to the left. When I entered the back gym, Brian’s dad Edward was getting changed by a locker. He asked me to shoot several photos on his iPhone when he and Brian first embraced.

This was going to be one of Brian’s last major projects of 2011. I felt a sense of urgency and wanted to fully document this piece. I considered doing 12 to 24 sketches, staying with Brian and his dad through the whole embrace. After talking to Terry, I altered my plan, deciding to just sketch the beginning and end of the hug. As I was filling my watercolor brushes with water in the bathroom, Brian and his father entered the ring. Edward opened his arms and said, “I love you Brian.” and the hug began.

The event rules stated that I could enter the ring at anytime. I took off my boots and crawled under the ropes. I set up my stool and leaned back in the corner. Brian and his dad shifted their weight leaning back and forth into each other. They twisted and rotated always searching for a new more comfortable angle. David shouted, “Good night!” and soon Al Pergande came in and shot some digital photos. Orlando Live had a video camera set up to record all 24 hours. Two videographers shot cutaway shots constantly during the first hour. Halfway into my first sketch I was alone with father and son. One of the rules was, “No talking inside the ring.” The embrace continued in silence.

I began my second sketch around 8pm on Father’s Day. Brian looked green and exhausted, relying of his father’s blocky solid stance for support. Omar Delarosa and his mom Virginia Brown sat and watched for a while. Then they crawled into the ring and embracedfor perhaps 15 minutes before leaving. In the final hours, a crowd began to gather. A rowdy young man put on some boxing gloves and danced around the ring like a gorilla to his girlfriend’s delight. His antics actually caused Brian to laugh. A freelance photographer shot endlessly. With my second sketch finished, I exited the ring and laced up my boots. I didn’t need to see them exit the ring. The drama was not in the smattering of applause but in the long tedious moments of pain and reflection that happened when there was no audience. I was a proud witness.

Lousy T-shirt

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The theme for an art exhibit at Orlando Museum of Art’s 1st Thursdays event was “Fashionista.” In the beginning of 2010 Brian Feldman had met with 10 Orlando artists to discuss collaborations in his “Swan Boat Talks.” This project with Johannah O’Donnell was the first project to be realized from those talks. Johannah and Brian had created 20 T-Shirts that read, Lousy T-shirt using a simple silk screen press. This was the first time that either of them had done silk screen printing so the printing was a bit spotty in places.

People could get a Lousy T-Shirt if they traded in the shirt they were wearing. I went into the men’s room, changed into one of my paint rag T-shirts and traded that for the fashionable black Lousy T-Shirt. I didn’t step behind gallery wall to do the exchange. As I removed my shirt Brian said, “Hey everybody, this is your opportunity to see Thor half naked!” Once I had on my brand spanking new T-shirt, I found a spot to sit and started sketching. Brian and Johannah were constantly posing for pictures. By the end of the evening, every Lousy T-Shirt had been given away and the rack was full of a wide variety of shirts and tops.

Oral

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I was delighted when Hannah Kugelmann the author of “Oral” contacted me. She first thought of the concept for this play while she was attending UCF. The show was first introduced to Fringe audiences in 2006 where it won “Best Fringe Newbie.” The play began with Lindsay Cohen taking a thick piece of chalk and writing fellatio on the blackboard. Turning toward the audience she described the derivation of the word and then described the process of giving head in delightful detail. She stroked the thick stick of chalk absentmindedly as she spoke. I maneuvered the sketchbook onto my lap. She described a two fisted process of alternating hand movements that I am certain I have never experienced.

Each member of the cast would come out and write their own word of choice on the blackboard to begin their thoughts about oral sex. Though some scenes were a bit clinical, the open dialogue began to unravel the underlying importance of intimacy in relationships. A man came out and began a long argument about how he felt accepted when a woman swallowed. He punctuated his discussion with a sad face spitting and a happy face licking it’s lips for swallowing. The misunderstandings and confusion that men and women have on the subject showed how difficult it can be to satisfy a partner if the subject isn’t discussed. Brian Feldman walked across the stage at an arbitrary moment and several audience members clapped.

In the one scene where oral sex is simulated under the cover of sheets, the woman came up for air when she was done, and became annoyed when her partner praised her for her technique. The argument escalated until the man finally offered some advice. She was suddenly complacent and they cuddled in bed. He then started offering another suggestion, but she stopped him saying, “Don’t push your luck.” Who knew that an hour spent talking about oral sex could be so funny, educational and uncover so much about our underlying emotional needs. This was a delightful production that left me thinking… Why is it I have never … , no I don’t think I’ll go there. But I might have intimacy issues.

The Attendant

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As one of his 11 performances at this year’s Fringe Festival, performance artist Brian Feldman, decided to pose as a bathroom attendant. He set up shop in the Orlando Shakespeare Theater’s men’s and women’s room. When I arrived at the men’s room, Tisse Mallon was acting as an attendant in Brian’s place since he was running late. He ran in with a rental tux slung over his shoulder and went to change in the handicap stall. Tisse helped him with his bow tie and cumber-bun. There was a large tip bowl and plenty of manly items for sale. Some items like Q- tips were complimentary. If you wanted baked beans, a pickle, condom or the latest copy of Jet magazine, there was a price list.

I had only sketched in a public bathroom once before. That time, the bathroom wasn’t in use. This time men came and went frequently. Several men must have eaten something nasty from the vendors outside because there were some wet noisy gastric explosions. I suggested that perhaps there should be a quaint fountain sound track in case anyone was unable to concentrate on the task at hand. Some men turned away thinking there must be a line since some people stood around and gawked. I suppose having an artist sketch you while you pee could be distracting. Mark Baratelli came in and snapped pictures. Then he tried to coach Brian on how an attendant should interact with patrons. His examples were hysterical. When someone reached for soap he would thrust his arm in the way and say, “let me get that for you.”

There were DVD’s for sale as well like Mannequins 2, and films starring Silvester Stallone. I was surprised when one of the five hour energy drinks was sold. I erased it from my sketch. The oddest item was a crusty sea captain sculpture. Ear plugs seemed appropriate should a show be too loud and Advil would help the resulting headache. Tisse offered a tour of the women’s room and I stopped my sketch to follow her. In the women’s room there was a pregnancy test kit, stockings and an even wider assortment of goodies. It was an odd feeling being in there as women squeezed by to get to the stalls. As I was leaving a women was coming in. Her eyes widened when she saw me and she asked, “Am I in the right place.” I said, “Yep, you’re at the Fringe.”

I rushed off to a show I had been invited to attend by the writers. It was pouring outside. Terry entered the lobby drenched. Through a series of volunteer mistakes and blunders, we were then turned away from the theater, our tickets given away to others in a completely sold out house. If anything can go wrong, it will go wrong. Terry was furious at me for spending so much time in the men’s room and not getting into the show I promised her we would see. I think I’m Fringe fried.

0il change?

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As one of the eleven performance pieces Brian Feldman is doing at this year’s Orlando Fringe Festival, he promoted an event where he would change the oil in Beth Marshall’s car. When I arrived Brian’s mom, Marilyn, was there to greet me in front of the Shakespeare Theater. She stood near an old beat up Ford Ranger. Parked in front of the pickup was a sleek new black Mustang. Brian arrived dressed in blue mechanic’s overalls. He announced that the performance was sponsored by Harriet Lake. I sat on top of a retaining wall next to Beth.

Brian had recruited his Uncle, Gary Wattman, to supervise since Brian had never changed a car’s oil in his life. Brian crawled under the truck to find the oil drain plug while his uncle coached him. When the plug was found, Gary handed Brian a wrench to get it off. A small bowl was in place to catch the old oil. Brian groaned and strained in an effort to loosen the plug. He continued to groan for perhaps ten minutes. Beth shouted, “It sounds like you’re giving birth under there!” Gary gave Brian a two foot length of lead pipe to slip over the wrench handle to gain some leverage. He couldn’t get that plug off.

Then someone suggested they drive the front end of the truck up onto the curb to give him more room to work. The front wheels wouldn’t drive over the curb. Fringe patrons continued to walk by. If the truck lunged up someone could get hurt. Beth called off the curb idea. They then considered using a curb closer to the museum. Before they got there Brian called off the oil change, conceding defeat. He decided to park the truck back at the original staging point. Instead of changing the oil he simply topped it off.

Beth was asked why Brian was working on her husband’s pickup rather than her sporty Mustang. “Are you kidding me? This car is new and he has no idea what he is doing. He might break something. We are thinking of getting rid of the pickup soon anyway.” she said.

Brian Feldman Reads the Fringe Program in its Entirety

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Brian Feldman read the Fringe program in its entirety. A small makeshift stage was set up outside the Shakespeare Theater and his signature marquee sign sat at the foot of the stage. Two LED theatrical spot lights were on the ground but their purple light was hardly needed in the bright Florida sunshine. There were two rows of folding chairs set up in front of the stage and Beth Marshall was in the skeletal audience. There were several video cameras set up recording every minute of the reading. Tommy Wingo operated one camera and Tisse Mallon operated the other.

Beth was enjoying the performance. Periodically she would shout out, “I wrote that!” A few curious people stopped to try and figure out what was going on but they seldom sat and lingered. Brian read, “No alcoholic beverages are allowed outside the lawn of fabulousness. Beth laughed loudly and took a sip from her cup. A giant penguin sat in the front row holding a program in its flippers so it could follow along. After perhaps ten minutes the penguin got up to leave. But then it realized there were video cameras running and it did a silly dance in front of the stage. Brian laughed as he tried to continue to read. What does it all mean?

No Dosa for You!

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Brian Feldman staged a project inspired by Taco Truck Taste Test called “Dosa Vu.” It took place at the Apna Bazaar supermarket which is located who knows where, someplace way south on OBT. Around the same time, Dina Peterson was showing a friend of hers from Boston named Ian the Parliament House Sunday Piano Bar. I stopped into the bar but the place was pretty quiet and Dina and her friend hadn’t arrived yet. I texted her to let her know I was going to try and get a quick sketch at Brian’s event.

The Indian supermarket was impossible to find. Nestled between car dealerships, the place was set far back from the road and building numbers were impossible to see. I drove in circles and got to the place about half an hour late. I thought Brian had said it was inside an indoor flea market. I wandered the aisles of the flea market looking for Brian. There was a booth of used furniture, a booth of pillows and a huge assortment of brick-a-brack at bargain prices. There must have been 50 booths but no Indian food. Outside, I looked at the event page again on my iPhone and it said the dosa dealer was in a store NEXT to the flea market. UGH! I rounded the corner and there was Brian, his girlfriend Sultana and Angela Abrusci.

Sultana introduced me to Joe inside and ordered a dosa for me. Joe stood in front of a cabinet case full of colorful shampoos and soaps. As he prepared my food, I sat down and started sketching. The food was finished before my sketch and Brian took it to the small table outside. There was a steady stream of customers. One man walked up to Joe and started whispering to him. Later the same man stood in front of me and started asking questions. “What are you doing?” I thought to myself, “Here we go again,” and said with a smile, “I’m sketching.” “What kind of art is that?,” he asked. I turned the sketchbook around to show him the sketch and and rattled on about illustrative journalism. He frowned at the unfinished sketch. He wasn’t impressed. “Did you ask permission?” he asked. I though, “If I asked permission every time I wanted to sketch, I would never accomplish anything.” What I said was, “Who should I ask?” He explained that the store was private property. We continued this power struggle for some time, as I kept looking at the details behind him and sketching. I thanked him for his interest and rushed to finish the sketch before he called the police.

With the hasty sketch finished I went outside to find Brian and his entourage. They were gone. The much anticipated dosa was gone. I suddenly felt very hungry, but didn’t feel welcome back inside so I left. I drove back to the Parliament House where Dina gave me half of her sandwich from lunch. Dina and I sang Jimmy Buffet’s “Margaritaville” together into a diamond studded microphone and the crowd joined along swaying with the chorus. Now the place was packed. Later we all sang “Oh Happy Day” with our hands raised as we danced. I felt the warmth and fellowship of being among friends. Where I felt misunderstood, I now felt accepted. The dosa was forgotten.

Animated Shorts

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Each year, I have to see the animated shorts at the Florida Film Festival. This year Bill Plimpton had a display of artwork from around the world used in his Global Jam. He invited artists to each tackle a scene in their own style from his Academy Award winning film Guard Dog. The invitation went out via the Internet. Bill waited an hour, no response. He waited another hour with no response. He went home depressed. The next day he was told that too many artists responded causing the server to go down. The resulting film was hilarious being even quirkier with all the different looks. Bill said the film cost him $20 to produce with animators around the world volunteering their time.

Anyway, the Animated Shorts screening was sold out. The line stretched back as far as I could see. There was a chance I might not get in, but house manager, Brian Feldman, stepped in and made sure I got a ticket. I found a seat in the very first row. Brian joked and said I should sit on the stage and sketch the audience. I was tempted but really wanted to see some animation. I leaned back and let the screen filled up every inch of my glasses. Tales of Mere Existence by Lev Yilmaz is always in the lineup and is always funny. This year he talked aimlessly about how he had imagined relationships with women in the Ukraine via Facebook. There were a few artsy shorts with no apparent story. I always get annoyed at these aimless films.

My favorite film of the night was “The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore“. Though it could use a shorter title, the film is magical. It basically stresses how books offer refuge bringing color and life into people’s lives. The main character was modeled after Buster Keaton. One of the co-directors daughter died, and his wife became paralyzed during production of the film. Moonbot the new studio that made the film is located in Louisiana, so when Hurricane Katrina hit, it ended up becoming a major part of the story. There is something very sad about seeing peoples books in among the rubble of destruction. Several of the story and visual development artists were originally from Orlando but unfortunately I didn’t know them. They asked if anyone in the audience worked at Disney Feature Animation. I started to raise my hand but stopped halfway up thinking “well, not anymore.” Seeing no hands he said, “Damn Michael Eisner.”

txt at the Telephone Museum

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As part of ArtsFest, Brian Feldman held a performance of “txt” at the Telephone Museum in Maitland (221 West Packwood Avenue). The very first time I sketched Feldman, he was performing “txt” at the Kerouac House. Brian specifically grew his beard back for this one performance. I found my vantage point in the front row before anyone else arrived. I also set up my video camera which recorded the performance from the back of the room next to a telephone booth. Ancient phones loomed above Feldman’s head and photos of switchboard operators were on the walls. There were perhaps thirty or so folding chairs set up in front of the large oak desk where he sat.

The idea of “txt” is that the audience supplies every line of dialogue that is spoken. Fifty protected Twitter accounts are set up so that each audience member can send a tweet directly to Brian’s show account, all of which are redirected to his phone thus keeping every entry completely private. Before the performance space was opened, Feldman crawled under the desk to wait for his entrance. When the fifteen or so people were seated, he crawled back out and sat in the leather chair causing laughter.

The young couple across from me immediately started tapping on their phones. The girl resembled actress Julianne Moore. She kept glancing at her boyfriend’s phone, not sure what she should type. She kept laughing at his entries. Brian’s phone vibrated and he picked it up. He read, “Football may be America’s pastime, but basketball players sweat much more.” I glanced around thinking I knew where the text came from. For this performance, Feldman acted out and dramatized his readings. One text read, “The man in the front row blushes whenever he laughs.” I was one of three men in a front row seat. I was certainly laughing. Was I blushing? Could people see emotion and expression just from the involuntary rush of blood through my veins?

I focused more intently on the drawing. Remarks were made about the corporate looking portrait above Feldman’s head, and about a creepy mannequin dressed as a telephone repairman. An early text warned against using profane language since women and children were in the audience. Surprisingly everyone complied. I consider “txt“ to be Feldman’s signature performance piece and it would be great to see it performed in a larger venue. There is something interesting in clandestine, anonymous communication that indicates where we are moving as an interconnected society.