134. LOVE SEAT

134. LOVE SEAT

In my family, growing up,

there was a lot of fabric  -

my father for most of his

life  -  was an upholsterer

so I heard a lot about it,

always talking fabric. I

always kind of liked it

anyway, I guess from

all that upbringing. He

had these large fabric

swatch books  -  each

entire page, probably

like a 14 inch square,

with some text, on these

large, metal-spool-top

pages, so the viewer,

selecting fabric could

just flip around easily.

A big square of the

fabric itself, in the

center, with pricing by

the yard, durability and

cleaning factors and info,

etc. All the various colors

and pattern schemes. It

was a little crazy  -  much

like on the Internet today,

he'd, for instance, order

12 yards, or 22 yards,

whatever, for the

needed coverage,

each chair, for the

job, and it would

come, in a few days,

in these large tubes,

delivered by UPS.

-

There was. about 1965,

the start of a synthetic

fabric movement, or wave,

that my father detested. I

actually forget the name

of the fabric, a fake name

they made up for it, same

as 'naugahyde' for fake

leather. Probably the same

idiots doing the name-work.

People actually began buying

this stuff, liking it. It was

Scotch-Guarded (meant to be

'cleaned' by a simple rub, and

water resistant, for spills and

stains and all). All that stuff,

silly now, was a big-deal back

then. Fake fabric. My father,

as I noted, hated it  -  he'd say

it was nothing but oil and

water, some sort of odd

chemical mix made up and

into thread. No real organic

basis, and thus no 'substance.'

I was confused at first, and

checked into what was being

brought forth. My father was

pretty much correct. It was a

chemistry of suspension, a

spun fabric made of the

froth of the oil/water mix

(which is what I guess he

meant) and formed into

pliable threads. What

really irked him was

that it had no staying

power, and no durability.

The 'airiness' (his word) of

the mix, with no real 'fiber'

base at all, meant it just

wore away quickly. It held

stronger colors, yes (also

1960's important, with

all  that flaming, pop-art,

colored furniture and

stuff), but disappeared

fast. Arm areas wore

out, (you can't even

really say 'got threadbare',

because that would be a

misnomer.) Any heavy

use just wrecked it up

good. Which, I suppose,

an upholsterer could

consider 'good for

business', but he did

not. So, you see, I always

loved that stuff; that point

of view, that 'awareness'

of what was being put

over. Disgruntlement,

for sure. it all grew

on me.

-

As I grew,  he was always

after me to 'learn the trade'.

Take up upholstery he meant,

even if I never 'used' it, he

said every man should have 

a trade to fall back on if times

get tough, things break down, 

or he really needs a job. I maybe

thought about it a few times, as

artisanal-quality work, thinking

if perhaps I could custom-craft 

something cool out of it  -  

even car seats or stuff like that. 

He advised against that  -  as 

the most difficult and annoying 

things (car seats) to do  -  the

tufts and decorative buttons and

edge-seams beads and all. No

money in it, they never want to

pay anyway, these customizer

guys. I just always decided

against it  -  doing what he did.

I could already tell I hated it.

Slavery at a mechanical set

of sewing machines, a little

frame and carpentry work,

stretching fabric, dealing 

with dumb-ass people trying 

to 'redecorate' their dump 

and make everything look 

expensive although done 

cheaply. Fighting with 

people over the most simple

things  -  mark-up, your time 

at the job, they don't want 

to pay, don't have the entire

amount, etc. You end up 

being their freaking bankers 

too. I'd gone out on enough

deliveries, and jobs, and

pick-ups, with him to see

what he had to put up with.

Strange-ass old single women,

or cranky widowers, in places

like Linden, Roselle, Rahway,

and even farther afield, wherever

he'd get a job from  -  Staten

Island, Jersey City, Bayonne,

Monmouth. You name it, it 

was all the same. Married 

people too, the bigger-money 

power couples out of Westfield 

and Scotch Plains. They treated 

him like a peon, he had to put 

up with it, servile-fashion-

like, and he knew it. 

Kow-towing to their

stupid whims and tastes,

answering pointed questions

and their superior-ass stares.

When he brought me along,

it was always the same  -  the

goody ladies would usually

start acting up  -   offering

soda or cake or some crap,

making 'what a nice boy'

chump small talk, acting

all of a sudden super-nice

to my father  -  their fake

jewelry hanging between 

their rising bosoms and all

that fake chicanery. By the

time we left they were

already probably breathing

heavy. I always wished I

was some big, brawny tattoo'd

up Puerto-Rican dude slinging

the furniture for them, giving 

a show, muscles, tight pants

with a bulge. Morons. Female

morons anyway  -  what's that

called, Moronettes?

-

I knew certainly that I did not

wish to be play-acting for people

of that nature for the rest of my

days, just to make 125 bucks on

a setee. (My father always used 

that word, or often enough, I 

think for like a small couch 

or something. A 'setee'? Boy,

did I hate that word. Right

up there with Love Seat, 

which I at first thought was 

a neat chair sold in porno

shops or something, to 

fornicate in, (or on?)). It's

funny, all these years later, 

in thinking on this, to realize

two things: when I'm walking

along now, in NYC, camera,

art, whatever, I love seeing 

the foreign tourists as they 

go by  -  all those French and 

German and Italian, and the 

rest, people just passing along.

I just love gazing at their

clothing and fabrics, shoes,

belts and the like. All those

jeans and shorts and gabardines

and such, from far-flung lands

wherever. Even the denim is

remarkably different. But I've

always kept that taste for 

fabrics, eyeing them, noticing

the differences. And, in the

same vein, I realize now, still

hearing those echoing words 

of my father about something 

to fall back on, a trade, a skill,

what he was getting at. I

understand now, and I've

done it. That's what art is. Art.

My own, albeit impractical, skill,

trade, language, nuance, way of

putting things across. It's all

I've got, and all I've ever had  -

don't get me wrong, I'm a big

fan of heaving bosoms and the

rest, but Art is, instead, what

I have, and what I've made,

all by myself -  it's durable,

real, not synthetic at all, and

has a real and true basis

in the fabric of Reality.

And by it, as is said, 

'I don't need nobody.'