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Bernice Sequin - Artist Detective

I have spent the better part of my morning doing two things: fighting with my boyfriend and trying to trackdown Mr. Rockstar artist extraordinary who is apparently too important to return phone calls.

We can skip over the whole boyfriend fighting story because the only thing you really need to know is that I am right and he is wrong and a complete asshole to boot. Got it? Good.

I have an exhibition opening next week and have sent out a plethora of media packages to try and entice the locals to cover the show. I have some nasty history with one of the inde-locals and I am convinced that to make my life difficult they have chosen to interview the one artist who is not coming to town for the opening and who is notoriously difficult to get a hold of. When I say difficult to get a hold of what I really mean is that he is like a fucking ghost, he doesn't exist in this dimension but in the dimension of rock gawds and New York art parties. (Note to reader: I do not live in the world of rock gawd and hipster art parties but in the world of mosquitoes and bad cover bands). A few hours ago I thought my tracking strategy was successful- I had called every person listed on Canada 411 who lives in Manitoba and has this particular artists last name. Seventeen calls later, I reached his parents. Bingo! No, not bingo because his parents would not give me his personal contact information but only the info of the New York gallery that represents him who also apparently live in the dimension of hipsters and rock stars because they aren't calling me back either. Currently I am stalking their communications person. Phone calls. Emails. Faxes. Call me back motherfucker and I'll leave you alone. Call. Me. Back. So far no one has called me back.

And all this for a local paper that I hate and for an editor I despise. I am a total media whore. I give good interview.