Art Galleries and Barbeques or when it was Summer in San Francisco
Her nose hung up hooked by some invisible fisherman above the rafters and down the shaft of her nostrils she glared at me and said, “yes, they teach appropriation at those institutions.” The word hung about her upper lip for an instant like a glove held in the hand that she metaphorically slapped across my presumably deflated ego. “Not one of us has created anything original,” I replied. But, as a machine constructed with mouths on her ears, her diatribe complete, she had no use for dialogue, so allowed herself to be pulled onward by that invisible line.
So I turned to a piece of generic art, for a living room with pale white carpet, for a restaurant tasteful in its restraint, neither with or without flavor, and I dove into it. For the simplicity, the solitude, the outright rebellion. For here was someone who did not deign enshroud originality. Here was a blank canvas, brush strokes perfected to be rendered voiceless. Upon this canvas I thrust my voice and listened to it return. Alone at last where no one would judge my care or carelessness. There, in the gallery of the office art, I sang the praise of the cliche.
One weekend, two barbeques. At each barely present; a tangent attachment to merrymaking; a parasite on the corpse of borrowed meat, borrowed fun, borrowed beer. But each growing, something like familiarity. Faces recognized, becoming friends. Surprised to see you here. With each encounter, chance or intentional, a thread woven into this fabric, a tapestry or community. I won’t step out though. Or sew my own thread. Allow the threads to be sown. And ask now and again, to let the loose ends hang looser.
Summer is over. It was a pleasent week.
