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8.08.2012

on Art and Art Fairs

this one a bit tongue-in-cheek. . . another response to a picture prompt


There is a reason art hangs in galleries or museums. Clean lines, unobtrusive backdrops, hushed voices interrupted only occasionally by the cry of a child not yet old enough to appreciate the tangled beauty of a Kandinsky – or perhaps responding more authentically than the adults who instead whisper meaningless phrases: “how interesting” “such an eye for color” “so sophisticated” 

Many insist that art – real art – can be found and, in fact, belongs on the streets of New York, Chicago, or LA. A lonely artist with canvas and brush on the corner of Halstead and Jackson imaging he is in Athens. Some are certain that the best art – the future of art - can be found at street fairs.  But I contend that all one really finds on the streets are tank tops with chest and arm hair flapping in the wind, loud yelling to friends half a block away, and, most offensive of all, the stench of armpits long overdue for another dose of deodorant.

There is a reason art hangs in galleries or museums. Clean lines, unobtrusive backdrops, hushed voices. . . .   

Hope

From time to time, I join a group of creative writers at Panera. We respond to a variety of prompts. Tonight's prompt: a picture. I don't have a copy, but here's my response. It elicited a few chuckles and though I've not done any editing since, I thought it would be fun to post --- something in addition to the more typical sermon posted here.

"Hope"


I walked past the grocery store when I saw it. Mosaic Brunch.  It was plastered to a street lamp – right above the sign that read “no posting” – and next to the four or five other hand-written fliers that littered the post.  I didn’t know what it was – a Mosaic Brunch – but I knew what it would become.

I looked around me. I knew Jerry and Frankie weren’t with me, but it seemed so perfect – so miraculous – that I figured they’d just appear too.  I’m sure I looked like the proverbial “deer in the headlights” as I looked around me – or perhaps, if I am honest, to the lawyers and doctors of the neighborhood’s newest condominium high-rise, I looked like any other young man they didn’t recognize – a threat to their children.  Stuffing this thought back, I shoved my hands in my pocket, finding reassurance that the garage key was still there and headed back to the subway station.

Even the express train ride seemed to go on forever. I cursed myself again for having left my cell phone on the counter at Frankie’s. I hoped – and doubted – she would see it and bring it to the garage.

When I finally arrived at the garage, Jerry and Frankie had already set up the plastic buckets and were tapping impatiently.  I ran in and shouted, “Mosaic Brunch!”  They looked at me, looked at one another and together we yelled it, “Mosaic Brunch!”  The greatest grunge band to emerge on the scene had just been christened.  Now if only we had some cash for drums.