Art and coffee

My left hand is gripping my coffee mug. It looks like one of those robotic arms they use to build cars and other things.

The mug is on my desk, handle pointing at two o'clock.

My right hand is sitting on my mouse. The ball beneath my index finger rests on the mouse's curve. The index finger stretches out, bends, and rests on the mouse's wheel. This is how I scroll.

The coffee is from this morning.

It has been microwaved because it was cold.

When it is microwaved, it takes on the flavor of coffee-soaked firewood. I kind of like it.

Last night was First Thursday. Nearly every gallery in Portland has an opening on the first Thursday of each month: artists standing near their work, food and drinks provided, and piles of people wandering here and there, as eclectic as the works on display.

The air outside the galleries was hiding behind a perfect temperature and a stillness that wasn't at all stuffy.

And the work was incomprehensible, wonderful, ridiculous, stunning, and silly. One artist penned small ink drawings of household objects on light yellow paper, each drawing one continuous line (the drawings were kindergarten quality--light and simple). The paper was mounted on an off-white heavy stock, and then framed in small square wooden frames.

Interesting, but if I can make it myself for the cost of the frame, paper, and pen, why would I want to spend $300 on it?

After visiting several galleries, navigating the crowds like salmon in spawning season, Amy bought me two slices of pizza and a ginger ale at Escape From New York.

Twenty-third Avenue--a trendy shopping-mall-of-sorts kind of street with unique shops tucked into historic houses and the first floors of turn-of-the-century apartment buildings--gives one the impression that Christmas is celebrated year-round.

This impression is the product of lights strung through trees that line the street.

Amy and I sat under these trees, eating our pizza, talking about the people and art we had just seen, enjoying the still, cool air, anticipating something we couldn't describe.

My coffee is cold again.

I turn my head down to look at it. I look back at my monitor without turning my head; this is accomplished by a strange shifting of the eyes.

In this position I look sly.

About this Entry

This page contains a single entry by Jeremy published on September 4, 1998 12:00 AM.

Birds and butts was the previous entry in this blog.

A little criticism is the next entry in this blog.

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