Like in a Movie
December 11, 2004
I was in a Fellini movie last night. No. I take that back. I was in a Woody Allen movie. No, that's not quite right, either. Besides, I wasn't really in a movie at all — I was in a gallery. What I mean is I went to a gallery. An art gallery.
Gaggles of hipsters huddled in corners, artsy old ladies in moomoos and clunky necklaces clogging the hallways. Art school flunkies with their American Apparel model girlfriends. Parents holding the hands of their toddlers as they toddled about. All in all, an eclectic mix of eccentrics and the people who love them. And so, as I walked amidst the characters and listened to snippets of conversation, I felt like I was in a movie. But like I said, I'm not sure who's.
Elisa called to tell me about the opening. She said it was at a gallery near my loft. Her girlfriend, Carol, was going too, and they knew a few of the artists, and would I like to go? Sure. Except it turned out that it wasn't near my loft, which I realized shortly after beginning to walk there in the rain. "Where are you?" Elisa called to ask.
"I'm walking over now."
"It's a pretty far walk," she warned me.
And it was. Or rather, it would've been if I hadn't turned round and gotten my car. The gallery is in a huge, block-long, factory building right smack dab in the middle of the East Williamsburg Industrial Park. I found it and turned down the cross street to park. It was wet and desolate. The streets were battered and pot-holed and slick with rain. It looked like a murder mystery. I half expected to see someone keeled over in a pool of blood, or wind up that way myself. I didn't, but Elisa did. Kind of. Along the way, she wiped out on her bicycle. When I arrived, she showed me her bloody hands. "Ouch," I said. "You know it’s the artists who are the ones meant to spill their guts, right?”
"I need to find a bathroom to wash up."
While Elisa went to clean her wounds, I walked around the show. I saw a few people I knew, and got introduced to a few others. I explored the loft, finding the secret corners full of things that may or may not be art. Is that art, or is that the plumbing? Who knows. It doesn't matter. I bought a book from a girl I know and had her autograph it, then hung around watching a video projection of a bizarre cartoon near the exit. Elisa came over and watched for a bit, too, while we waited for Carol to finish her rounds. When the three of us had finally collected at the top of the stairs and prepared to leave, I took one final look around, nodded, and sighed. "Art."
