Wanting to feel cosmopolitan, I made the jaunt into town last evening to attend First Thursday, the monthly unveiling of new art works at area dealers. There was some lovely and playful stuff, particularly at the Augen and Froelick Galleries. One of the most arresting pieces was at the Elizabeth Leach: a pair of gigantic (12') banners with the image of a nuclear smoke-stack traced from composite pictures of fiery clouds; not that I would want that in my house, but as a social statement the piece definitely worked. There was also some crap, including Jeremy Iverson's "collection" of grey-scale collages...WHICH WERE ALL THE SAME!!!
But even more inspiring than the art itself were those who thronged out to see and be seen. Oh, of course there were Bluehairs a-plenty, smacking their gums each time they bent over their half-inch thick lenses to read the title plates, smilingly winding their rubber-wheeled walkers through the crowds. Then there were the Prettypeople: severely skinny women dressed Too-Cool-For-School in short-skirted beachy-bohemian dresses as brightly colored as the art around them, the men in white alligator shoes and black cashmere socks who refused to take off their $$$unglasses indoors. And then there were the Art-isans themselves: a man dressed in cropped pants made from an old canvas sail, tied with sailor's knots and topped off with yellow high-heeled sandals; a woman in a paper-mache dress with a large pink peony in her hair; a chubby dude discussing surrealism on the streetcorner, the several braids of his purpley-blue hair strung up through the top of a doll's head. These are people for whom "art" is not a thing, but a way to interact with the world.
But somehow, they just make me laugh.
But even more inspiring than the art itself were those who thronged out to see and be seen. Oh, of course there were Bluehairs a-plenty, smacking their gums each time they bent over their half-inch thick lenses to read the title plates, smilingly winding their rubber-wheeled walkers through the crowds. Then there were the Prettypeople: severely skinny women dressed Too-Cool-For-School in short-skirted beachy-bohemian dresses as brightly colored as the art around them, the men in white alligator shoes and black cashmere socks who refused to take off their $$$unglasses indoors. And then there were the Art-isans themselves: a man dressed in cropped pants made from an old canvas sail, tied with sailor's knots and topped off with yellow high-heeled sandals; a woman in a paper-mache dress with a large pink peony in her hair; a chubby dude discussing surrealism on the streetcorner, the several braids of his purpley-blue hair strung up through the top of a doll's head. These are people for whom "art" is not a thing, but a way to interact with the world.
But somehow, they just make me laugh.
No comments:
Post a Comment