public art

not a complete narrative here, not because it didn't exist. just don't have the time.

_____ (a different ____ than the last ____) has paper of various sizes laid down across the public sidewalk. on those papers are women, some dressed, some not who are creating painting marks by rolling and turning on the paper. I think, well, this has been done before, but still, I'm impressed to see so many participating. To get where I'm going - down the public sidewalk, I need to cross the paper. I get on my knees, drag my leg through a pool of ink, put my leg forward, bent, and make a bent mark with it. I sweep my hand in a circle and leave fading lines. I go forward in this way across to where I need to be, look back and think, "okay".

(much then about my house. the remodel. the sandblaster that removes grafitti and paint and all from 30 feet.)

later though _____ is giving a talk. he says 'I'd like you to look at the five brown flames. ...I always am. It's just how I am. And I'd like you to write whatever you feel like writing about them." I see what he means - there is a candle set in an area of the room. The soft umber light it creates, the ambience it evokes, brings back somehow perfectly the luxurious hours we used to know so often of long evenings, winding rich conversations, privileged peace. Everyone seems to be engaged, writing, appreciative, and I'm stunned that he can take people back so directly to that feeling I can barely recall for myself. But before long, bit by bit, the light gets more harsh, flourescent. There are distractions, people talking about other things, moving tables, acting stupid. The candles don't seem to evoke much anymore. The moment, and whatever I was going to write about it, has been lost in the unfocused, irreverent noise and glare.