Workshops & Art

Last night didn’t work out, which is OK. Mary and I hung out at the OP for a little while, but couldn’t get into the groove of things. It was one of those times when you kinda’ want to be social, but it just turns out to be too much effort. It’s probably a good thing, too, five guitars is more than enough for any one guitarist in a room that small.
The “Love & Money” workshop Mary and I attended was pleasantly uncomplicated, and has left me with a realization: These kinds of workshops may be part of what I’ve been looking for. The ten people who showed up (out of the thirty-five that had registered) seemed to share many of our general, common interests and motivations. The course was offered with a strong metaphysical influence. Subjective questions as to why one is approaching an entrepreneurial lifestyle were explored and advantages emphasized, and examination of self-imposed limitations maintained the theme.
Although a few participants shared rather graphic personal experiences which suggest tones of more popular and socially accepted forms of brainwashing, like Amway and Alcoholics Anonymous, I’m willing to attribute these instances to personal traits. (Really, who the fuck am I to judge?) Overall, this experience offered a comfortable opportunity to review and share ideas about the discovery of independence and the merits of sacrifice for personal goals.
At the end of the workshop, the host handed out some unassuming materials, including an evaluation form. One of the questions asked how much I’d pay for the workshop. I withheld my sarcastic impulse to write, “Nothing,” and more honestly offered, “FREE, but does not reflect on the value of this workshop.” Even though this message may not be clear, I personally feel that this kind of workshop needs to be available to anyone who is willing to overcome enough of his or her own objections to actually attend.
By 7:00p.m., Mary and I were out of the house and on our way to the Art Walk, which is held mainly on Ballard Avenue. And what a strange blend of activity this street was today. From early morning, we’d recognized on awful lot of kilts walking about. We later learned that this was due to the Celtic Festival being held on the Ave. A nearby tavern was concurrently sponsoring a motorcycle event. Tattooed and leather-clad, these participants added an impressive audible element with their angry engines, as Ballardites continued to stroll the sidewalks in shorts and Birkinstocks, slurping down lattes.
The first showing offered yet another surprise. “I know you,” she said, “we got drunk in the snow.” HOLY SHIT!
OK, about eight years ago, back when I was working at Adobe, we were hit with a really bad snow storm. Businesses were closing up left and right, but the hotline for the company mentioned no closing by the time I left for my bus ride to my 6:00am shift. By the time I got to work things were looking dire, and within an hour the one manager that had arrived for our department made the closing official, sending us on our way home.
Waiting for an outbound bus to take me back home became an exercise in futility, as the conditions continued to worsen. It wasn’t long before sarcasm started to kick in, and after about an hour and a half of freezing, the three most vocal of us decided to say, “Fuck it, let’s go get drunk.” It just so happened that Camille’s apartment was the closest to the vodka aisle in the liquor store.
After a sharp flash of reminiscence, and a warm, yet brief exchange, it was back to the journey. Our local flora, still in bloom, mixed with music in the warm night air, completing the scene for Ballard’s Art Walk. Showing to showing and street to street, participants meandered, tasting cheeses and sipping wine.
Before my final note, dear readers, I feel obliged to remind one and all that I have no formal art training. Indeed, not only am I aware that I am rather obtuse about a good many things, I also recognize that my opinion is free, and probably worth every cent.
That said, I’ll be plain: I simply do not understand much of what I’ve seen tonight. I loved some of it, but I just can’t fathom the bulk. While I might suppose that stylistic “abstractions” are en vogue today, my conscious mind is besieged with a feeling that most of what I’ve just seen is terribly dull crap– a species of smatterings that only one’s mother feels obliged to taping to refrigerators. Perhaps I’m just stuck on the prices. Do people actually pay $90 for a scribble and $200 for an oil of your favorite chair?
I just know that I’m looking at this all wrong. Perhaps the artists are intending to confuse me. Or, maybe I should consider doing a showing myself,.