An Opening

I went to an art opening at a beach town yesterday because two friends had work there.  They are substantial artists who were showing encaustic art. I went because I thought I should, because the day was nice and I had nothing else to do, because it would get me out of the house.  Driving over at four o'clock of a hot, sunny afternoon in a 1985 Volvo with the windows down took me back in time to when I was young and we had just moved here and my parents loved to get in the car and go on hot afternoons, the wind coming through the open windows more cooling than the still air inside the house.  Everyone went for drives then.  And from the amount of traffic I fought going to the beach yesterday, everyone still loves to take those afternoon drives.  I got the old Volvo up to eighty-five, about as fast as it will go, and took my chances.  Oh, of getting a ticket, sure, but of many other things not the least of which might be losing a wheel or exploding the engine.  But man, running a car full out--even if it is old and slow--is a sure way to make it run well.  The tires, which have been bumping around and wobbling, were suddenly running true.  There wasn't a burp or a hiccup from the engine.  It just purred along.  Those old Volvos were great, and I looked like a million dollars with my hand out the window surfing the wind, cupping my hand and turning it so as to funnel the air into the car.  I drove along listening to the wind roar sipping from the glass of scotch I had brought along for the ride.  Yes, yes, I am a horrible man, a menace.  If you see that old white Volvo coming at you from your rear view mirror, you might want to slow down and let it by.

When I got to the gallery, neither of my friends were there.  One was out of town visiting relatives, I was told.  The other had just not shown.  So I walked to the bar where I found they were charging for the beer and wine (the goldfish were free), bought a rough red, and wandered about to look at the art.  I'd seen most of it before, and what I hadn't didn't interest me any more than the art you see at shopping mall galleries.  Worse, there were no young hot art babes (yes, I am being really horrible today).  Everyone there was older than I.  Within a few minutes, I was downing my second glass of wine, white this time as the red was really just too rough.  All the time, I kept wondering two things.  First, did only old people go to art openings?  I guessed that it was good for the artists, of course, for young people don't spend money on art like this.  But it seems they'd show up just to look.  But maybe, I thought, they'd heard that you had to pay for the wine.

The second thing I wondered was why I had come.

I decided to wander out to the street to look around before I got back into my car and drove the hour home.  And as I wandered, one of the friend/artists showed up with his wife.  Blase.  I did not feel like walking back to the gallery with them, and I told him that I had been trashing his work to everyone within earshot, then I suggested we go to dinner after the reception.  They both thought that a fine idea, so I made my way to another gallery just up the street, part of a large institute of art that usually has some better work.  The gallery was in a house built in the 1920's and had a nice wrap around porch.  As I walked up, an old couple sitting in wicker chairs greeted me.  "We saw you at the other gallery," they said, "remember?"  Say, sure I do, I said, and sat down across from them in another chair.  I could see inside the gallery from there and knew I had no interest in the balsa wood and fiber hanging exhibit that filled the space.  "How's the show," I asked my friends, and they gave a very diplomatic answer.  They didn't like it much, I took it.

So I settled back, drink in hand, just to look out over the river that was a block away and to enjoy the shade of the porch.

I used to think that old people were inherently interesting because they had so much experience in life, but I was disabused of that notion long ago after talking with many, many boring old people who had never gobbled up life the way I assumed people do.  This couple, however, were terrific.  They were from New York, having lived their lives in the shadow of Manhattan, married going on sixty years.  "I guess you have a lot of secrets you keep from one another," I suggested.  They grew bug-eyed for a moment and then laughed.  "No, not many," they said in unison.  They said a lot in unison, one taking over a story from the other effortlessly, my eyes shifting left and right, left and right like watching a tennis match.  They told me of their sons, of course, one of whom is a big actor on Broadway and who was in "Chicago" and is currently in "The Addams Family."  There other son is a circus performer.  That interested me most, of course, and I suggested that I would like to take pictures of that.

"If you want to, let us know.  I'm sure my son would love that."

I wonder, but I may follow up.

We talked of travel and their lives now on the beach.  Almost eighty.  Man, they were great.

After about an hour, we all decided it was time to go and I said goodbye as they ambled off the porch to go to another gallery down the street.  They were a treat.  They made my trip over worthwhile.  Perhaps I will follow up with them.  We could have dinner and drinks.  I think I'd like that.

And so I went back to the gallery where my friend was standing near an exhibit, a wooden bowl of some sort, just schlock like the retired neighbor Mr. Rogers used to carve in his garage on Sunday afternoons, and somehow when I stopped walking, the remaining drops of wine in my plastic cup flew into the air.  I saw his eyes follow them into the bowl, but I did not look acting as if I had not noticed.  It was only a few drops, drams, really, and we all talked and ignored it for some time, but finally his wife could not stand it any longer and said with mock surprise, "oh, look, someone spilled water into the bowl," and she took out a Kleenex and began to mop it up.  "I wouldn't do that if I were you," I said.  "It's a bowl.  I think that's part of the exhibit."

"I'd better go talk to some of the crowd," my friend said, and I agreed.  "Yes, you need to sell something."  I'm not fit to go out in public, I thought again for the millionth time as I stood smiling at his wife listening to her tell me about the job interview she had just had in Texas.

"Listen," I said, "I've changed my mind about staying over here for dinner.  I'm going to go before it gets dark.  I'm going to head back."

"Really," she said, "you should stay."

"No, no, I want to get home before it gets late.  Tell Robert I said goodbye."

It felt good to be back in the car, flying along the highway alone, listening to the wind and feeling the jet flow upon my face.  The car was good again, and we weaved in and out passing the slower cars that hogged the fast lane, giving them a little shake of the finger as we went by.  "Boy," I thought, "I should have brought the flask."