I've been fighting a bug, - for weeks now. No, I have not been healthy. It could be that my over-indulgence of fresh whipped cream, a privilege I partake of every morning down at Mario's drive-thru coffee shop (below Clairemont Dr., on Morena Blvd.), has something to do with the phlegm stuck in my lungs. It could also be the fact that I've been quite stationary, of late.
For the past two months, I've had to dig down deep, and birth a damn baby (known as my portfolio), which has required that I remain in a cramped repose, behind a computer screen, for hours on end. Sitting, typing, processing, editing, & deleting. The 150-paged creature was born on April 21st, 2009, (the spring equinox, of course!) and right along with it came the realization, "Shit! I've only just begun!" .....
So, I've been sick. It also doesn't help that I have been stressed out about money ("i ain't got no money, baby!") and the impending bills that my graduation from graduate school this summer will bring along with it. (Insert big breath here.) Ummm, yeah.
Nonetheless, life persists and the show must go on. Last night, it was an opening reception for a visual art exhibition, entitled "Facing East," at the Art Expressions Gallery just down the hill from where I live. (Off of Jutland, and at 2645 Commercial Court.) Benzs, Beamers, and SUVs were parked around the circumference of the tight col de' sac. As my mother and I ambled up the hilly driveway and approached the flat, glass paneled building's doors, we saw people spilling out and onto the cement walkway.
Inside the white-walled gallery, a uniformed catering staff, dressed in a grayish-blue, long-sleeved button up, walked around, balancing trays of silver platters on their palms. "Would you care for a sweet pork bun, dumpling, or other tasty, Asian tidbit?" they would casually inquire. Meanwhile, a jovial bartender served wine and beer in a western facing corner. (Have I mentioned that this was all "free," yet?)
Hanging throughout the parallel exhibition spaces, as well as in the small, five rooms found in the back and middle of the gallery, were mixed media paintings, of wood, paper, steel, and even book bindings, by local artists Dionne Haroutunian, Viviana Lombrozo, and Wade Harb. Sculptural pieces, handcrafted by San Diego designer Joey Vaiasuso, included a Balsam wood chair with soft, curving edges and angles, while voluptuous ceramic pieces, by Blaine Shirk, were also on display.
I was present last night because I grew up next door to the painter Wade Harb. Although he and his siblings were a good ten-plus-years my senior, I harbor countless memories of holiday meals spent together, of the scent of fresh baked pita bread permeating his house, and of his parent's delicious, home baked pies (which they still serve at their restaurant, The Allen's Alley Cafe, in Vista). Since 1981, his and my parents have been friends and neighbors on Ridge Road.
Last night, I meandered around Art Expressions, while nibbling on some light fare, getting hit on by a 60-year old, silver bearded man, and expressing my philosophic tendencies to Joey, the sculptor. However, this morning, I walked around Fiesta Island in a blissful state of reverie because, more than anything, I reconnected with not just Wade, but his wife Ellie, his sister Nina, her daughter Cameron, and his brother Charlie, who was present along with his wife Maha and their daughters Sabrina and Douna.
I had not seen Charlie in years. Recently, he had been diagnosed with fourth stage cancer. The prognosis was dim for this middle-aged man with a young family. Over the course of the past year, Charlie has walked through the harrowing hell of chemotherapy, cancer, and chronic pain. Today, he is in remission and looking great!
Last night, his cheeks were ruddy and filled in. He shared with me that his sister has him sticking to a daily regimen of Bikram's Yoga and a vegan diet. His daughters were sweet and quietly affectionate, while his wife was verbose and friendly. Spring had truly sprung for this family, - a life renewed. Seeing him, hugging him, feeling the weight, bones, and mass of his humanity, was reaffirming. Last night, I felt giddy with a lightness of being. I wanted to just look out at him, smile, and beam. I wanted to... reflect.
To be quite blunt, I am not interested in the primacy of objects.
I want to know about the spontaneity of improvisation and about the existentialism of process. I want to know the breath, - your breath. How it began, where it started, and where it is headed to?
Like the crap in my chest, "art" and, thus, art viewing can be so rigidly stuck in a place of surreal fantasy. Trapped within mythic falsehoods that
one breath/
one artwork/
one life has more intrinsic worth than another. (Need an example? Compare the lives of "Mona Lisa" to that of an Ugandan adult woman today).
No, life isn't stagnant, it doesn't remain unchanged.
Life withers with time.
So, too then, must the art that we celebrate and use to record the process of this existence, this great mystery.
For me, Charlie was the art last night.
And he was the only piece that was allowed to walk out of that gallery and back into the everyday chaos of being.
