And again.
I went to Yuri‘s opening at Gallery 360 last night. Now, I like little galleries, and I like odd gatherings of people, and I like Yuri a hell of a lot, because he is talented and also a rockstar. Not literally, but you know. I got there and climbed my way through the crowd, and found Yuri in the gallery in back, surrounded by his work and lots of people he knew, and more people he didn’t know, and also a large plate full of cheese and grapes. I like Yuri’s work a ton, because he uses a lot of found materials, wood and stone and metal. His painting is emotional and lonely and occasionally paranoid. And I realized that when I like artwork, I couldn’t really tell you why, other than that I relate to it on some visceral level. I couldn’t explain to you about the use of color or the interplay of light and dark, or the artistic metaphor, those phrases that the other people there can throw around so readily. So that got me thinking, while I was standing there laughing with Yuri’s fellow artists, one of whom was dressed in a suit with a Pac-Man-ghost pin on it, and kept shaking a pill bottle over his head, and the other of whom had braces and was trying to explain to me about the French inhale, which I told him sounded dirty, prompting the first one to exclaim very loudly that he was putting the moves on me, and now I’ve lost track of what I was saying. Oh, right. What I was thinking about while I was there was that as much as I like events like that, they’re not my thing. I have this awareness of not quite fitting in, even though I know that most people there wouldn’t guess otherwise. So then I remembered that there were a few times in the past couple months where I was at a place and I suddenly stopped, because I had that sense that I did belong there. That it was absolutely my thing, that I was in my element, surrounded by other people like me. And the sad thing is, I can’t remember where that was. There are plenty of places I go and feel right at home, like the usual restaurants, or certain shops, or work, or the gym, or my classes. But that’s not it, exactly. I guess the closest thing would be the coffeeshop or Luce, but that’s mainly because I go there all the time, and so I’m treated like I belong. Which might be different. I’m not quite sure. I wish I could remember. I’m sure it’ll happen again, and this time I’ll be sure to let you know. If for no other reason than I need a written record of the shit I’m always forgetting. Jenni