The space they own is two storefronts next to each other. On the the left side, the farmer's market side where they sell fresh fruit, and art, and baked goods on Fridays nights through the springsummer, John took a whole wall to document, in a kind of timeline, his last year's hike along the Pacific Northwest trail, a trail that runs from the desert along the US-Mexican border, through high desert and then mountainous forests, all the way up to a pass in the mountains at the Canadian border. He used photographs, and diary entries, and explanations penciled right on the wall to tell the story of his journey. He also hung some of his gear along the path: an icepick that he said he had first taken as kind of a joke symbolizing the end of the trip on the snow, but ended up as one of his most useful tools, even becoming a significant player in a 40-person, 4-hour ordeal that kept a tree lit ablaze by an exploding Sterno can from becoming a forest fire; his resewed backpack which had held the fish oil tablets that prompted a six-inch-from-your-face-400 lb.-black-bear wake up call, followed by a wild, screaming (two voiceless weeks followed), barefoot chase after the bear which concluded with a full-frontal charge at the bear, who finally dropped the now fishoilless, but ripped apart, bag, but didn't rip John to shreds somehow; and a Nickelodeon brand toy camera which he used before it crapped out in the middle of the most beautiful part of the hike, but still got some great pictures form none the less.
I took my time with the journey. Read the diary entries. Meditated on the pictures. Was moved by his essential humanity that I saw sparkling in each little piece of the whole wall. By the time I reached the mid-point, however, Oriole Post, a folksy band helmed by Rachel Bonar, had set up in the corner and started playing. I finished up the diary entry I was reading, John's tightwild handwriting on long thin cards, and listened to a couple of songs.
On the way home from work, we had dropped by our house to grab our new wireless router off the porch (our new, fancy wireless network is called TheRectory), and then headed over to to the Freak Show to decide where to go for dinner before we went to Bad Seed. Chipotle was the first suggestion, and a good one, and a delicious one, oh indeed, but I thought it might be cooler to go somewhere more sitty-downy, which is the kind of meal I like best. You're comfy, and friends chat longer than they should really have time for, and it's good.
We narrowed it down even further to family-style eating, and decided on Buca di Beppo, Korma Sutra or New Peking. Adam didn't want Indian, and Jill didn't want Italian, and Sam sometimes works at New Peking and knows the menu quite well as a result, and even gets a discount sometimes, so there we went. We had the salt and pepper shrimp, which comes whole and you're not even supposed to shell them when you eat them; and Adam's favorite the House Beef; and some spicy beef fried rice with broccoli and tofu. Also, because it's so fun, the five of us shared an appetizer sampler for one person -- because it comes with flaming gel in a little iron pot that's supposed to be used sear the one beef kabob it comes with. Fire! Every meal is better with a fire to sit around, no matter how small. Candles, and campfires, purple flaming gel for beef searing, whatever. Our server, who looks Asian, but endearingly used the term "ya'll," gave us extra gel for extra fire, and the bus boy guy was refilling our waters faster than we were drinking them almost, and we had a good time.
The house beef has garlic. And I had the house beef. So at Bad Seed, I found myself in the middle of a large tight gathering crowd of Oriole Post listeners, friends and strangers and people who I know, but I can't count among friends for a wide variety of merely circumstantial reasons, with garlic breath. Ah, alas.
After a couple of songs, Rachel's brother Kyle jumped in on the muted trumpet, an instrument he'd only picked up at Christmas, she said, as a gift from their grandmother who had wanted to learn her whole life but learned that starting at 70-ish does not supply you with sufficient lung capacity. Rachels' mom and dad were sitting up at the top of the stairs by one of those classic second story warehouse offices, and they confirmed the story. The place was packed with people I know from church, Mike Crawford and fam, the Keels, Beth Mercer, Tim Bridgham . . . like, everyone, really. It's cool to see an artist like John so supported by the whole community. I love the fact that our monthly leadership community dinners, the artists are invited along with the prayer team, and the music people, and the small group leaders. Let the artists see the vision too.
Anyway, We were standing by Don and Lori Chafer, and I heard them mumble something about 'going around.' Then I saw them leave the building behind me and a minute later reappear on the far side of the crowd.
At this point my heart was already stirring in that deepwater feeling of art that I get sometimes. Something akin to the feeling of getting delightfully lost in a large library, and then the added bonus finding books you'd sort of always hoped had been written. I hadn't seen the paintings yet, which were the real reason I'd come. For a while, when I'd seen him in passing, John had been talking and hinting about these huge paintings that he'd done to express what'd been going on in his mind and heart since coming back from the trail. So, the Chafers reappearance on the far side of the crowd prompted me to seek out the other gallery. I grabbed Jill and we threaded out of the crowd to the street to go see it.
On the right side of the building, the Bad Seed has a retail space, which (as I understand it) they're trying to lease out, but in the meantime, let John use to paint and exhibit. The walls were white, and the floor was concrete, and the six paintings hung like they were supposed to be there. And they were. Painted and shown in the same room. Not something you see often.
When we came in, John was standing in the middle of the gallery, talking with some people. I told him something too gushy (and maybe a little garlic-y), I'm sure, about how good the whole show was, and how impressed I was. He looked a little shell-shocked, even that early in the evening. I know he's an extrovert, but he's talked about how being out alone on the trail for so long made it really hard to be around lots of people. Maybe that's still going on.
But the paintings? I don't even think I can describe them. I've never seen abstracts like these. Strong lines and scandalous colors layered on huge canvases, each with a title and a poem to help explain. John let me take a picture of one. I forgot the exact title, but it's something like 'the hope and sorrow of time travelers.' This picture does not capture the scope and color of the piece, but at least it'll give you a vague notion of his brilliance.
I spent some time engrossed in the paintings. And I meandered back behind to where the Chafers were, and listened to some more Oriole Post, and talked to Dave Blattner. And then I meandered back. On a table in the gallery, there was a guest book. I wrote something about there being enough time in the world to let the all this art dribble down from the corners of my mouth; there was too much. Next to the guest books was a single poster advertising the show. I thought about taking it, but it didn't seem right. It looked good on that table. But a few minutes later, Oriole Post finished up, and I was able to get back over to the other side and finish looking at John's journey. And on the way, Sam showed us a poster he'd found in a stack on a chair somewhere, and we took one from the stack, and Jill got it signed, and now it sits on top of our book shelves, sandwiched between our poster that says "Despair: It's always darkest just before it goes pitch black," and out ostentatious large canvassy picture of us that my aunt and uncle made with their new business that does things like that.
After I went through the rest of the journey timeline, Jill and I hung around talked to Kyle Bonar, and then later Jenn Nolongeragneiwishicouldeverrememberhermarriedlastname. The garlic did not help the easy flow of conversation, but such is life. In the course of the conversations, both Jenn and Kyle asked what we were doing later. We said we were going to Halliday's fashion show, but only later did I realize they were maybe inviting us to hang out with them. Which is cool, because, growing up at OBC, Kyle was a cool guy, PK, off with his own stuff going on, someone I never thought I'd hang out with. And Jenn and I never seemed to be able to get along in youth group, ever. So to find ourselves in a place where we might evers pend time together intentionally is pretty cool.
It's been a lot better lately, but I've spent most of my life just assuming that I'm offending, like, everyone I spent any time with. Jenn especially, looking back. I got to the point where I didn't trust myself to make a good impression, so I just went with being me, bold and over-intellectual, sometimes at the expense of other people's feelings. But I'm trying to learn. Kind of like how I like Chinese food these days, and can tolerate mayo and Miracle Whip on sandwiches, and even pets sometimes (but seriously, people, I know they're cute, but do you realize how much we as a country spend on pets). But it's slow. Some days I get excited and say things that don't make any sense, or come off wrong, or I get all brainy and Jill gives me a a look. But I guess we've all got our brokenness to live with.
Then we ran into Andy Woolard, and talked about his blogs, his dad's blog, and the Interwoven Threads shirts (the new line's coming in a couple of weeks) we've been buying for presents for people since Christmas, and some other stuff. We met Andy in the first small group we were in at Jacob's Well, one that didn't end so well, with people with hurt feelings, and nobody talking about it. The remnants of that group eventually merged with our pre-existing Saturday night group. So it was cool to get to talk to Andy.
And then we left. Adam and Emily seemed ready to go, and Sam had to be home to go see Run, Fatboy, Run with his friend Tonya, who he works with at the Metropolitan Ensemble Theatre, and some other people, and we were going to Halliday's show.
But Jill called Halliday's roomate, Jill's friend, Jo Lee, and Halliday's show was already over, so those of us who were left walked down to the plaza on a gorgeous night and saw Run Fatboy Run, which was a typical comedy, but still funny becuase of Simon Pegg and Hank Azaria.
And then we went to bed because we were going to the farmer's market the next day with Amanda. and to see John talk about his show. And to set up the wireless network. but that's for another post.
Note 1: If you want to see some more pictures of what went down at John's show, a glimpse of some of the other pieces at least, check out the bottom of this set at Tim Samoff's Flickr.
Note 2: This blog post has been composed listening to the following: the sounds of other people answering the phone here at work; On Soundclick: Jukebox Heart, Radio Sky 70, Creeps, What You Got, Traveller, Taking Away my Good Feelings, Imo Fight You, and 4th of July [heck, yes] by Lowry; several people restarting their computer on the phone; and an awful lot of background talk about some sort of national championship.
No comments:
Post a Comment