Artwalk

[Igor, Froderick]

Here's a story part memoir, part fiction of an event I attended last night. Comments welcome!

That night was the downtown artwalk. Max made up his mind. He was gonna go. The past few had some decent artwork, but it was a blur. Always an appreciator of creativity and expression—and a writer himself—Max often tried to pick out one piece that spoke to him most. But the last two times he went, no art had “grabbed” him.

The night he went to the last artwalk someone died. Not someone he knew, but a friend of a friend. An acquaintance. A group of friends and their friends had met up for the festivities, and afterwards—being so close to the clubs on main street—decided to grab some drinks and schmooze with the scantily-clad, fight-over-me college girls.

In close proximity to a few colleges, the downtown area was the epicenter of youthful exuberance and drunkenness. Even in the age of Uber and Lyft, the DUI toll in the area was copious. Young invincibles not knowing their limits, showing off their nonchalance filled the squad cars weekly.
The irony was, not one block away from the unscrupulous bartenders and nightcap dispensaries sat the city’s police department. Rote officers sentineled the streets of young high-heeled wobblers and puff-chested prowlers—waiting for them to stumble behind the steering wheel.

Unfortunately, Gavin—the acquaintance—had too much to drink the night they last went to the artwalk. No one stopped him from getting into his car, managing freeway access, and dying in a collision.

After Max heard of the tragedy he’d avoided the downtown area. He waited some time before deciding to again check out the community event. This night he had a goal to find that gem of an artpiece—to search, hunt, observe for an artistic rendering that infused him with something: Something spiritual, awakening, inspiring.

Max met up with some friends. They hadn’t planned to drink this time.

It was an old downtown area. Original brick buildings monumented main street, some of which had been old ballrooms where Jazz once blared while our grandparents jitterbugged and mixed pheromones, culminating their nights in the now built-over parking lots in the backs of Buicks and conceiving our very own baby boom parents.

Antiquated warehouses were rented out to showcase local artists’ work, and as Max walked through the displays and presentations he soaked in the creativity, admiring the effort and time and blood spent by local youths and veterans to compose and share their souls in the conduits of paint and ink.

As it grew late a band had started playing at the patio of a coffee shop. Next to the musicians were artists showing off their wares and talents. One guy, Jim, had drawn a mannequin head with a third eye using brushes and a gallimaufry of watercolors, resplendent and channeling, almost like an optical illusion of a hologram. Max thought the mannequin head looked like a vampire Jared Leto, his lips slightly highlighted red like The Joker’s but his face malnourished and thin like his tragic role in Dallas Buyer’s Club.

The band was hypnotic, intoxicating. A blend of Radiohead, Flaming Lips, Tool, and Yes never sounded so refreshing. While it wasn’t the traditional artpiece, the lively music surely didn’t escape his appreciation, nor that of the gathered crowd. Coffees and mocha-everythings in hand, the onlookers smiled, nodded heads, clapped and cupped hands to voice approbations in the ears of friends over the amplified art.

Caffeinated listeners of tattoo-legal teens, college-age child lookalikes, and a few equivocal grownups of middling age looked on. Club goers walked by, indifferent. Stilettoed, buxom, twenty-something girls trotted past, occasionally stumbling on uneven pavement before ingesting their first apple-tini. Their male followers gawked at the tight skirts, looking to get lucky before the alcohol consumption eventually consumed them all.

The band took some time between songs to wish their cellist/ bassist a happy birthday. They encouraged the audience to sing along the familiar tune. The audience beamed, including Max and his friends. The band resumed, and he felt himself still smiling inside.

A car alarm squawked in a nearby parking lot, its tone almost matching the music. Opposed to plan, nothing singularly captivated Max at the artwalk that evening. He didn’t care.

[omferas]

I was passed from here and you thank God guided you