It was not supposed to rain today. I had rallied troupes from several walks of life to meet me at Heritage for an outing. I left early (9am! the chickens were barely up) so I could get some errands done on the way. I left so early that my brain was not functioning clearly and I didn't register that rain = rain cancellation. So I went to the big city and did my grocery shopping and then I realized that even if it wasn't canceled, I didn't so much want to sit on wet grass for a show. Nope. So we turned it into a playdate.
And when I got home a strange thing happened. I've been spending so much time amid a flock of children that when my own two dashed by as I made dinner, I thought (fleetingly) where are the others?!?. I'm telling you, all my marbles are in the driveway.
So it was a good thing I was invited out this evening, away from the very short people who thunder through my home. I had to go because the invitation was completely fabulous. It was geared towards artists, of which I am not one. But I am always glad to be included in groups of artists.
When I go out with artistsOne party invitation this summer suggested bringing a change of clothes. I like that.
They talk about language and the cubists and the dadaists
And I try to catch their meanings
And keep up with all the martinis
I don't know which should be my favorite paintings
(Crash Test Dummies)
Another invitation had hand-stamped squid amid the calligraphy. Also very good.
This invitation specified when to leave: "when the hostess brushes her teeth and puts her pajamas on." I like that, too. Because I always wonder what people are thinking when they put a closing time on their party invitations. As if they have any power WHATSOEVER over when people decide to get out of their house. And honestly, if I've gone to all the trouble of cleaning my house, I'm not going to ask people to leave. Not that I clean my house for parties. Obviously.
I have to say, artist parties have come a long way since I started working in the arts. I seem to remember more pizza boxes. I remember one artist couple who had a large pile of dirt in their back yard. They had turned it into an installation with the help of a couple hundred little green army figures. I also remember some artists who lived in an old piano store. It was strange yet marvelous to sit in the display window and watch the urban scene go by. The home I went to today was photo-shoot worthy (not that the other ones weren't). Jennifer lives above her gallery and if it weren't for the polite sign it would be impossible to tell where gallery stopped and living space started. Very, very lovely. And me without my camera.
The artists in my life have largely been replaced by musicians. I hadn't noticed the shift, but there it is. It makes me a little nostalgic for those days of art openings and crazy stories and inimitable lifestyles (not that musicians don't have crazy stories and inimitable lifestyles).
I could go on and on about the people who found a dead porcupine and tried stewing it to get the quills for art work (failing stinkily) or the back yard that became a series of found-object sanctuaries in response to the neighbors' complaints about the piles of junk. But for now I'll just be grateful to have known more than my share of fascinating people. Dang I've lived a charmed life. Keep those party invites coming.