Cold creek water, running over ones boots, seeping in between the seams, wetting socks, numbing toes. The sun resting sleepily on the western horizon, an hour from all but disappearing for the day, extending shadows from the mountains and canyons hidden below them. In these moments the caddis rise from the water, hatching from below the surface, hovering inches to feet above the creek. Deep pools that are hidden contain what one is after, browns, goldens, and rainbows lurking in the dark still waters waiting for just this time of day. And then they rise, breaking the calm, lurching into the air, snapping, falling under.
Another cigarette outside the gallery, another group gathered to escape for quiet conversations away from the maddening din inside, fueled on emotions and wine. The small semi circle attracts the attention of others, ones unaware of the show, the artists involved, the celebration of new work. “Yes, we met originally 23 years ago, pretty remarkable story” I hear myself saying. More questions, but that’s not the reason for the night, for standing on Hollywood Blvd at 8 in the evening, causing note, observing. “Do you have a light?”, sure, someone must. Ashing onto someones star, an unknown name etched in coppery bronze, the light to dim to make it out clearly. Then back in, to conversations about music, paintings, and the work.
I have no idea what it is. We can sit here for hours looking at something, staring, smiling. Eventually a bottle of wine is opened, two glasses poured, more questions. Maybe we are trying to make it be what it isn’t? No, it is correct. What if we move this element over here, then shift its axis slightly? No, leave it. Should we move it into the studio or leave it out here? Bring some lights out, its not too cold, it will be fine out here tonight. Spot lights are set up. And we sit together and silently look, noticing shadows, tension points, its change of colour. I know she is right, it is correct.