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| fig. a) the courtesy of song |
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| fig. a) to the Westward, ho |
A dozen or so artists from Chicago are invited to St Louis to participate in a group show. It's an uncommonly warm Mardi Gras weekend. The show is installed in a downtown space among the tallrises that are the somewhat derelict remains from an older century's booms and bust. Before being commandeered as a culture hub, the 4th or 5th floor of this building was an unremarkable industrial space. But by 2002 it's already imagining itself being transformed into a flattering collection of spare roomlets, each with a stainless micro-kitchen and a brisk patio for bachelor inspired hibachi maneuvers.
Once the drinking and the revelry is over and we've picked ourselves up off of the floors and pulled ourselves up from the short sofa's, when we've finally poked at our last beers, brushed our teeth and had a good-morning cigarette or two, then we'll gather up for brunch at the fluffy little crepe shack back in the gallery district. We are 4 abutted tables long, drinking our coffees black and chewing up all of the buttery eggs unless we are actually one long table and waiting for our turn to complain about the other sons of molybdenum getting the jam.
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| fig.a) harvest angels |
After breakfast, while standing in the rain, we make our good bye noises. Some of us stop to look up before flying away like the jerks we are. Psychogeography, channeling the arbitrary nature of suggestion, of theater and the pull of it's narrative. That's the joke, right? We'll get most of it back when we're done here. There'll be a missing print and the map tacks are going to be damaged but most of it arrives inside of a dented shoebox anyways. Someone does get hurt, but someone's always getting hurt in the rapey bowling alley and the trashcan will stay lost.
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