This was the sky last night. I was at a private party for some special artists – I was working the party, stationed at the front door.
I loved the sky. This old building was across the street, and the sky was a brilliant blue. There was a cool breeze rushing down the dead-end road, near the tracks in part of the Northeast warehouse area.
Artists from a wide range of disciplines were showing up for a foundation’s celebration, a celebration of the artists themselves. There was food and drinks and performances.
It was sort of an organized happening.
There were people of all ages, wearing everything from shorts and nasty old t-shirts to tuxedos. No one knew how to dress for such an occasion – everyone dressed as they wanted.
Old friends were glad to see each other again, to talk about the past and about the present.
I wasn’t one of the special artists. Almost no one there knew who I was. That was fine. I was genuinely happy to see various artists – writers, choreographers, musicians, performers of many kinds, photographers – all being celebrated.
People rolled in to the event in a constant flow – everyone excited to be there, to see who else would show up.
One man seemed most excited that his 18 year old son had decided to join the festivity. He had to ask if it was going to be ok that his kid be there.
“It’s not the kind of thing he usually would come to. He’s 18, you know?”
And that’s how the highlight for me became when I saw the kid show up, wearing a decent pair of pants and tucked in button-up shirt. Spit shined for his father’s big party. His father, the artist. The same artist I overheard talking about his night-shift day-job. I wondered if the kid only came because this is Father’s Day weekend? If that was his motivation, does it matter?
I was struck by the light of the sky, and thought I’d capture my own slight bit of art on a night celebrating artists. And I took this shot with my phone.
Just like the party – art, and a pretty picture, is always around us. In some way, I guess, life can always be a happening.