Gallery Hops: The Art of Living Here

Lyrics

It's not the second Friday.
No crowds, no plastic cups of wine.
Just Tuesday, four o'clock.
The sun is hitting the Hottle Building just so.
And I'm just walking.

Down on Peters Street, a garage door is rolled halfway up.
I smell turpentine. Sharp, clean.
And linseed oil.
Through the gap, I see a canvas bigger than a door.
A universe of blue.
He doesn't see me.
His arm moves, a slow dance with a long-handled brush.
This wall used to hold bolts of cloth, maybe.
Or machine parts in wooden crates.
Now it holds this.

This is the real art stroll.
The quiet hop from window to window.
From one open door to the next.
It's the air we breathe between the train whistle and the stadium roar.
Just living here is a gallery walk.
Seeing the work before it's even named.

Later, walking home past Bell Street.
A new show is opening at Zucot.
I can hear the low hum of voices spilling out.
See the warm light on the sidewalk.
I don't go in.
I just watch the shadows of people moving against the white walls.
They're pointing at things I can't see.
It feels like watching a silent movie of our own lives.

This is the real art stroll.
The quiet hop from window to window.
From one open door to the next.
It's the air we breathe between the train whistle and the stadium roar.
Just living here is a gallery walk.
Seeing the work before it's even named.

Sometimes the film crews come.
They tape off the street, put fake signs on the Elliott Street Pub.
Make it look like Missouri, or a world after the end.
And we watch that, too.
But when they leave, the real scenes remain.
The sculptor on her balcony, welding sparks in the dusk.
The photographer framing the rust on an old steel beam.
That's the picture. That’s the story.

I'm home now.
From my window, I can see three different galleries.
Their lights are like anchors in the dark.
I wonder what they hung today.
I'll see it tomorrow.
Just on my way to get coffee.
Just living.