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More there to support the owner than anything else, and maybe hob-nob a bit with the hoity-toity of Nelson.
It takes 5 minutes to survey the exhibition, trees, landscapes, a few abstractions, competent but not good, grab a few hors d'oeuvres, a mocktail, chat briefly with an attractive woman approaching my age, she asks my favourite of the works and I'm at a loss, hopefully she's not one of the artists and I realize I can't possibly hold in my opinions too much longer and bail.
The crowd, mostly in their late 60's to 80's, well attended with about 30 or so people, bloody hell, and the artists are going to speak on their work that requires absolutely no explaining or interpretation - none at all, more excusing than anything, and I'm out...
I was glad of the no wingman, had I been dragged to sit through their speaking - unless their eloquence lay in words (clearly not form or colour), had I had to sit through that I might have topped myself...
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Thursday night off and it's been a few months since I've been to the Nelson Museum.
Knock on the neighbour's door, invite her along. She's in, agrees, and pops back in to her place to grab a sweater and takes 15 minutes and emerges asking for a zip, fully dressed for a night on the town.
I admire this, she looked at my shirt, read the situation, and adapted Pronto. She's a fine wingman.
***
The artist, David Garneau, I've never heard of him but a Metis Artist out of Saskatchewan, University of Regina, his work, very good. He's done well.
His paintings, competent, resembling things I've also conceived (in the 3D, not the 2D because I'd rather find things and assemble them then render them with a talent I don't possess), and so we've this in common. While I'm not thinking from the indigenous bent or the highly politicized (rightfully) injustices done to the First Nations and Metis, we seem to have come to similar juxtapositions of the natural, literary, contemporary worlds.
I enjoyed the exhibits, the quality of the paintings - painting these things is not my goal - but his - and his renderings are fine. The accompanying poetry, political statements, well...aptly chosen, and they inspired my date to infinite weeping, but I'm at an art gallery, not a library...
***
The Wingman, she enjoyed it all, and I had to tear her away, she'd have stayed long past closing reading and crying at every article. She's an interesting one, this neighbour, she's grateful for every kindness shown, makes the effort, seems to understand, and yet - well, there's something else going on entirely in her head that I can't fathom. Other minds.
***
Link: David Garneau on Wikipedia
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Winter passes and all my prospecting is done on YouTube.
A couple months yet before I have my jeep, before the weather is good enough to get out and about.
So I've found a new channel, I'll call it "The Midnight Prospector", because he's out looking for pegmatites in various counties in Colorado, and while he's finding stuff (usually feldspar and smoky quartz crystals) it's never "Great" and never in quantity enough to pay for the expedition. But he's got a "method" to his madness, which he charts out, shows how he's prospecting the veins, how he's looking for the miarolitic cavities, how he's determining whether he's getting closer (to fuck-all, generally) or farther away...
Anyways, I watch them. They're OK, and at least he's finding - "discovering" - stuff, not great stuff, but stuff.
It's a new take on how I should be working the field.
The "Midnight" comes in because for some dumb-ass reason he overstays his time on the mountain and half of his prospecting is done in the dark, by headlamp, before he heads back to camp. Not in just one video, but several. Which is such an inane thing, but, there you have it, such is the age we live in...
3 months. I check for jeeps daily on YouTube, work out my magical financing, 3 months and I'm up the mountain, finding my own shit, and there's shit to be found, mark my words...
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I haven't been for a year, maybe 2.
The same, a new venue, downstairs in the Nelson Boxing Club. Some new faces, some old ones.
The talent, easily ranging from a 1 (incoherent ramblings without rhyme or reason on various themes) to a 10, a well-memorized poem with rhyme scheme and accessible themes.
The judging, well, the worst of them probably averaged an 8.5 or 9. The best of them averaged an 8.75 or 9.
So, the poetry slam, never a judge of quality but perhaps a good place to practice one's skills. Just don't get your hopes up that quality or talent will be recognized or rewarded...
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Monday night, I've picked up a ticket to a concert at St. Saviour's, Kitty-Corner from Oso.
I've never been inside, old Anglican Church, from the outside quite beautiful.
Monday night, on the inside, cozy, beautiful as well. Find my pew.
The concert, 2 classical guitarists, one violinist, very good, but not playing anything that grabs me. I'm not engaged. But I wait it out, they're good, charming, the audience, probably average age 70+, maybe a hundred people.
In the end, not what I was hoping for. The church, brought back memories for sure, but the music, well, not my thing. That's OK, you pay for these and sooner or later someone will deliver, these "trials" or "forays", they're just feelers into those places I should be a little more often...