Tidepool of Memory
The floorboards creak as I walk through the rooms of this 100-year-old seaside building. Not the dusty, gritty groan of a house in the final throes of its existence... these are the creaks of a well-loved and lived-in place. The boards are golden yellow, something that is easy to keep clean and keeps all your attention on the walls, which are the real star of the show. We have driven halfway across the continent to be here. This gallery wasn't the goal, just a happy discovery when we came here to experience the hearts and faces of those we love. Every year in the fall, they rent a big swanky beach house and invite us, their dry, weary friends from Dust Meridian. And are we happy to accommodate! The homes are always spectacular, the food terrific, the scenery is quintessentially beach... and the faces and hearts—world-class. What fool wouldn't make this pilgrimage every chance they got? Sand, beer, laughter, and the sound of gulls. Perfection! Tonight, we have calved off for a side mission. Two artists always on the prowl to make art or look at it, we have stumbled upon an artist's co-op: KDH Cooperative Gallery & Studio. Not quite as creatively named as we'd like, but perfectly functional and serving to draw these two moths to the promise of colorful flames. The 4-foot-tall letters of 'GALLERY' on the fence are what really got our attention. Someone should help them with their main signage though. Yikes! But, bonus points for the winged zebra out by the roadside. Well played, KDH Cooperative! The art here is terrific. It is cram-packed! I like all galleries. But sometimes, they drift toward too austere. Modern tends to do that. But a place like this, they know their clients. Tourists flush with cash looking for a place to buy a memory. Once, in West Africa, we found ourselves at a loss. Western tourists buy, buy, buy. We experience, but we are always looking for a t-shirt or a keychain. West Africa does not suffer that foolishness and we found ourselves quite literally without anything to buy! That is not the case here. The art is beautiful and colorful, well-crafted, and on brand for this oceanside town here on the OBX. From the parking lot, I can see the Wright Brothers Memorial Monument over the treetops, and behind me, over the din of traffic on Hwy 158, I can hear the hush of the ocean. All manner of crabs and birds, landscapes, not just a few planes. Ceramics and photography complement the oils and watercolors nicely. There is a very clever artist who has painted typical beach snapshots but blurred, like the camera was shaken. The kind of picture you would throw away, but here, in 24x36, it is very evocative. A universal moment for the beachgoer: the bad photo. Everyone and no one at the same moment. The artists are doing their level best to commodify the Outer Banks experience here in Kill Devil Hills and its adjacent places. I am smitten with a fantasy of moving here and painting my own version of life by the sea. There aren't many pastels; maybe that could be my niche? Or, I could sit all day and fill 24-page sketchbooks and sell them as one-off novels. I'd write some droll story about being lost at sea or finding love on the beach... maybe rip off The Old Man and the Sea and call it The Young Girl and the Tide Pool... I could splay them open in a frame that allowed you to remove the book, flip through it, change the page, and put it back. An interactive piece. Imagine that at your next cocktail party, you white-collar, blue-blood northeasterners! Well, North Carolinians, I guess. To people travel from the NE this far south? This place is not an easy drive from far away. It's like you drive, drive, drive to get to the beach, then drive, drive, drive to get to the OBX. Regardless, I think my original sketchbook scheme might be my retirement plan. My lady and I’ll rent a hovel, or an empty lot, and live in our van and live the bohemian artist's life. Broke, naked, and tan. Just us, music, and our art, made with love. But for now, we find our piece. Our tangible thing that, every time we look at it, will re-fire all of those synapses we are forming during our time here.  9 Birds. We titled it. It was called Plovers in the Surf, but there are 9 birds, and there are 9 of us in the house. 9 warm hearts and buoyant faces. A pair of newlyweds, two of our oldest friends, their daughter (since married, but single then; and with whom I recently learned I have a fence to mend) and her best friend. And us, including my wife's sister. I do not know today that she will die from cancer 4 years from now. The painting is a celebration of color. All but one of the birds gaze longingly at the sky, while one has his/her beak pointed straight at the ground. We will talk about who is who in the painting. At various times one bird will be me, another her, then the others' names will change. When I lie in bed at night, I will be able to see the work in the dim light of the room, and recall the conversations we had, the meals we shared (at night and for breakfast, lunch; fend-for-yourself), the moments together. Playing cornhole, dragging the wagon of beach stuff to the beach, seeing languid bodies spilled over couches reading novels, or hunched over tables assembling puzzles. Playing pool, boardgames, and beer. Swimming pools and hot tubs, sunbathing and competing for best tan (the Latin girls always had an advantage). One year, one of the women decided to show off her newly sculpted body with a gold bikini. It was a sight beheld. Goldfinger would have approved. Our birds sport no bikinis, though. Naked as God intended, save for the beautiful plumage they make themselves. We spot two other pieces today. A ceramic octopus that will delight our friends. Well, her... he, I'm not so sure about. We always foist art on them, and he... well, he seems to enjoy it, but doesn't have the same thrill she does. Different personalities is all. The other, a simple painting of a fish for my sister. Something for her to remember this trip by too. There is a certain je ne sais quoi to buying art. Second only to making or gifting it. But both have a terrific quality, especially when it's the right piece, and today, 9 Birds is perfect. I have loved it from the moment I saw it and every moment since. It is us. Our family. Our love. But, there is more beaching to do. Stowed safely in the overhead, it's time to get back to squidging our toes in the sand and tasting the saltwater as it splashes our face. Back to beer and food and fun and friends. There are warm sunny days ahead. Dark ones too. But for now, we are focused on the good. Basking in the glow of love and happiness. A nd we're serving dinner tonight. I think we'll find some fresh seafood and have a quintessentially ocean meal tonight. Me, and my eight other birds. --- Buying art is second only to making it and giving it; Art is a form of love, not commerce. --- https://www.obxlocalart.com https://maps.app.goo.gl/TCVNFKEgo8Y2oavw5In the depths of a tidepool, I find the universe. In the ebb and flow of memory, I find my heart.
Luke 19:45-48;
45 Then he entered the temple and started to throw out those who were selling, 46 saying to them: “It is written, ‘My house will be a house of prayer,’ but you have made it a cave of robbers.”
47 He continued teaching daily in the temple. But the chief priests and the scribes and the principal ones of the people were seeking to kill him; 48 but they did not find any way to do this, for the people one and all kept hanging on to him to hear him.
Matthew 21:18, 19;
18 While returning to the city early in the morning, he felt hungry. 19 He caught sight of a fig tree by the road and went to it, but he found nothing on it except leaves, and he said to it: “Let no fruit come from you ever again.” And the fig tree withered instantly.
Matthew 21:12, 13
12 Jesus entered the temple and threw out all those selling and buying in the temple, and he overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves. 13 And he said to them: “It is written, ‘My house will be called a house of prayer,’ but you are making it a cave of robbers.”
#art #travel #essay #memory #memoir #osxs #journal #100DaysToOffload #Writing
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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