I'm a bit fried (mentally and physically) after taking the long way around east to the bordering neighbourhood of Bushwick, Boswijck- the little town in the woods.The place where art is actually made around here. I was there surrounded by artists and art seekers. I felt like I was in in deep space; a great void where the light of only a handful of stars touched my eyes there in the infinite dark.
Both Hugo and I have been making it a point to spend as little time as possible loafing in the apartment; especially now that the weather is much nicer. Yesterday we made a long journey by foot to the International Center of Photography in midtown to see the WeeGee exhibit there. We chose to take the subway back when we both felt our throats getting scratchy from the 'festive' airs blowing around the city. We had every intention of visiting 950 Hart for a show opening, but it got too late and we did not want to get sick.
Today would have been a visit to the Met except Hugo received and email from his agent urging that he go check out the hippest of the hip open studios in all of New York. I agreed to go and see for myself what has become of this blossoming gutter flower. For me, it was a mixed bag of valiant efforts, trivial crap, and modest accomplishments.
I felt like a complete alien there, though. Sooo many artists and I was drifting from studio space to studio space wondering why I was so disconnected. It would have been completely depressing were I not rescued several times throughout this adventure by the appearance of more than one familiar face- happy coincidental meetings that brightened my darkening outlook on the day.
Hugo's mind was caught up in trying to figure out how he could get one of those studio spaces to work in. All I wanted to do was run away from the cool, party people roving the streets. I don't know if I just needed to eat some dinner or what, but the worst building we went into was at 56 Bogart St. I felt some really bad energy there. It was not scary, but very wrong. Sure the people there where drunk and pretentious, but this feeling was bordering on demonic. I felt sick. The smell of various art chemicals did not help my situation either. My Human is immune to such feelings. He is, by far, saner than I am.
Finally seeing all we could stand, we slogged back the straight way to Williamsburg, to the apartment, to a stairwell full of pot smoke and have crashed out for the night. I am forcing myself to write out something blog worthy while Human engages himself with Breaking Bad.. and now A.I. - as I can hear. I feel like I have not done anything of my own work. I have not read. I have not studied. I do not compose. I fall behind while I try to catch up with office work. It never ends and there is no winning this game. The best I have done these days is wrestle fight and argue with sketchbooks and drink too much coffee...
I will go curl up next to my Human and watch a movie before bed. I love my Human. And that is the happy note I will end with.