A burst of spontaneity went unfilled this weekend. On my way into work on Thursday I realized there was nothing on the books holding me to the Twin Cities. This is one of the last weekends I will be enjoying in the way other people enjoy weekends; free from work for a full two days. Making the mistake of looking at my work calendar, I realized the next time I’d be getting home to Milwaukee would be Thanksgiving. My drive into work made me toss hygiene away and embrace an impulsive nature. At the end of the work day I was planning on heading east on 94 instead of my usual west. All the while debating which family member's clothes would fit me the best.
With a call home… I was basically told I am annoying for springing it on them. So I headed my usual west. Sad. Still … not much on the books for obligation or entertainment.
So I thought I’d take a bike over to Minneapolis for the LoLa art crawl. LoLa is cutsie for League of Longfellow Artists. I have always loved open gallery exhibitions. One of the few things I miss about Brew City (the city itself) was their Gallery Night in the Third Ward. A brisk summer night walking from gallery to café to private studio to restaurant back to gallery always made for a great night. Longfellow is a residential neighborhood settled along the Minneapolis side of the great Mississippi River divide. It’s hardly a spot for warehouses and massive studio space. I wish it were. Those were always my favorite stops. Process attracts me to the nitty gritty studios over the polished gallery. Within those paint-splattered walls, there is evidence of their craft - pieces nearing completion and some in their infancy. It’s a chance to compare artistic notes and make a mental inventory of the supplies and tools that clutter the shelves. I’m always secretly hoping to find a brush that is sitting in my bin at home or a brand that’s familiar. As if I have something in common with people that are actually good at art.
The most beautiful thing I saw today wasn’t listed on the yellow laminated map that guided me. It was somewhere in between the red star I had just left at 38th & 42nd and the red star I was set out to find on 39th & 39th. Along my walk I was coming up on a corner lot with a decorative swing at its edge. The kind of swing that is often ornamental and seemingly unused. The kind of swing that goes along with the shrunken wooden benches and is nestled between oversized planters.
This swing was different.
This swing supported the weight of a man with his back to me. A man in a black top hat with his ankles gingerly crossed, rocking himself with his toes. The grass beneath his feet was worn as if he’s been there before. I could hear the slight, familiar creaking of the forward and back motion. I got nervous as I got closer. I got nervous at the thought of seeing his face or hearing his voice in the form of a casual hello. Part of me wanted to know if that swing was being sat on with a smile or a frown or a simple contemplative indifference. But more of me wanted to hold that image the way I approached it. So I turned. I turned to let my imagination get the best of me. I turned at the fright of a beautiful idea crashing into a jarring reality. I turned at the hope that for the rest of the day … I will be wondering if there was even a man there at all.
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