Don't Inhale

"Tiffany, it's Aunt Judy."

This is the start of the message I found on the studio's answering machine when I opened this morning.  Perhaps a month ago the same lady left a similar message for Tiffany on our line, but this time she left callback numbers along with her message of love for her niece.  There seemed genuine notes of concern and longing in her voice, so it may be a nice idea to phone and let her know she is using the wrong - or out of date - number to reach out to her family member.

There seems to be a heaviness about people this holiday season, a burden of tension that I've not noticed before.  Conversation has often turned to health concerns - "How long have you been vegetarian?" "How often do you run?" "Do you smoke? Have you ever? I used to, but like Bill Clinton, never inhaled."  These are the sorts of comments I'm hearing more regularly now.  Inquiries that acknowledge that there is a shadow of doubt about choices both past and current.

Walking about Saint John sees many down-turned eyes, people with thoughts elsewhere.  Just  entering Brunswick Square, doors don't get held, smokers are gathered around every exit (can anyone share what the smoking legislation is here in Saint John?) and many are on edge.  Just try using a crosswalk without experiencing the death-stare of a pissed-off taxi driver or walk the uptown sidewalks without having to surrender your space to someone unwilling to share the concrete.

Anxiety without a positive action begets anger.  I am going to keep trying to invoke a force of positivity in my environment, however insignificant it may seem and I encourage others to do the same.  It's not easy, especially when holding your breath to avoid noxious fumes as you pass that "no smoking" sign.  Cigarette smoke is dangerous - read the packages - but inhaling negativity affects so much more.

Strutting

Saint John shone and shimmered during its Saint Strut event to support the Saint John Regional Hospital's pediatric department, as five hundred gathered at the Delta Brunswick to celebrate fashion, film and architecture and I, in full support of my lovely Holly, played the fly on the wall while she toiled.

Being alone at a public event presents on opportunity for many things and I could have made myself extremely useful, networking our studio or making new connections, but it served more as a time for observation, rejuvenation and absorption - both of the atmosphere and, after paying the $40 ticket price, the complimentary glass of wine.

Vessel in hand, I drank in the many wonderful donations for the silent auction, noticing a couple familiar names on the bid sheet showing their "Kilroy was here," bidding early for recognition.  I bumped the price on the bottle of Chanel No. 5 a whopping fifty cents.

This wasn't the only area in this upscale event where those trying to look as though they fit in stood out from those that actually did.  All seemed to sport fine attire, but most did so effortlessly while those who pushed their club-wear to another level stood out in a way they were likely hoping they wouldn't.  Mel, I'm not necessarily talking about that hideous shirt - I don't think anyone would actually wear that to a club.

I settled into my chosen seat, as the majority of the crowd was doing, and took notice of one exotic couple that was working the room like peacocks, not really making contact with others, but making certain everyone saw that they were present.  She, younger than he, led the way, as their fingers formed a possessive bond that sent a message to the room - this one's mine - as though it was only this contact that held the relationship together.  Both were tall and attractive, she wearing a tight, stylish dress that ended just past her bottom, and he looking like an older Mike Bossy - distinguished yet athletic and powerful.

At the intermission I spotted the opportunity to check in with Holly (and claim possession of her wine glass) then, after resigning myself in error that dessert consisted only of cheese, grapes and crackers, found the holy grail of delectable sweets and was brought right back to elementary school class parties when my best friend and I would gorge ourselves so quickly and egregiously that we would spend most of the time in the hallway nursing our ridiculously upset digestive tracks.

My hat goes off to the organizers and participants who all had a hand in delivering a unique evening of fashion, film, architecture and fundraising.

Art has Power

Many emerged from their homes, eyes not used to that foreign orb in the sky, to an October Saint-John-summer-like-day making them amiable and thirsty for anything outside of the confines of their residences.  That meant many strolling the uptown sidewalks, alert for anything that fills more than their survival need, opening the space in their minds to the satisfaction the arts can provide.

Whether or not they realize art is a need, though not necessarily primal or immediate, they become more willing to entertain the thought of spending good currency that has accumulated in their bank accounts.  That's when they will enter such a radical place as an art gallery.

Early afternoon saw two young girls enter cautiously, skillfully scanning for the dangers new territory can provide, sporting backpacks and soft vinyl lunch boxes.

"Hello."

A smile lit the first girl's face and her posture became noticeably relaxed, "Hi."  They began to take in the treasures around them.

"Oooh," followed by some murmurs as the girl pointed to something on a shelf so her also-Asian friend would take notice.

They moved on past the boutique to the gallery section, drinking in the paintings.

Coming full-circle, the girl stopped at the cash to inquire about the item that first caught her attention.

"Is Meaghan Smith CD for sale or part of the display?" she asked quietly, in good, but somewhat broken English.

"It is for display.  If you really want it, I could probably sell it to you and order another from Amazon though, that's where I purchased that one."

"Oh.  Yes, please.  I tried to get it at HMV, but they said they don't carry any of Meaghan Smith's anymore.  They told me I would have to buy it from Amazon, but I don't have a credit card.  I could pay with debit?"

"The miniature paintings with the CD are also by Meaghan Smith.  Do you follow her on Facebook?"

"Yes, they are so cute.  She very talented."

"Is $15 for the CD okay?"  I couldn't remember how much I paid, but thought that should cover it... I ended up being off by 75 cents... I'm not going to make money this way!

 "Yes.  Thank you very much."

She left the store atwitter, like something you'd see in a '50's teen movie, with her friend, only having to return a couple hours later to retrieve the lunch bag she left behind.

"Oh, sorry," as I passed her the square case, "I was too excited," she explained apologetically.

In between her visit I was pleased to welcome a lovely lady we lease a parking space from to our studio.  Being the beginning of the month, she was nice enough to offer to come by for her money so she would be able to see this new entity.

As I offered information about our artists and artisans, we were both able to share some personal details and thoughts about our lives and the places and people that inhabit them.

"I like this a lot," as she paused at one painting.

"He's from Fredericton.  I like his work very much and that is one of my favourites."

Fingers to lip, as she took a slow step back to absorb the piece.  "Yes.  That is nice."

She turned and continued to take in the rest of the works as I tutored about the artists.

"I don't like that stuff," pointing.  "That sort of stuff doesn't appeal to me."

"No, art has to speak to you and they all have different conversation styles."

We were back at the front and I took out my wallet to pay for October's parking."

Almost surprised, she said, "I'd like to place that as a deposit on that painting I like."

Art has that power, that ability to touch you when you're not expecting it, but are mentally open to the possibilities.