It was great. The art reception was great. Thank you, everyone who came and took it in! I hadn’t known what to expect, and I was pleasantly surprised. There was a warm sense of community and welcome amongst the artists who’d gathered to show their work. I liked that. The atmosphere and visitors (many of whom were family and friends, including a couple of babies) were casual and friendly and appreciative (barring a tiny gaggle of teenagers who came just for the food). And Maurya did come and play the baby grand with her lovely gentle fingers for awhile, after her dad had sufficiently nagged her (she was on a date). It was all delightful: the guests, the other artists (whose art I gratefully mingled mine with), the atmosphere. Having no real previous experience of my own, I had been vaguely worried that guests (if any came at all) would expect the event to go off like something I’d seen in a movie, where the artists were cerebral and mysterious and devastatingly neurotic and everyone dressed in chic, snug, expensive, unapproachable black and ate tiny fancy appetizers with names ordinary people couldn’t pronounce. My sister Leah had the same misgivings; she frankly told me that while she was sorry she had too many plans and was too many miles away to come, she was secretly relieved that she didn’t have to figure out what to wear to an art reception. What Did you wear? she wanted to know.
Well. What did I wear? Not an important detail, but I made it one of my many issues, along what food to bring. I imagined fresh swirly bread with a balsamic vinegar/olive oil dip, and to-die-for cookies. And I wanted to be sort of dressy in black, but not too dressy (remembering the movie nightmare scenario). Skirt or slacks (certainly not a dress)? In a bit of a panic just a little over an hour before the reception, I abandoned my balsamic/olive oil ambitions and frantically raced through the mall, stopping in dressing rooms long enough to fling a few outfits on and then off again. I rushed home, sweating, with a darling black pencil skirt, a new sweater and cami, and two pairs of heels. At home I ditched the skirt for black pants I found in my closet (which was annoying to Frank, who was with me when I’d found the perfect skirt). My sister Mara Lee finished my bread and cookies and brought them later to the reception, minus the balsamic/olive oil, which I never did have time to create (Mara Lee made honey butter instead—I think, truth be told, that she had a much better grasp than I on art reception food ideas). And once I arrived (five minutes late and breathless), I of course realized how ridiculous my obsessing over clothes and food was. Other artists had already stocked the table, and everyone was smiling and easy going. There was actual banter. There were friendly discussions about inspiration and technique and upcoming community events (and possibly politics, which my sisters Andrea and Mara Lee love to discuss). No high brow exclusive soiree, just nice people who liked art. Thank you again, friends and family and total strangers who came to the event. Thank you thank you.
