Today, I awakened with a quickened heart rate, a fluttery stomach, and an enthusiasm that can’t be dampened, no matter the forecast. I’m excited for the weekend, and it’s only Thursday morning.
What’s this weekend? The 28th year of Art-A-Whirl, the largest art studio tour in the nation, and it’s free and open to the public. 1,200 artists, galleries, and businesses participate across Northeast Minneapolis at over 70 locations.
So, it’s art that’s on my mind today.
Enjoy this blog installment from the spring of 2018 about an art event in Northeast Minneapolis (not Art-A-Whirl, but in the same neighborhood.)
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Last Saturday night, the honored guests lined the walls of the Grain Belt Bottling House. Speechless, they poured out diverse stories, lights showcasing their beauty. I stood in front of each, listening. And hoping to understand.
Because art has volumes to say, if one has the ears to hear.
Party-goers strolled through the galleries of silent auction items, sipping drinks and chatting with friends and fellow parents, all attending the annual art event to raise funds for artist residencies at Marcy Open School in Minneapolis. Cocking their heads or adjusting their glasses, they leaned in and listened to the artwork too, and I remembered I coordinated the event years ago for exactly this: to bring humans together with creation.
My gaze landed on a piece of art—a framed poster advertising an Edward Hopper exhibit at the Walker Art Center. It beckoned me and spoke:
You and me? We’re perfect together. I match everything in your house. And remember how much you like Hopper? Get me! I’m yours!
All three of our girls had attended Marcy Open from kindergarten through eighth grade, and this was our last kid’s final year. How could I pass up this art? How could I deny school children rich arts-infused learning experiences by not buying it? I snapped up a pen, dangling on a string near the piece’s bid sheet. The starting bid was low, and my hopes were high.
After enjoying food donated by Alma, Brasa, Cocina Latina, Create Catering, and Ginger Hop, I buzzed back over to my piece. But I wasn’t the only one admiring it. In my absence, another appreciator of the work had swooped in, slashed his mark on the sheet, and disappeared into the crowd. I narrowed my eyes and struck a new mark. I wandered away, but soon checked back again. In such little time, someone had already been there with their bid. I grabbed the pen and went in. But the most recent writing was Husband’s. Safe. For now.
While Husband browsed art elsewhere, I continued my surveillance of the piece. And then I saw something else. Nearby hung a large hydro-stone relief sculpture of a man’s torso—with only one bid. But wait. It was scratched out! No bids? On something this majestic? So ancient Rome, so perfect. I jotted my bid number. If it came down to it, I could find a wall for it at home, couldn’t I? And wouldn’t it be fun to be the top bidder and surprise Husband?
The galleries closed. The bidding ceased. The pieces were mine. Husband strode toward me.
“Guess what I just won?” I said, bubbling over.
He raised an eyebrow. “Besides the Edward Hopper?”
I pointed to the stone-looking wonder near us. “This.”
“Seriously?” He shook his head and laughed.
A man sauntered over to us, nodding toward the relief sculpture. “What are you gonna do with your man body painting?”
I smiled. When it came to art, I had my plans. I always had my plans.
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