I attended an art show in the village section of New York City last night with two of my roommates. Michael is unemployed by choice, hes in between jobs, and Marta is a linguistics student at Columbia University. Shes young, hot, and Hungarian. Shes had boyfriends but she spends allot of time with a girl named Ruth. Must be shes bi-lingual. I wish.
The show was hung (in this case laid against the wall), by Jen, the artist herself, a women of approximately 35 years old. She rents a room on the second floor of a loft type building on Christie Street to do her work. Upon arriving we were greeted by a pretty un artsy looking gal who gave us directions to the elevator. I was impressed, not by the girl, by the fact there was someone to point us in the right direction. I was impressed by the girl too, truth be told.
Im into this column two paragraphs and already Ive made two references about cute women. Some of you like that stuff, some dont. Sorry, and no problem.
Out of the freight elevator on the 2nd floor we followed our ears until we found an artful room full of people and paintings. Few of each because the room was this size of a studio apartment, which in the city is about 250 square feet.
Standing, in my work boots 65 and a half inches tall, wearing my green Northern Foresters hoodie sweat shirt (the one with the head of a 10 point buck on front), torn jeans, a blue toque, in a dinky brightly lit New York City village art studio that has leaning against the walls, a dozen or so very large paintings mostly of naked people, with 15 artsy fartsy New York City village art geeks whove all turned at the same time to look at me as if I was the one they sent for to sweat a joint, I felt special.