FourBux

I used to be cool. No, really.

First Fridays in Phoenix is a community art walk that is hosted by the local businesses and galleries in the downtown area. I used to go when I was in college, back when my course schedule consisted entirely of various art classes and more free time than I care to remember. Now in my thirties, it’s taken me a few days to recover from my first First Friday event in years, and I’ve had a chance to reflect on the experience.

Standing in the gravel driveway behind what is now a home-turned-art gallery, surrounded by a whirling mass of eclectics, with their unkempt hair, earth-friendly woven fabrics, and exhaling a strange, unfamiliar smoke, a realization came to me:

I’m not “cool” anymore.

For the sake of discussion, let’s come up with a ratings system, a 1-10 coolness scale. By way of example, I’d start with James Dean as a level 10 cool. James Dean the Hollywood icon, not the sausage king. On the other end of the scale, let’s put Steve Urkel at zero. In an effort to balance my ego with my desire to be fair, I’ll start myself out at middle of the road with six. And because I still remember who Steve Urkel is, I’m down down by one cool point: five.

I always thought I was cool, at least to a degree. I certainly wanted to be - who doesn’t? Maybe I never was, I don’t know. Technically I am an artist, at least by trade. That’s gotta be worth something, right? But even in school, I’ve never really felt a camaraderie with the hemp-clad, dread-locked, pierced nose crowd. When I go into the local art supply store I’m inevitably met with curious looks, like I’m some sort of door to door salesman or Jehova’s Witness.

Unless they’ve known me for years, when people find out what I do they look me up and down and respond with quips like “you don’t look like an artist”, or “where’s your black turtleneck?” Apparently the people who live in my sphere of influence watch too much television. Occasionally I sport the goatee, but when the temperature reaches 120 in the summer it’s just too hot for any decorative facial hair. Subtract one point.

The gallery, as it turned out, was basically an ultra-small home about the size of one of those Ikea displays. In the main room (hell, it was the only room without a toilet) there was a couch and a folding card table. On the card table were some cookies, some business cards belonging to the artist, and some jewelry for sale. In total, there were seven paintings on the walls. Gun to my head I’d say my favorite was a close up of an elephant answering a telephone, and that was only because it was the only one that struck me as original idea. Having the closed-minded idea that art needs a reason? Subtract one point.

There was a DJ too, with a CD player, some turntables and stacks of records. He would do his thing for thirty minutes or so, and then someone else would get up there and take their turn. It seemed like I was the only person there who didn’t know how to run dual turntables and mix their own music. Subtract another point.

Now, as much as I like art, and am behind any effort to support the artistic community, there’s one thing about these art walks that I’m not sure I understood before experiencing it through thirty-three year-old eyes: people who attend these shows don’t go to buy something. These people, by and large, are just as artistic as the person who painted the items hanging on the walls. At least the jewelry has a chance of making a buck, except that the “cashier” was a jar tethered to the card table. Sure, go ahead and walk off with the jewelry without paying, but don’t you dare try to steal my jar of nickels. See? I’ve chained it to the table, sucker!

None of the art was for sale, only further bending my narrow mind into a pretzel. If there’s no point to the art, and now, no point to the show, why are we here again?

Anyway, now I was standing uncomfortably at the fringe of the event with my new camera, waiting impatiently for fashion show to start, of which my wife was a part. Recording the event was her way of getting me there. She knows me well enough to know that if I have no task, I will have a tendency to find someplace else to be. If I’m the photographer, I’m there. When she first told me that she was asked to model in a fashion show, the stereotypical images ran through my mind’s eye. A runway, maybe some other people taking pictures, multiple wardrobe changes, you know, fashion show stuff. In reality, the event was held in the gravel backyard of the aforementioned gallery, only four outfits were shown, none of which were available for purchase, the show was slated to start at 10PM didn’t start until after 11, and lasted all of seven minutes. I wish I were lying.

My palpable lack of flexibility deducts another point.

My wife enjoyed being in the show, even though she was wearing the fewest square inches of clothing of anyone at the event, and I wasn’t thrilled watching other guys hoot and take pictures. Stupid MySpace. The highlight of my evening was the extra Jack in the Box taco I was given at the drive thru.

I heard later that someone had referred to me “the establishment.” If it weren’t meant as a derogatory remark I think I like it. Considering nobody spoke to me in the entire three hours I was there it’s pretty ballsy of them to assume I wasn’t cool. I still have one cool point left. Who’s laughing now?

Though it was out of my comfort zone, I think I’ll go again. It’s important to support the arts, and if this is one way of doing it, then I’m on board.

Pencil me in for June 3, 2011.

Cheers.