Wednesday, July 19, 2006
The Metropolitan Refrigerator of Art
I first saw that saying on a magnet on a refrigerator in a broken-down house on Hutchins Street in Sebastapol; a pier-and-post house on the edge of the Laguna de Santa Rosa that was gradually sinking ever deeper into the long grass. The kitchen floor tilted to such a degree that to mop it you always had to start at the high side, by the sink, and work your way towards the low side, by the window. In summer there were bouquets on the windowsill; wild tangles of weeds – chicory and foxglove and Shasta daisies, and in winter the air was dry from the woodstove and the mud was endless. If I remember correctly, the walls were covered not with sheetrock, but a sort of fibreboard that thumped in a muffled way when the children played too roughly. The driveway was unpaved, but happiness was not in short supply because treats were appreciated more. There is more pleasure to be gained from a single popsicle on a hot summer day than regularly recurring creme brulee.
The refrigerator was covered with postcards and clippings, drawings and sayings; each given meaning by the curator, constantly examined and commented on by the never-ending stream of guests who came to put their feet up at the little table and chat.
Today my refrigerator is newer, but as difficult to keep stocked, and as covered as the one at Hutchins. I am the sole curator, and yet my guests are drawn to it, reading, moving, re-arranging. There is no guard to tell them to stand back; apparently it is an interactive exhibit.
Now and then I’ll post a few of the things from the current exhibit – and I hope that the original creators will have no objection of the further dissemination of their wit or wisdom, or fooling.
I first saw that saying on a magnet on a refrigerator in a broken-down house on Hutchins Street in Sebastapol; a pier-and-post house on the edge of the Laguna de Santa Rosa that was gradually sinking ever deeper into the long grass. The kitchen floor tilted to such a degree that to mop it you always had to start at the high side, by the sink, and work your way towards the low side, by the window. In summer there were bouquets on the windowsill; wild tangles of weeds – chicory and foxglove and Shasta daisies, and in winter the air was dry from the woodstove and the mud was endless. If I remember correctly, the walls were covered not with sheetrock, but a sort of fibreboard that thumped in a muffled way when the children played too roughly. The driveway was unpaved, but happiness was not in short supply because treats were appreciated more. There is more pleasure to be gained from a single popsicle on a hot summer day than regularly recurring creme brulee.
The refrigerator was covered with postcards and clippings, drawings and sayings; each given meaning by the curator, constantly examined and commented on by the never-ending stream of guests who came to put their feet up at the little table and chat.
Today my refrigerator is newer, but as difficult to keep stocked, and as covered as the one at Hutchins. I am the sole curator, and yet my guests are drawn to it, reading, moving, re-arranging. There is no guard to tell them to stand back; apparently it is an interactive exhibit.
Now and then I’ll post a few of the things from the current exhibit – and I hope that the original creators will have no objection of the further dissemination of their wit or wisdom, or fooling.
# posted by Charlie @ 8:33 AM 
