On our way to Maine this weekend, Mark remarked on some houses along the way. "That's nice!" he exlaimed, nodding towards some sort of a majestic mansion with a beautiful garden.
The neighbor house was square and prominent: "..but this, this isreal." he added exitedly.
"I prefer nice," I heard myself disagreeing, seing myself dance barefoot in the green garden and run through the many rooms in the mysterious mansion. But this turned out to be an interesting thought for the day, because what is real, seems to be relative, and nice might also be real. We were heading towards Ogunquit, to see art galleries, a craft & art fair, and the ocean, much later generously serving us lobsters.
No matter how hard I try, I am utterly unable to understand, or even appreciate landscape art. Mr. 12 agrees. Standing in front of a huge oil painting of a piece of sea in a tiny gallery that day, we were doing our very best to enjoy an obligatory moment of visual synergy with this water scene. It was not that we didn't try, it just never came to either of us. After a few minutes, Mr.12 snickered in sardonic contempt with his deep teenager throat brumble, in that strange way that causes his shoulders to jump up and down and makes them look like little wings rather than shoulders with arms. He rolled his eyes sarcastically and headed towards the gallery exit door. "You're a bad art critic!" complained Dylan the intern, who also came along for the trip. Somehow, Mr. 12 remained absolutely unoffended at this gleeful roar. Mr. 12 so adores Dylan the intern, and besides, we were convinced Dylan the intern couldn't possibly enjoy the pice of sea in oil much either, which would make him no better than the two of us.
Outside the gallery, there was real sun and real sea. We went for a walk with Mark and Linda and saw ducks and sailboats floating in blue, sun glimmering and streaks of white break out when the waves hit the rocky beach. It was absolutely peaceful and stunning. Why do people try to paint this sea? It just CAN'T be painted! There is the dark, stormy type paintings with a tiny boat fighting somewhere in all that deep blue. Then, the thousands of calm ocean paintings, where you see water and the horizon, but nothing much else, unless the artist decided to stick in a sunset. Drama or calmneess, these kind of paintings make me feel nothing. If I don't feel that something is real, I don't want it on my wall.
At the craft and art fair, we saw the works of a photoshop artist. "Real or not?" said Mark who was already there when I entered the booth. I was confused: What did he mean? The white walls were covered with paintings in different sizes, some appealing, some just plain tragic, but all were drenched in Photoshop filters. Since the question came from Mark, I hesitated. Was this a trick question? Could these be real?
My early school years were just like this: I questioned the intention behind a question more frequently than the question itself. I'd search my teachers expressions for a reason WHY, wrinkle my eyebrows high, my mouth dropping open in surprise. Did they not already know? How come they needed me to tell them? Surely they didn't: Thus, the question must have a more complex answer, and now I suddenly didn't know it . While thinking about all this, I often seemed so clueless that my first grade homeroom teacher once remarked that I looked as if I had "just fallen down from the moon".
That must have been what Mark thought, too.
Oh well. Too much thinking, too little food. It was finally time for lobsters, which was the perfect end to a nice Sunday excursion. Mr. 12 was more than happy to choose my lobster live from the tank, but somehow ended up deciding on baby ribs for himself. I wonder what he saw in that tank..
Mark and Dylan the Intern all dressed up for lobster
Mr. 12 was a little disturbed by this sign. But what else do you expect from a place that will let you choose which lobster to eat?
Thanks for a fun day, Mark and Linda!
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