The Art of Summer

Right of Way

What a week it’s been. The big exciting news, and I love this, is that I don’t have any big exciting news apart from summer, which is percolating in my head like a family of prions high on a beefy Frappucino. I had no vacations to speak of between 1997 and 2003, give or take, apart from clinging-by-nails-to-the-wall weekend clenches, and this served to make Linus a dull boy. When the break came in summer 2003 — remind me to scan that awesome picture of the old-growth Redwood some day — it was a goodun, and the result is that when I get to feeling like summer these days, there isn’t much room for anything else.

This year the plan is to get to the beach, instead of just talking about getting to the beach.

Harvey comments in the post below this one that my photo of wind-taut sails goes a long way to summing up the good things: I agree. In my own turtled way I’m starting to define summer as a quest for paths of least resistance. Not Dark-Side-of-the-Force least resistance, but the least resistance that brings you to places you wanted to go anyway. As in, “By gum, I went out to pick up laundry, and here I am at the movies. Isn’t life strange?”

There were boat trips planned for this weekend, and I was going to be on them, but local pleasures won the hand instead. On Saturday I shot a photo set of the unlikely Smith-9th Street subway station on the F and G lines, an elevated tarpaper-clad trestle contraption high above the Gowanus Canal. It’s something I’ve been meaning to do. As it happens, a friend from Flickr is putting together some sort of picture project on trains, and she intimated that those of us who could not cough up some images by close of weekend must have fat butts. Ever eager to deny the obvious, I produced. I’m pleased with the results, especially the flaring blown-out image of the F train pulling away into a blank future. There’s some poetry there.

I probably had scurrilous adventures planned for later, but on the way home I stumbled across a sunny bunch of Gen-Y painters dabbing away at a streetside construction-site wall a few blocks from the house. Unbeknownst to me, the neighborhood was closing Day One of the Atlantic Avenue Art Walk ’05, and this was the public side of the long stretch of indoor exhibitions. More pictures ensued — pictures of pictures, and the painters who paint them — and when darkness started to rise I was pink and delirious with sun.

Pent-up sticky rain just started. Night is falling, and I am calling “Dance with me.” Hmmm, there might be a song in that.

About Linus

The man behind the curtain. But couldn't we get a nicer curtain?
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