I didn’t realize until about halfway through this morning’s walk that it was raining. Partly due to the years that I have lived in Seattle - the defiant, blissful ignorance of the weather - and partly due to the mishmash of absorbing thoughts running around my brain. I didn’t have a chance to weld them together. In the past, I’ve decided that this walk is over when the thoughts are coherent, but today it was just too wet. At a certain point, I decided that aimess wandering in the rain is overrated.

So on to the mishmash.

Stubbed out cigarettes on the sidewalk make me think of all my friends who smoke cigarretes and i wish they didn’t. And how unfair is it that people on the job can take smoke breaks whenever they like, and non-smokers get no excuse? Not to mention the smoke break conversations which often end up leaving the non-smokers feeling left out. High school politics triumph again.

I never know when to believe a friend who says that he or she is okay to drive home. The obvious times are when that person has had, say, four dinks, because that’s a fair amount of alcohol for anyone. The more difficult times are when a person has had less than it would take for me to be over the limit, because why should my own tolerance be a rule? For most people, it seems like their thoughts of safety arrive the morning after, and are of the I probably shouldn’t have driven last night variety. That’s not the right time to have those thoughts.

Still thinking about the dream i just woke up from. Isn’t it the strangest feeling in dreams how situations that are clearly not your reality are so completely accepted as reality within the dream? There’s an uncanny understanding going on, because while you’re dreaming, you know it’s not real, but everthing about it feels as if it is real. The ultimate game of Pretend. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if we had that attitude in real life. Either we would all quite literally accomplish our dreams, or we’d all be wandering aimless in the rain.

So, smoking, drinking, dreaming. Take your pick.

Specsone is an underground favorite!  You have seen his bold graffiti on city walls (he keeps it legal) and his paintings on canvas, where he takes his larger than life art form to a gallery scale. Specsone’s  work   referenceselements of hip hop culture and are also inspired by comic books and graphic novels. Catch his showing at the Georgetown Tileworks  (5905 Airport Way S in Seattle).

Specsone is an underground favorite!  You have seen his bold graffiti on city walls (he keeps it legal) and his paintings on canvas, where he takes his larger than life art form to a gallery scale. Specsone’s work references elements of hip hop culture and are also inspired by comic books and graphic novels. Catch his showing at the Georgetown Tileworks (5905 Airport Way S in Seattle).

Specsone is an underground favorite!  You have seen his bold graffiti on city walls (he keeps it legal) and his paintings on canvas, where he takes his larger than life art form to a gallery scale. Specsone’s work references elements of hip hop culture and are also inspired by comic books and graphic novels. Catch his showing at the Georgetown Tileworks (5905 Airport Way S in Seattle).

1. Who or what is your biggest artistic inspiration?
I have many but i would have to say Jack Kirby

2. What is your favorite local book store?
Half Price Books

3. Where is the best place to view art in Seattle?
Not sure. Either Pioneer Square or Georgetown. But you know how art
is. It could spring up anywhere!

4. What is the best web site or blog that we don’t know about yet?
Well if Disinformation has a webpage. That would be my pick.

5. If you could have anyone paint/spray your portrait who would it be? why?
Kenneth Patchen to see what words he might add to it.
 

 [Editor’s Note: As in the print magazine’s Artist Portfolio, the blog feature will showcase exceptional visual talent in all mediums. Please send submissions to ali @ rivetmagazine.org.]

Through the frosty morning windows of neighborhood establishments, I spy an unusual amount of beautiful artwork. Unusual, meaning here “of consistently high quality,” given that a larger percentage of independent artists’ work is bound to be a letdown [plain logic]; usual though, in this town.

Well, you are here with us because you are a RIVET reader, and as a RIVET reader you must already know at least a small amount about how much beautiful art there is to find in Seattle. Not all, but a generous proportion of the artwok in our mag comes from Seattle-based operations. See RIVET Art Auction for more details.

So, community art support from a locally-based art magazine? Makes sense. Local bars and coffeeshops? Makes a little less sense. I have grown used to the art gallery wallspace at my local dingy watering hole, but I am still thrown off by viewers at the coffeeshop who approach my table only to lean over me and inspect the mixed media that hangs above my head.

Everyone’s favorite local blog had an idea. Which leads me to think that I am not the only person who sometimes walks into a room for one thing - a coffee and a donut, for instance - and leaves thinking, “That was better than the Asian Art Museum!” 

This indie art sometimes even falls in the range of “affordable,” which really means “I actually have more than that in my bank account this month, so maybe possibly i could think about buying it, someday.” A caffeine buzz will bring out the optimist in people. A beer buzz may even bring out the buyer.

But I always find myself wondering if the art would look as great in my apartment. There is something unique about an art show - it’s like looking at a whole box full of puppies. One pup is adorable, sure, but the whole bunch is stunning. When the art is in a series, it impresses, it inspires, it is a vision. Sometimes I do feel that individually, the work is not strong. Strength in numbers is great for the bar - it gussies up their walls - and for the artist who will get exposure and sales. And yet I feel a bit misled by the power of repetition. 

If it was a different universe than this one, and I was a person with money and wall space to go around, I would sometimes buy this art. Would I buy one piece, the piece that steals my soul away for a breath and returns it in refeshing shape? Would I buy three or four or five and recreate the strength of the crowd?

And then, since I’m still on this Monday walk, I’m seeing all the spring flowers rising up fom the dirt, and I see that they are always planted in a row. Why is there never the lone daffodil? And would a lone daffodil be just as pretty to look at?

Walking down the street this morning my eyes were especially focused on the windshields. Little pink and white slips everywhere today. Something must have been in the air last night, drawing out the reckless parker in this neighborhoods’s residents. So much illegal parking behavior - a traffic cop had a field day.  The main infarctions fall under three basic categories.

1. Fire Hydrants: What is the legal amount of space one is supposed to leave? 30 feet, right? I’ve never been a good judge of distances, but I can sure tell a distance that is as long as me [5 feet] versus one that is much much longer. Just lie down on the curb if you are skeptical.

2. Blocking the Sidewalks: I once got a ticket for this, though I didn’t understand why. I saw a cop ticket a car the next day in the same spot that I had been in and I asked her to explain. She helped me visualize how hard it is for cars to make turns onto the street with the illegal parking job - the closer the car is to the intersection, the harder it is to see if cars are coming. It didn’t take long for me to understand - I have this problem all the time in Seattle’s residential ‘hoods. I thanked her for her time and paid my ticket accordingly.

3. Blocking a Driveway: Need I explain more? This is just dumb.

I was home free this morning, me and my legal tendencies. However, I am grateful for the experience I had this past weekend, which involved a Portland parking garage, a misused parking permit, and a “courtesy” ticket with a $0 fine. I now see the error of my ways. But there are bound to be a lot of frustrated neighbors this morning.

How many librarians does it take to coax a singing patron out of the restroom? Two, according to Scott Douglas’ new memoir Quiet, Please: Dispatches from a Public Librarian. “It’s always a good idea to approach a strange situation in the library with another person who can act as a witness should anything happen that requires police attention,” he warns. (Cops at the library? It happens!)

Though the book’s publication rides the recent wave of the alleged trendiness of librarians, Douglas is, thankfully, just a regular guy—and please, not a “guybrarian”—who happened to fall into the profession as an undergrad. After begrudgingly earning an MLIS degree, he made the move from library technician to bona fide librarian and still works at the Anaheim Public Library today.

At the core of Quiet, Please lies Douglas’ sincere passion for serving his community. But it would be kind of a bore to read 300-plus pages on that. Instead, we get anecdote after wacky anecdote, many of which are gleaned from the author’s sporadic Dispatches from a Public Librarian on McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. It’s a truly funny glimpse into the daily life of a public servant. RIVET says borrow this from your local library; the people who work there might appreciate it.

I hope you’re not hungry. Because I was hungry when I arrived at the doorstep of a perfect little cafe, only to find it closed on this unlikely morning. I’m not even sure what I wanted, since it was a dinner menu I was reading that made my tummy grumble. At this early hour, it’s strange that braised short ribs and polenta sounded so good. Maybe I should not have gone to bed last night without dinner, and my food brain was a little confused.

Should I go home and eat cereal? I don’t know if that will help. Should I go home and cook an extravagant dinner? Breakfast for dinner is sometimes a fun thing, but dinner for breakfast? Hmm. Unless it’s cold pizza, I am skeptical. Weird thoughts.

This Monday is a weird Monday. Things are a little out of balance. Maybe it was the idea of comfort food that was so appetizing. Did you hear about the pillowfight at Pike Place Market this weekend? That’s bizarre. And how about snow in late March? How about the super-weirdness of Hillary Clinton exposed in a foreign policy lie by none other than Sinbad? What’s with you today? What’s with today today?

I am excited to announce that this first Thursday art walk will be full worth the trek downtown. Seattle artist [and RIVET Art Director!] Allie Manch will open her ”Saturn’s return” exhibit, featuring new embroidered works. Here’s the Skinny:

Thursday, April 3 at the Gallery4Culture from 6-8 PM.

“The Producers (Rick Rubin)”

Here is a glimpse of what you’ll see:

The title refers to the astrological phenomenon that occurs nearly every thirty years in a person’s life when said person undergoes a series of life altering changes and also a period of self reflection. Manch, nearing her thirtieth year, reflects upon her familial heritage through embroidered text and images on second-hand linens and handkerchiefs. Her family’s move from New York to Arizona, and then Manch’s subsequent move to Seattle, gave rise to a feeling of displacement and disconnection. Her study of photography influences the subject matter, be they cactus, hip-hop portraits or Jewish folk tales, as Manch examines icons and relics of her past and future”.     

allisonmanch.com                            

http://4culture.org/publicart/gallery/index.htm for directions

On some of the quietest streets of the neighborhood this morning, I ambled down the spring melody lanes that I can no longer escape. Was it a particularly slow morning as part of an Easter weekend hangover? No cars, no people, no runners, no dog-walkers, no nothing. But I could not hear my own footsteps.

You see, at night, walking these streets, the silence gives way to the impertinence of my own feet. It doesnt matter either, if i’m wearing boots or sneakers, and it doesn’t matter if it’s wet or dry. The distinct echo of my feet on the pavement bounces off the brick walls all around me. Not a soul around, except all these replications of my own tired self.

I’m wondering this morning, now, if the echoing footsteps are imaginary. Why would they be so prominent at night and nonexistent in the day? It doesn’t make sense.

Or they may not be imaginary, per se, but merely the residue of a night or a week that has been lived. They are the voices of the friends around the table that was just cleared, or the heartbeat of the anxious thought that will keep me awake for a few hours yet. And therefore, a Monday morning is a clean slate. On this day we start all over. We see what we are seeing but we do not hear the rest.

Pschologically speaking, it does a person much good to believe that they have a new sheet of paper on which to scribble. No matter that this explanation leaves a little too much wiggle room for the literal translation, because if any of us were actually hearing voices then I would say it’s time to stop and think about that in a different manner. But then again, we are actually hearing voices. And calling them footsteps.