It's the vision that gets me. If I made art of this college-level calibre, what would it reflect? A thought comes to my mind of a recurring fiction in my head- a banquet, a dinner party with only two guests. They feast, while the host alternates between sternly critiquing the guest and suggesting what's worthy of consuming. "You're jejune," he says, "try the ham." The guest is apparently an artist: "you don't create art because you love it," he says, "you create art because you think it would be neat to be famous. The poached eggs are divine, sample some of those next."
I look at the art on the walls. The reasons behind art, again? The realization of something inside of us, clawing its way out? These artists on the wall, they all have vision, meaning passion. "What am I passionate about?" I ask myself aloud.
I'm now going to talk about something entirely unrelated.
There were like 3 things going on at 7:00 this evening; I chose foreign film night over MacGyver and live comedy improv (MacGyver I did catch on CBS.com later.) 3 Idiots, was the movie this week. Highest grossing film in India... ever, apparently. And super, super good.
The audience just went nuts over it when it ended... laughing like there was still something to laugh about during the credits and everything. One member of the audience, in particular, went up to the presenter, laughed like the joke was fresh, just when asked how he liked the movie, and... Is that, Devin?
We stinkin' had a conversation, like he spoke directly to me, and I don't think he recognized me...
No Doubt the Years Have Changed Me, of course, and how much should you expect someone to recognize you when they've got a condition that makes facial recognition difficult? (He knew to expect me, on the mission, and it still took him a couple of seconds.)
If that even was Devin...
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