Shared Home

The Cat and Mouse in Partnership - AT Type 15 "The Theft of Butter by Playing Godfather"

Most Sundays, I pack up a few good books and a sketchbook and ride the commuter rail to the Out of the Blue Gallery in Cambridge. I've been so busy for past few months with final critiques, holidays, and other distractions that I haven't been able to make it in for my regular gallery-sitting appointment in some time. In these weeks, I've been able to think about what my presence at the gallery really means. I have sold a few pieces there, yes, I am occasionally the only one around to keep shop or take care of minor chores, but it is increasingly clear that my relationship with the place and the people who work and spend time there is much deeper than one of monetary benefit. That relationship could not have been put in better words for me than it was today.

This morning, I set out bright and early, walking to the train station despite the cold and the snow, ostensibly to wear in my new boots and afraid my car wouldn't make it out of my driveway. However, I think my real motivation was an exhilarated desire to meet every challenge the day had to offer me, because my fairy tale this morning is one of the most silly and disheartening ones I've ever read. To imply that two creatures, simply because they should be natural enemies, cannot by any means forge a trust between one another in a shared living space, is an affront to my every naive belief about the nature of community and camaraderie. Indeed, when I set out for the gallery today I was looking forward to being with people I had honestly missed, people with whom I had no familial bond yet shared the intimacy of a communal space. I was looking forward to my opportunity to test this old fairy tale notion that some people are just destined not to get along.

In any case, I braved the snow and rode into Cambridge, took a subway and a bus to Central Square, and hiked down Prospect Street to the gallery. My day was, as usual, mostly uneventful. I got to chat with the regulars and get a lot of reading done, and at the end of my usual shift the new drumming instructor began to move in his instruments for the weekly drumming circle. Due to the commuter rail schedule, I usually leave around the time he begins setting up, but today I decided to wait around a few more hours and join in, feeling swayed by a newly rediscovered sense of community.

I will be honest (and apologize to him, if he ever reads this), but I've had my reservations about this new drumming instructor. I was very fond of the man who used to come on Sundays, and I don't know why he left, and this new one seemed to be a bit of a hippy. But today I gave him a chance, and he said something that moved me deeply. As I grabbed some extra chairs to help him set up, he was speaking to another drummer, and talking about how he felt that the gallery was like a second home for him because of the music he made there. He gestured to me and said I must feel the same way, because my art is on the walls, and because of this connection we were sharing a home. I knew as soon as he said it that he was exactly right. I agreed heartily, and he started teaching us the rhythms we would use that night. As we played on, more people I know and love, whose art and poetry lines the walls of the gallery, came in to dance and play with us, and for those few hours we shared that warm home, safe from the weather and worries outside.

And no one tried to steal anyone's fat.