Empty Halls of Squeaky Shoes
The silence was deafening as I meandered through the modern art exhibit.
My tennis shoes thudded and squeaked as I moved from installation to installation.
The Fluxus was my favorite, and sadly, they had dismantled it.
I heard giggling around the corner, and thought I recognized the sound.
Wishing I’d had one of those childhood periscopes so I could see around corners, I slowly peered into the other room.
Sure enough, it was my ex.
She never liked art. She never understood modern art.
Until I took her downtown and we got stoned. We ended up at the “dirty art” exhibit, and the rest of the night was magical.
From that point on, she was hooked. She never realized that Yoko Ono was an artist before she met John Lennon. She never understood performance art.
But her appetite had been whetted. Her urges went beyond boundaries.
Fidelity was something she no longer took seriously. So I left her at a Marina Abramovic exhibit.
I packed my stuff and moved out – I never saw her again.
To forget her, I moved to New Orleans, and created paintings near Jackson Square.
I spent a month in New York, installing an exhibit at MoMA.
And I traveled around to different Wilco concerts, laying some roots in Nashville.
And here. Visiting the Detroit Institute of Arts for the first time in 10 years.
Here she is. With her wife. Stoned and giggling at the giant electrical plug, hanging from the ceiling.
I turned, looking at the empty Fluxus spot. There was a sign on the floor.
“Don’t Look Here,” it said. “These words are written in Swahili.”
There was a picture of an old telephone, and a head of lettuce.
“Pick one or go home,” it said.
I left that night out of DTW, back to home – Nashville.