GNG, alFalaq, decided to participate that Tuesday on January 7th, 2014.
Photo: Mammal Gallery on Facebook.
(All Al's photos were dark, fuzzy and completely un-useable. LOL)
Mammals Only at the Mammal Gallery by alFalaq
Following my Mapquest print out, I pulled my Nissan
into a curbside parking spot on a deserted looking corner on Broad street in
Downtown Atlanta. I was fairly certain
the place I needed to be was right across the street, though my confidence
faltered at the darkened windows resting sleepily aloof behind padlocked
burglar bars. Leaving my car to walk
across the street through the biting January breeze, I regarded the aged
building skeptically. Looking no less
aged and no less permanently fixed to the locale, a lone man sat perched on an
old wooden bar stool on the sidewalk, munching a burger in an undecorated white
paper wrapper. He seemed like he might
be found there on that bar stool any hour of any day of the year. Maybe even with that same damned sandwich in
his hand. I approached what seemed it would
pass for the entrance to the Mammal Gallery and found it locked. Referring again to my print out, I called the
number Kitty had thoughtfully included in the notes. Voice mail.
Looking to my last available resource, I took another look at Bar Stool
Man, idly tossing in his direction the phrase, "This place even
open?"
"You gotta knock on the door," he replied,
continuing: "Knock real hard," then muttered something about if I can
hear the dog start barking, someone would be along soon after. I turned back to the door to the place; it
was a standard store front door of a sheet of Plexiglas in an aluminum
frame. Inside it, a staircase ascended
away through darkness. I knocked as hard
as I dared, watching my reflecting bend and dance in the vibrating Plexiglas. I knocked again after a couple of listless
minutes on the sidewalk, daring a little harder. I could hear the rough, muffled chant of a
large dog barking echoing somewhere inside.
Momentarily, a tall slim guy in clothes that could as easily have been
worn for the city as for mountain biking stepped slowly down the stairs and
opened the door.
Trailing him up the stairs, I could smell air heavy
with earthy aromas as I breached the door at the top landing, finding only a
couple guys dressed in similar mountain biker apparel and a gent in a suit and
trench, who spoke with a French sounding accent, a bit diluted. Canadian, maybe… who knows? After a few questions, I was told by a young
man sitting cross legged on the bar that I was waaaay early; the event would
begin about ten; people would start arriving at about nine, the place would
fill up fast, he told me. Okay. I'll say my good faith was holding my
reactionary judgment in reserve. A few
paintings held places of note along the walls or propped up on tables. A mural close to the large windows exhibited
an infant, snobbily enjoying a refreshing Sunkist Orange soda to the chagrin of
another who was without. Just beneath
the mural was a use-weathered couch, whereon I planted myself and read a book
of Walt Whitman from a coffee table.
Someone here had good taste in literature.
I'll admit I was surprised and pleased when, about
nine o'clock people did indeed begin to filter in from the shadowed staircase
and by nine-thirty, the space seemed filled with folks milling about, chatting
discreetly but happily. Every now and
then, a peal of laughter would echo from the white painted antique brick
walls. I met Anna, the organizer of the
event, who sweetly said I could go up first, since I would have to leave to go
to work soon. When things got started
and I stepped onto the small performance area before the large window, everyone
gave their attention so securely to what I was saying and gave such a warm response;
I could not have felt better. I stayed
as long as I could to hear the works and performances of some of the other
artists; a few songwriters and poets; a performance piece involving a man
dressed as a soldier munching some crackers, a vacuum cleaner, some electric
toothbrushes and a juggler. It actually
made a pretty good impact, when it was finished. You had to be there. Even Anna herself treated us to a musical
performance which was only slightly startling (the screaming caught me off
guard, the first time) but quite sincere.
Despite the winter's teeth, scraping just outside
the window, the room held a lot of warmth, human and emotional; artistic seeds
were sprouting in the balminess of it. I
can say I regretted having to leave for work, not having seen what else would
be up for offer that night.
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