the invisibility exhibition
Last month, as Dennie and I brainstormed which adventures we might yet manage before the region’s notorious rainy season literally put a damper on our travels, we decided upon an outdoor art exhibit we hadn't attended in twenty years. That night I had a dream. (Don't get too excited; it was nothing so inspirational as Martin Luther King's. At least, I hope not.) It was a dream about the hundreds of photos I would, as usual, snap before our adventure was through.
We arrived at the venue, a state park of extraordinary beauty. It looked different than I'd remembered it, but it had been two decades. Things change, plus it was, after all, a dream. At the entrance to the park stood an enormous gazebo constructed entirely of concrete. The sculptures sat, rather unimaginatively, evenly spaced along the structure's half-wall ledges. With one exception, these were exclusively garden gnomes, dressed in costumes representing each of the four seasons and various holidays. We'd set aside an entire day, loaded up the car with ample supplies, and made that prolonged, hilly drive into a city far, far away...for garden gnomes???
Between two of the pointy-hatted denizens rested the final sculpture, a sleeping cheetah, curled into a ball like any contented house cat. Then his eyes opened. This was no objet d'art. Crowds of other sightseers backed away as the fully grown feline leapt to the floor, rolling onto his back and squirming as a playful kitten might. I snapped a few photos of the spectacle before cautiously sidling out of the gazebo with Dennie and Maisie. Presumably, the cat did not approve of the paparazza. The end of his tail twitched. He ambled through the concrete haven toward the gardens where we now stood. The three of us had stopped. I fiddled with the camera, vexed by a battery compartment that stubbornly refused to open, despite the ease with which it had faithfully slid before. By now, we could detect it, the audible evidence of our fates--the growling stomach of a hungry hunter on the prowl. His sinewy form stalked and slinked with silent footing, sneaking, creeping directly towards us. Finally, the camera hatch clicked. As I glanced into the mechanical recess, I spied, in my peripheral vision, the pounce-poised approach of a formidable predator. I couldn't move, not because I was frightened, but because I found myself paralyzed in that nebulous area between deep disappointment and utter astonishment.
"Unbelievable!" I exclaimed. "I forgot to put the SD card in!"
I fished for the memory card in my coat pocket, only to slip into semi-consciousness as my dream-self uncapped the camera lens while asking Dennie the one question foremost on my mind. "Do you think we can get him to wiggle around on his back again?"
There is probably a twelve-step program for photography addicts somewhere. Clearly, I'm not among its enrollees. As for the dream, I'd call it a weird one, but, frankly, compared to a standing kangaroo giving birth to an adult grizzly in our backyard as a host of dogs and a dapper five-foot rabbit donning Saville Row looked on, it barely rates a smidgen on the Weird Meter.
Casting aside the dangers of being ravaged and devoured by a wild beast--or, worse, scrutinized by a bevy of bearded garden guardians--Dennie and I still planned to make the trip. Sometimes true happiness and personal fulfillment require substantial risk. The weekend of the sixteenth was wide open. I could hardly wait to see this year’s magnificent exhibits. Saturday arrived. Maisie had a dodgy tummy. Dennie was fighting a terrible cold. And I was under the debilitating grip of a four-day migraine. Well, we consoled ourselves, provided it doesn't rain, there's always next week. Bonus, the following weekend would mark the commencement of our nine-day vacation. What a splendid beginning it would make! By Saturday the 23rd, Maisie was better, Dennie was not, rain poured down by the bucketful, and a host of unique art installations would once again, have to wait. Every day, the precipitation lingered. We bided our time Monday and Tuesday engaged in a beloved late-September tradition--decorating for Halloween.
Fortunately, with only a few days remaining before the exhibit closed, we caught a break. Rain was expected on Wednesday, September 27th, but only in the early morning, then again late in the evening. We packed up the usual mountains of gear, dressed Maisie in one of her favorite bandanas, and--having double-checked that the SD card was, indeed, in the camera--hit the road for our long, long journey.
Famished, a little dehydrated, and eager to explore, after weeks of anticipation, we had finally arrived at the annual show. As Dennie paid for our parking pass, I searched for the brochures crediting this year's featured artists. Odd. There weren't any in the slot, only generic pamphlets about the park itself. Never mind. They'd probably run out; we'd simply read the plaques at each installation. Confident that no reasonable cheetah would have traveled halfway across the globe just to enjoy a seaside snack in an aromatic garden, we took our first excited steps into the park. (I cannot account for unreasonable cheetahs, but of all the destinations in all the world, what were the odds one fickle feline would stumble into ours?) Though the brilliant blooms of summer were dwindling, around every sculpted hedge, over every bridge, up every stone staircase, the park was beautiful. Beautiful...and, at first, very, very windy. The three of us claimed a picnic table facing out over the sea and consumed sandwiches that, loosely held, might have blown right out of our hands.
We wandered the grounds for hours, taking in the ocean views, the landscaping, the stark white monuments. What we didn't see were any art sculptures. Not a one. Not even a gnome...in a pumpkin-spice sweater...with a maple leaf in one hand...an umbrella over his head...and an acorn-hoarding squirrel perched on his shoulder. Nothing. The annual exhibit promoted on multiple regional websites did not exist.
Or maybe it did. Maybe, just maybe, these cunning artists enabled invisibility cloaking technology, thereby encouraging visitors to stretch their imaginations enough to not only see their creative visions but to see through them to their deeper meanings. I gave it shot, but, come on...what kind of crazy-ass sculptor creates a tableau depicting a standing kangaroo giving birth to an adult grizzly in the park as a host of dogs and a dapper five-foot rabbit donning Saville Row look on? I mean, it's not so pedestrian as a garden gnome--in a garden. But still...
Despite the total lack of art in the art exhibit, the day was not wasted. Dennie, Maisie, and I had a lovely picnic by the sea, an invigorating walk through the gardens, and an afternoon brimming with true happiness and personal fulfillment, achieved with no greater risk than the buzzing of bustling bees. And, when it comes to happiness, as you can see, it may not be tangible, but, unlike the sculptures we’d driven so far to see, it’s certainly not invisible.