Donna and I arrived a few minutes after six. The evening—the physical manifestation of July 17th—was wonderful. Mid seventies, straggly cloudlets in darkening blue sky, a pleasant breeze. Early for the usual nightlife that flows up and down Park Avenue on a Friday night, but there are a few folks choosing restaurants. There’s a custom glass shop across the street, customers still perusing.
I’d changed clothes twice, trying to decide what level of chic or cool I wanted to reach. Had to wear the hat, the Bogard, which Donna had made me buy several years back and which I love.
Only the owners are in the Gallery as we step through the door. Greetings, there’s wine. I pour a glass—plastic cup, really—and step out into the main gallery. My photographs range across one complete wall, with three spill-overs on another. Jane, the gallery manager, puts on some music—light jazz.
And people start to arrive.
A lot of friends show up, and Donna points out later that a lot of them never saw this much of my photography before, many of them having met us wehn writing had become the dominant pursuit. Only Tom showed up, who has been there through multiple ambitions—even helped with a lot of it. But most of these images were new even to him.
Then strangers arrived. People are looking. The place gets crowded. Questions get asked.
I’m a bit of a hit, it appears. No offers for purchases, but that may come later. For three hours people keep showing up, leaving, a couple of them come back. All the wine gets drunk but for two glasses, which the owner and I finish. The last people out besides us is a local photographer who is favorably impressed and we talk knowledgeably about certain difficulties in printing.
We go home and I’m in a kind of warm bubble. Even if no one buys anything, it was worthwhile. Choice evening.
