If I had to pin a moment, an actual moment, that art mattered -- to me -- it would have to be weekday in Winter oh, now close to a decade ago. I was sad the way people get sad. You know, people who have decided at some point that what they were doing was wrong, that they have to jump ship and start over. Start again. Regret. That kind of sad.
I found myself again in that section of Charlotte, bright winter sun glinting against the sidewalk and no drum circles or live bands or promise of being hip. The street outside the gallery was quiet with occasional traffic, and undeniably deserted yet cheery.
I popped into a well-known gallery, wandered to the middle, and stood. There it was. A huge painting, probably 36x40 of a Carolina field, after dusk, the grass glowing fireflies. I should be a better student and tell you who painted it, but I can't remember, although later I went back and asked, looked it up, and still can't remember.
That painting seemed to be about everything that was pure, was good and simple, and there I was, wanting it so bad I ached. I didn't have a table in my apartment, but I wanted that painting that was way out of my price range, that was everywhere I wanted to be, everything I wanted to feel about the world and couldn't.
I liked art cerebral-ly before that; I have loved it ever since, and next Thurs., Sept. 22, I will write an event love letter to it. The Beehive presents Buzzworthy, a one-night gallery event for young collectors, fills the lobby of The Terrace Theater on James Island, and all the artists and their artwork will be there because of that one winter day, when I fell in love with art.
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