1.21.21
As part of a college assignment, I once read that younger generations are incapable of seeing unique faces. Because our entire development from birth involved watching a television, a first in human history, every face we see is essentially a combination of celebrities’ faces. Someone once told me I looked like dude’s side piece from “Goodfellas.” Certainly my nasal cavity at least.
A teeny, tiny miracle of sorts happened today. One of those rare moments in which the synchronicities are so in-your-face, almost to the point of cheesy, that they serve as confirmation that all your successes and fuck-ups were necessary for you to stand in that exact place at that exact second. Before the pandemic I’d usually make it a point to check out First Friday; all the Santa Fe Drive art galleries and shops would be open, as were our beverages in the packed streets on the outskirts of downtown Denver. Month after month I would rediscover the Schranck exhibit. Mixed media, some massive, some wired and electrified and illuminated, every square centimeter textured and detailed, most looking as though they’d begun as doors, windows, or headboards.
It’s been over a year since I attended my last First Friday, and I haven’t strolled that neighborhood for any other reason since. This afternoon I hit up the antique shop, after discovering it was actually open, and afterward noticed one of the nearby galleries was as well. I bought a Dallago print of an oil and pastel piece I remembered loving, “Son of Selfie,” and a leather ring twice imprinted with the word “FUCK,” one imprint facing north, the other south. Fuck you, fuck me? About to get into my car, I noticed one other gallery was open right across the street, so I popped in. The straggly old painter in charge of tending the otherwise empty space reminded me to look through the lower and upper levels. A delightful surprise on a dull chilly Thursday, at the back of the top floor hung all my favorite Schrancks.
As I unfortunately fall into the sad sack/socially awkward category, it was outside my MO to say anything to Straggles on my way out, but I just had to. I thanked him and said I was glad to see Schranck’s work again, he’d always been my First Friday favorite. Before he could reply the door opened and he said, “Speak of the devil, there’s Chris. She says you’re her favorite.” Grateful for the mask muffling my heinous, nervous laughter, I confirmed the explosive rumors and made for said door. Schranck thanked me and told me to come again in a very soft, low voice. A good headful of grayed, curly, shoulder-length hair. His face reminded me of Leland Orser, the strap-on-clad sole survivor of lust from “Seven.” On the twenty-first day of the twenty-first year of the twenty-first century.
