Reciprocity ✧ Bob Dylan

4 - Stray Cats

Home. True home, not just the place I live.

Compared to New York, this city hasn't given me much to complain about. North Beach is more welcoming than it isn't. I don't feel so small here. I can get into most places, and I don't care about the ones I can't. I like the art and music shows, (Music has been quite good in the bay area for the past few years. It's all local and independent, unless you're going to big pop shows. I never go to those. I've grown to hate pop music, I think it's really shit. Almost all the songs sound the same when you turn on the radio), and I've found myself in a circle of very strange and unique artists. My paintings are nothing revolutionary, but a lot of my friends' work could be. It's a good place to find oneself in.

I'm on the way to a showcase of our pieces - in an old warehouse space one of them rents - with my brother. His name's Bay, he's twenty one. We look cool together, I think. We're both tall and brown-skinned. We have the same long, dark hair that we push back with scarves my mama makes. Bay likes to wear all black; Turtlenecks, slacks, glossy boots, things like that. The same as I did, around his age. Though, I can't say that I do anymore.

"Sister Judy auctioning off her drawings tonight?" Bay asks, blocking the sun with one hand as we stroll through the alley behind the warehouse.

"I think so," I nod, "She's got kids now, though, so I never know if she's coming to things."

"Since when? I never saw that chick pregnant."

"Adoption's hot, Bay."

He hums as we duck under the parking lot fence, sliding through the employee back door. We steal away to our respective locations; Me to my small gallery and Bay to... anything interesting. I wait a while, looking over my work to kill time before the gallery opens.

The paintings vary in size; The older ones are all one square foot of canvas with portraits slathered on them, some being replicas of those I created during my time in New York (I'll never sell the originals), some being new additions to my discography (Acrylic snapshots of life in San Francisco). The newer paintings stand nearly as tall as me; Murals of the beach on a busy day, the view from my bedroom window of a public garden, a houseparty held by my roommates that led to an amateur seance in the living room, the stray bloodhounds outside the grocery store... I still find all of my inspiration in the city.

I decided to start selling my work when I got home and traditional employment seemed less romantic, even working at an art café. This way, I make my own prices, and I work at my own pace. The only downside is that I don't have much money, and I'm often hungry, but I live with eight people who have their names on the lease to our apartment, and we've agreed to split our earnings. We manage.

When the gallery finally opens its doors, it's a hit. It always is. Not because of me, because of my friends. Everybody's got on tuxes and those monochromatic dresses that all the girls love right now. Big hairstyles, tall white boots, black nylon dress shoes, grey knitted turtlenecks... They all look kind of like robots. Or dolls, or something. "Art people," surely, but in a uniform of sorts. They're enjoying themselves, though. With drinks, and noisy conversation, and big pretentious words to describe what they see.

"That is almost like a profound dissertation on inner-city impoverishment."

"It really demonstrates such adroitness in the artist."

"Yes, I find it very stimulating."

I don't see the point of speaking in such a way. They don't care about being intelligent, they just want to sound like it so people take them for geniuses. They're just buying paintings to hang over their fireplaces. But more power to them, if it helps them sleep at night, and I can afford dinner.