LITTLE ANIMALS
My first visit to Little Animals, an art gallery in Asheville, was no fun at all. My artist friend, Dusty Benedict, whose painting in response to a trip to India that I led thirty or more years ago is in a central place in my apartment, has an exhibit of paintings of the aftermath of Helene as well as earlier experimental paintings at Little Animals with the opening celebration tonight at 7:30 p.m, the time that I know (or thought I knew) Dusty told me, I even knew where it was, behind the Mellow Mushroom pizza place on Broadway in downtown Asheville, I know because someone said so.
I arrived in town ten minutes late. The town was hopping, first one parking lot and then a second one was closed and I couldn’t find parking on the street so finally I settled for free parking on the other side of Interstate 240, the expressway that runs through town. Could all these people be coming to Dusty’s exhibit I wondered, laughing at the nuttiness of the idea. Finally on the long walk from the free parking place to Little Animals I realized that it was the night of some major basketball tournament, maybe the Southern Conference of which UNC Asheville is a member. I walked to the Mellow Mushroom and then walked all the way around the block as directed, but no Little Animals.
So I glanced quickly at the poster Dusty had sent me by email, which I hadn’t needed since I knew exactly when and where the exhibit was. I entered the address in GPS. Finally, I found Little Animals, dark and locked up down Carolina lane, a back alley lined with garages an ally used for loading by the shops on Broadway. I shook the doorknob and peaked through the mail slot, no one there, and finally called Dusty to share my confusion.
At that point I read the poster quite carefully for the first time. The opening was from 5 to 7:30 and by now it was 8:20 and beginning to rain. I walked back to my car and drove home.
The moral of this story is to read the label, read the directions. I had all the information I needed to get there on time, but somehow I didn’t want help, I didn’t want to be told what to do, like every over confident male who can never stoop to ask directions or have a well thought out plan of action, including Donald himself, I was simply making a fool of myself.
BILLYBABA’S WANDERING 