While driving home from dinner with friends, I passed an art gallery that I’ve been curious about—so I stopped and finally checked it out.
The gallery, a repurposed house near an indie theater, consisted of two rooms. Despite its limited physical space, it housed the work of almost two dozen artists. All sorts of paintings covered the walls. Wind chimes, macramé, and jewelry hung all around. Sculptures and hand-painted wine glasses sat on rows and rows of wooden shelves.
I must’ve done seven or eight laps around the place as a couple—regulars, judging by their conversation with the gallery attendant—purchased a painting that cost hundreds of dollars. When they left, I almost fled; I dreaded the small talk that would surely follow when I was alone with the gallery employees. Even so, I pushed my comfort zone and had a lovely conversation with one of the artists.
Initially, the intimacy of the space and the price tags—ranging from $5 to $3,000—had intimidated me, and I had felt completely out of place. By the time I left, however, I no longer felt like an outsider. I even signed up for their mailing list, and I’m now considering checking out one of their art classes.
When I told the gallery attendant that I had just been driving by when I decided to stop in, she said, “What a nice spontaneous thing.” It’s almost like she read my mind.
Or this blog.
Check out my “About” page for more information on The Spontaneity Project.