c'est possible

Chapter IV

I arrive in Paris.

I see an old friend who I met in Iran in the summer of 2009. The guy (remember?) who drove his motorcycle from Paris all the way to India, and stopped in I don’t know how many different countries. Pierrot. He almost died from a bike accident and was saved by a Turkish family who nursed and took care of him. He learned that the glory of a lone traveler turns inward and starts to weigh you down after two months of being on the road…

Yes, him. We discussed our current love(r)s. The possibility of love and commitment had refreshingly intrigued us both.

Then the lover arrived. And it was, truly, intriguing to be with him again in a different city.

Days later, on my last 24hrs, I walked alone, the way I always do and love: popping into vintage shops and asking for prices in broken French and getting bargains on things I don’t need. The way I love, drinking and writing during the day and sobering up with a double espresso to continue walking and stabbing everything with my eyes, enough so that the images are etched in my head and that transient feeling is forever nested in my gut. The feeling of possibilities— like endless lucky pennies waiting to be picked up. Walking all over bright bronze pennies was what it was like.

I rushed into the Musée d'Art Moderne. Had just over an hour before it closed. So I blindly paid for the exhibition ticket and ran two flights of stairs to get there and then stopped, pen frozen in hand and eyes wide in sockets: “The Canadian art collective known as…”

Now this was strange. And not just because I had come all the way from Canada only to run into Canadian art, delightfully surprised. But also, days before my trip I had discussed with a dear friend and colleague the possibility of creating an art collective.

You see, this entire exhibition was devoted to the General Idea. Think Toronto, 1969, three guys and a loud Miss General Idea, toying around with art vs. entertainment and the media, “glamour, fame, and riches.” This was way before people started to blog about that stuff. And this was cool shit.

In any case, I studied every single piece and then quickly peaked at the modern collection, staring into Modigliani’s eyes that were not, and bowed down to the masters. The lover and I walked next to the Seine river for more than an hour and yelled and kissed the way away.

The collective is on its way. The possibilities.