Some Kind of Journey 1

Why I hem and hawed, I have no idea.

During one of our yearly journeys through Charleston, South Carolina, we wandered upon a side street that had a double-door entrance to an art gallery. Wifefriend noticed it and insisted we go in, but I hesitated. Art galleries were for the snooty. Why bother stepping foot into one? Affording that kind of art happens only when you are living your tenth life.

I believe I'm in my second life. Like, I'm still working my way up. It's gonna be a while until I can afford any art from a Charleston gallery.

So, I hemmed and I hawed and went in begrudgingly.


And it's not that I'm averse to the arts. I love the arts. Theater? Check. Act for me, my people! Music? Do that piano thing and play Fur Elise with that crazy ability to bend your fingers into the fourth dimension. You sing? Bring that microphone to your lips and vibrate them vocal chords.

Sports? What are those? Do not ask of my bracket. While it is March, I have yet to scribble down college teams onto the lines to showcase my theories of foretold basketball battles.

When it comes to sports, I care not. If I could, I would trade in all the ESPN channels from my Hulu subscription for anything else.


I actually come from a fairly artistic family. My mom and brother, in their high school years, showcased incredible talent. My engineer dad, whom I thought could only figure out numbers and machines, also had some painting steam up his 1960s sleeves.

There's a colorful and incredible matted abstract piece by my brother that continues to hang in my parents' house 23 years after the fact.

I stole away paintings from my mom and my dad, and I cherish them, knowing that they're not just beautiful, but from my bloodline. That's artistic DNA hanging on the walls of my house. I look at them and I say to myself how the other three members of my family were painters, and while I can't really do that thang, I appreciate it to the max.

They had the paints, and somehow I got the words.

I get the art.

I love the art.

So, we walk into the Robert Lange Studio gallery, and we are warmly welcomed by a tall brunette pixie. To my right, across the wall, it states how art is for everyone. I do not feel like I have to buy something. Instead, I feel invited to stay and look at all the pieces.

We take our time. I hem and I haw, but this time,  by bot wanting to leave, because -- look at the sheer talent of all the local painters, at their perception of our world: through paintings of water and weather, of illustration, waves of cloth, sculpture, photo-realistic paintings and more.

I follow the gallery and a couple of the artists on Instagram so I can watch their journey, so if I ever run into one of them, I can try to act cool, ask about their process, and not be star struck. 

You may lose your freak at seeing Darius Rucker at Rodney Scott's, but I'm speechless and dorky when I get to meet Nathan Durfee at the Robert Lange Studio. 

I am in love, and the discovery of this gallery allowed for a door within me to remain open. Just slightly. Only ajar.

It planted a seed.