Dolly Lama

Originally, Corinna wanted us to meet at a gallery that was showing art inspired by heavy metal. Sounded like something that could plausibly be interesting, but before I could get there she texted me that she had the wrong night.

Then she texted me that she'd "found the show at La Esquina."

Well, not quite. She'd found a show, or something like a show. Ari Frish's installation "High Seas Low Plans" was billed as a sort of all access, multi-purpose temple. There was a long list of guidelines for how to use the temple, but it was a full letter sized sheet filled on both sides with dense type so I just wandered in.

Free form new-agey music was being played by musicians of various disciplines, and gauzy curtains were hung through the dark space.

There were a few chairs and quite a few meditation pads on wheels, Dolly Lamas, I supposed. I scraped the shit out of my knee the day before crashing my bike, so I declined to get down on a dolly, settling on a chair until my attention span had been exceeded—perhaps three minutes. Then I spent perhaps five minutes trying to photograph the space using the chair as a tripod.

A fellow who was walking around outside the curtain that enclosed periodically howling to add to the music found Corinna's bicycle bell and then mine. He really liked the sound mine made, loved that it was old and tarnished and brass.