In the Garden, a band played lonesome river songs to the artists who watched Hipsters do what they do best: nothing. They sat in covens ignoring the concrete walls and wooden tables flocked by paintings and photographs which begged for new homes. And the drizzling rain tapped the plastic canopies hanging over all their heads, but it wasn’t invited to join the party.
It was a dreary day for the Garden to be filled, and if the art and music were absent, the courtyard would have been alone to sulk in the fog. To see the Hipsters’ languid figures draped across its chairs, their queen at the center talking over the music in her dull voice about the bar downtown where she’d roamed for half the night, while the artists hovered near their lifeblood and wished for one more sale, a day of solitude may have been a welcome change to the misery which these figures brought to the scene.
Hope for sun to dry the floor and brighten the ivy was extinguished when someone, afraid of electrical fires, yanked the cord to the string of golden lights crisscrossing over the room from its socket in the wall and turned the Garden gray. But the twang in the guitar and soft brushes on the drum kept the space breathing, swaying, rocking its heels for a few minutes more.
– Written by Miss A on December 6, 2012