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san diego
Post #59 • July 13, 2003, 7:04 PM
San Diego’s temperature is perfect: July has a high of 76 and a low of 67. A Miamian realizes as soon as he walks outside just how much effort he spends enduring 89 degrees and 140% humidity back at home.
My opening at Scott White Contemporary Art was well attended and I heard many good comments about my work. I was up next to a lovely Paul Wonner watercolor from 1964. Thank youKathleen and Aki. Thank you Scott.
That evening I checked my e-mail and found out that Alfredo Triff has returned from Spain and will be writing the next few pieces. There will be another guest writer at some point. I know who, but I don’t know if it’s public knowledge yet. I will not be appearing again in the New Times for a while, it seems. That’s fine. The school year begins again at my place of employment, I have plenty of projects to work on, and I’m itching to paint.
The beaches of La Jolla are at the base of handsome cliffs. There are boulders to climb on. A Miamian realizes while doing t’ai chi on them that the difference between a real beach and a manufactured Miamian one is like the difference homemade bread and Wonder Bread.
The San Diego Museum of Art had a show of Degas sculptures and Hokusai drawings and prints. They have the Joaquin Sorolla that’s on the cover of my Joaquin Sorolla book. They have the only Correggio in North America. They have a wonderfully oddball egg tempera by an old Italian master named Caetana whom I hadn’t heard of.
The Gaslamp District on a Saturday night makes Coconut Grove nightlife look like a sewing circle.
While driving home from the airport on Calle Ocho, a light turned green and a driver in an SUV, ten cars back from the intersection, instantly slammed on his horn and held it for a good long blast, as if unable to comprehend why there might be a delay between the turning of the light and his forward progress. I turned around and looked at him. He pulled alongside and shouted something at me in Spanglish – I have no idea what. I noted with a sinking feeling that, indeed, I was home.