Something Fishy

Jun 25, 2020 | Welcome Column

Something Fishy
Just twenty minutes ago I was awash in stress hormones while riding the painful frenzy of simultaneous deadlines (Calculus midterm! Turn in tutoring hours! Gallery essay for Art History! Mount new tires! Spanish 4 presentation!). I had already exhausted the negative litany in my head about not enough time or sleep or fun when I attempted to decipher one more assignment. Another assignment on top of too many things needing to be done too ridiculously soon.
“Compare one Ab Ex, Art Informel, or Bay Area Figurative artist to the work of one Minimalist artist. Compare their works. What is a common thread you see between the two, whether it is a shared subject, theme, or purpose? Which do you think makes the most powerful statement, and why?” 
You have to understand that I’m not particularly savvy about Modern Art which is why I’m taking a class on Modern Art History. And while this was one of the professor’s less obscure assignments, I read that thing like it was some alien binary language. For all I knew “Ab Ex” was some sort of herbal supplement that guaranteed a muscled physique. [It’s just short for Abstract Expressionism. Duh.]
Sigh. My perception of the enormity of the task proved to be the proverbial brick wall and last straw of the day, and there was only one thing to do in a situation like that. So I pulled my mandolin off its cradle and headed to the backyard. I settled on a bench next to the koi pond and, with head full of strain and resistance, began to play.
All it took was that first strum. Really. Just one chord and it became all about the music and the words. I sang to the azaleas and brilliant-leafed maples, and to the purple irises surrounded by poppies and grape hyacinths. On the edge of my awareness was the scent of sun-warmed lemon verbenas, rosemary and pine needles. The cedars and pines undulated like slow seaweed in the slight breeze, and the soft wind chimes and waterfalls were my accompaniment.  
After a time lost within my musical reverie, a visceral something caused me to look up. And right there, aligned at the edge of the pond, were the the koi fish idling nearly motionless and watching me. This was not their usual enthusiastic mob scene at feeding time. They were fully engaged and obviously curious, listening to the music with rapt attention. The pond sparkled gently in the dappled sunlight as we regarded each other. And when I started playing “Walls of Time,” they stayed.

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