One of my earliest, and perhaps fondest, memories is going to gallery openings with my folks, wanting to leave, being sleepy, and being jostled to wakefulness while I hold my dads hand as he gesticulates in conversation. This is a foundational memory for me and when I told that story tonight at my daughters first gallery show, my sister realized it was a foundational memory for her, too. 

I haven’t had the time to write the blog the past few days because work and life has been too busy. I’m surprised to be writing it now, just having gotten back from that gallery opening and then setting up and easle (thanks mom). But, I suppose where there’s a will there’s a way. 

I have no memory of the infrastructure required to get me to those gallery openings; no memory of the drive there or the drive back. The dressing up or the putting down. I remembero nly the opening itself. Not too disimilar to how I remember, or don’t remember, going snowboarding.

Roby’s probably still too young to remember this particular outing, and we aren’t likely to go to another one any time soon, really. But maybe they’ll start to make an impression.