Ursa Minor

I was driving up Geary St. when I saw a banner in front of the Weinstein Gallery. "Picasso, Dali, Miró".

It was the end of August and I was on vacation. Misses B. had already taken her vacation and had gone to Orange County to see the latest addition to her extended family, a grandson, named after her late husband Frank. I was on my own and for the first time in several years I had gone out of town by myself. Constant calls from clients needing immediate attention on my first day off had helped to convince my loving wife that leaving the area was the only way that I would get any real relaxation.

I had packed an overnight bag and drove off with only a vague idea of where I was going or what I was going to do when I got there. Joan Miró is my favorite artist. Parking in San Francisco is a nightmare. I went round the block and into one of the monstrously expensive parking garages. Walking back down the street I looked into the gallery window and saw "Women Encircled by the Flight of a Bird". During his long artistic career Joan Miró had painted in a variety of styles, the prints from around 1960 contain a symbolism that speaks to my soul. The colors of his palette at that time are the colors of my emotions. The nice young man at the counter asked me if I was interested in anything specific and pointed to where some of Miró's work was on display. He told me to go ahead and look around.

Nothing that I saw was as interesting as the print in the window that was roped off. Hesitantly I asked I the young lady who worked there if I could get a closer look. She took me into the window and explained the history of the piece and let me examine it closely. And she told me the gallery had other pieces from the same collection of prints "Constellations." She went and got the key to another section of the gallery while I used the rest room. We went up the street and into another display room. I saw wonderful art pieces while learning fascinating information about how they where created. Patricia took the time to show me all of the pieces by Miró they had on display and when I showed interest in and knowledge about the artist she put on her little white gloves and pulled out the entire set of prints of "Constellations". We spent about an hour going over them, discussing their symbolism, admiring the colors and pointing out to one another various subtle images in the prints.

The rest of the time I spent in San Francisco was fun, I went to Chinatown and ate dried squid, drove over to Haight-Ashbury and bought the Misses a tie-dyed t-shirt (she made me do it), picked up some old comics for DW and found a nice little motel in the wrong part of town. The Phoenix a couple blocks up from Market St. looks rather questionable from the outside, the blank cinderblock walls are a drab green and the parking lot faces a street that needs swept. But the courtyard is lush with exotic plants and full of abstract art. The rooms, though the paint is rather gaudy, are clean and comfortable. The next day I had trouble finding the museum and a great deal of difficulty getting onto the bay bridge. At the other art galleries I visited I politely was shown a few pieces and then shown the door.

And I saw things there that were quite disturbing. A man and woman about my age picking up every thing they owned and moving on after sleeping on the sidewalk all night. A reminder of where I could be if I just tried a little harder. I get put out when I come in the house and it is too chilly because someone left the air conditioning running. I don't get into the big city much; my little trip helped me put my life into perspective.

Because the Misses wasn’t with me I got to do the things I was interested in. Little D. would have drug me from shop to shop, carrying bags full of cheap Chinese imports and souvenirs of the free love movement. We would have dined on something less exotic (less fishy). And I never would have found the Phoenix with her in tow, we would have drove right by.

One day in the city was enough! The one way streets, the five dollars in quarters needed for an hours parking (if you can find a spot), the panhandlers who can spot a tourist six block away and the bicyclist who come out of nowhere when you are about to make a right turn all got on my nerves. But after a few hours of driving in competition with taxi drivers on a mission the "rush hour" traffic in our little town no longer seems at all frustrating.

I owe misses B. a trip to Baghdad-By-The-Bay.