Whatever it was melted in the rain

They were there for the liquor. Face turned away from what was on display, he tapped his beer bottle, shook his head, and explained that as long as a sponsor is buying drinks, the crowd will come.

The pinned-up pages on display were not masquerading as art, were neither a comment nor a question. Once hung on the wall, whatever moments the photos once trapped were turned into a blank canvas on which the light-headed youth decided not to draw.

The irony in the room seemed omnipresent and simultaneously over: no one cared, way too much. Dana Goldstein’s photos looked no different from Jamie Taete’s. Both were purposefully amateur, different only contextually from the photos the guests snapped. The evening seemed as though it would amount to only a photograph of a photograph. Then the cops came, the bar ran dry, and the sky started to pour.

We left the gallery space in search of nothing. In the parking lot across the street we pieced together a make shift furniture set, then sat and waited. When the rain became unbearable we raised a dry piece of plywood and hid underneath. Surrounded by soaked cement we sprinted towards the closest cab and made our way to destination number two. There, it ended with us in the dark, dancing.