Late nights end on the lawn

Rain taunted the city all afternoon, but the last of the drops fell with sunset. By then the crowds had begun to swarm, as if art were the only solution to the latest epidemic outbreak. At every angle, all night, we consumed as much as possible. The goal was to eat the whole evening, and wake full in the morning.

Assembled, separated, cell phones, cobblestone, and concrete: every footstep at Nuit Blanche begs to get lost. Inevitably it happens. The decision to head home occurred on a streetcar going in the opposite direction, overcrowded with day-time transit people. The homeless, bar regulars and even artists have been overtaken by couples with caravans parked in driveways a go train trip away. As for the drunk, the young, and the high heeled entertainment district: that was their first taste.

Still, I got what the city paid for. After the performances, floating rabbits, fire, costumes, religious art, and 8-second exposures, I end up alone, late at night, standing on the third floor of an unassuming building filled with graffiti. At my feet is a glowing green lawn coupled with a picket fence and finished off with a few spare tires and an open toilet seat.

I ignore the rotation of touring art eaters and think about the instillation. If the artist was here, I’d grab them by the shoulders, shake him, and say:

”Yeah man, me too.”