My Kingdom for a Corner of Yours

As I walked, the street became increasingly desolate. A prison-style kindergarten appeared and then fell back to my left. A weedy cemetery scrambled along beside me to my right. The art space, however, did not materialize and it seemed ever more unlikely that it would. Phone numbers here are tricky -- sometimes requiring two extra 0s in the beginning and a 49. Sometimes demanding a 30 and other times rejecting the 1 or 0 that hangs out near the front of the line. I dialed another combination and this time he answered.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m trying to find you guys. It’s not where Google Maps said it would be.”

“Yeah. Google doesn’t know where we are,” he said with a Portuguese accent. “You have to walk towards the tower. We’re right under there.”

“Excellent,” I said. I had passed the water tower a little ways back. An old brick construction complete with merlons and arrow loops despite its domestic purpose. A fitting cairn to signal my studio search was headed in the right direction.

I walked through the iron gate, past a picnic table, hammock and a small orchard of apple trees. I shook my head as I saw the address, a magic-markered 50, tacked crookedly to the wall.

Inside, the space smelled of grilled onions and herbs. Desks, art supplies and bohemian types were strewn across the large room. The eight windows were open wide. In the back, the kitchen was in full swing. It was explained to me that this was a new artist collective, Agora (www.agoracollective.org), that they held movie screenings and exhibitions here and that I would be welcome to rent a workspace.

In order to get a feel for it, I decided to stay for dinner. What better way to get to know someone than to cook with them? So I ventured out for wine and cheese as an offering for their edible alter and then jumped into the culinary fray. A brother and sister duo with Italian roots was directing the operation. They were assisted by a small team of international art folk. The others Googled and doodled at their stations.

I cut and filled handmade ravioli with three types of ricotta, sun dried tomato and mushroom fillings and stirred two sauces – a zucchini and a red. Full plants turned into piles of herbs as big as my head and then made their way into the meatballs. The older sister was bra-less, with hair and skin so close in color they probably alternated which was lighter depending on the season. That evening, her hair was slightly sun-bleached and her skin Italian-tan. “Nudity,” she remarked. I looked up from my dough-forking station. A guy was standing naked in the middle of the room. He laughed and stepped into a different pair of pants. “This reminds me of Baltimore!” I said aloud. But it was only remarkable to me.

During dinner at the picnic table, the brother told me about the music space that he was opening next door. He was darker than his sister in complexion and in a state of constant wonderment. He said that, with most of his ideas, he felt the need to convince people that his cause was worthwhile or to enlist their help. But he was so certain of this undertaking that he wasn’t seeking approval. And support was coming out of the woodwork anyway. “Even the building materials you need are just showing up,” his sister chimed in. Joseph Campbell liked to say that when you are on the right track the world conspires to lend a hand.

The brother’s curiosity was an infectious condition because you saw yourself in his eyes as an object of wonder and then you were one. He’d question everything and some of his questions you could have answered logically but you don’t because what would be the use in tying up his lovely loose threads but most you couldn’t answer anyway so you shake your head and have another glass of wine and look up at the sky through the branches of the apple tree.

Close to six hours after I arrived, I walked up the dark street to the U-Bahn. I noticed I was smiling. The best and most rare first dates go this way. You look up and the whole day has passed.