A couple dressed in black stands to one side, he with a beer, she with a glass of white wine. Neither of them smile, nor frown, nor laugh, but they do occasionally talk, though mostly between themselves. He has long hair, in dreadlocks pulled into a low ponytail. Coming closer I can see he wears clean tan chinos and white sneakers with his plain black wool sweater. But it all has an uncomfortable look. These are not his regular clothes, these are not his regular friends, this is not his regular Friday night function. Her simple, knee length, straight, black dress looks more comfortably worn. Her uncomfortableness is filled with the crowded room, his began with the clothes. She is not at ease with herself, but portrays it as uncomfortable with the world. At any moment someone might talk to her, look at her, engage her companion in conversation or maybe just notice that she exists. This function is well beyond her comfort level, if she could ever be comfortable. He has a subtle strength of confidence that is completely lacking in her. He seems to belong here in some sense, maybe not with her, maybe not with crisp clean pants, or maybe with a few less people pressing into his personal space. Thirty minutes later, they are both gone, their space filled with other stories.
On a bench curved like a snake on the prowl, a thirty-something man sits down with intention. A smile spreading across his face, he caresses the arch of the bent wood as it curves to the floor. His clothes are clean and confident, a stark juxtaposition to his wild hair. Sandy curls spike up and around his head, not like a halo of innocence, as a small child's curls might infer. His crazy hair is much thicker than a halo and completely unruly. Perhaps it has been several months since a hair cut, but more likely it is just his style to be carefully rumpled into place. He sits back, having examined the downward curve, and spreads himself out, taking up the space previously occupied by at least three people. His legs and feet each angle out, spread eagle, filling more and more space. He puts his arms equally open and lounges back on his hands. Is that a devilish grin spreading across his face? Everything about him is confident, perhaps not totally cocky, but very assured of himself and that he belongs here. He fills his space and begs for someone, anyone to engage him in conversation, about himself, or possibly the smooth lines of the bench.
Across the humming room, I spy another. His easy smile and kind eyes fully engage a group of four visitors. He is oblivious to any surreptitious glances sent in his direction, occupied instead with those in his current discussion. He is easily casual, moderately confident, graceful and gentle. His clothes fit him and his personality with refinement and comfort. His charcoal silk sweater is tamed by multi-pocketed work pants and a beer. His large hand sports a simple gold band as he clutches a carved wooden cane. I have seen him circulate through much of the room, stopping to talk with different small groups of people. He is on display here, but not as an investor or an artist. He is an example of what we want to be when we grow up. Happy and contented with himself.
A woman with a glass of white wine stops to run her hands along a masterpiece. It is the only upholstered piece on display. Large, curved, and covered with an off-white fabric, it stands in complete stark contrast to the cherry, bubinga and highly varnished maple of the other seating choices. She does not linger at the voluptuous exhibition, but is not drawn to touch any of the other benches squatting throughout the room. Instead, she turns her attention to the walls and the two-dimensional artwork also on display. A painting catches her eye, it is of a single rocking chair, lit by the diagonal sunlight shining through a window, with a field beyond. Her clothes are not pretentious or particularly dressy, although she is perfectly in line with the crowd, wearing simple jeans and a fitted sweater. What is it about the two completely different pieces that draw her in and catch her attention? Another object catches her eye and responds openly to her extended smile. He makes his slow way to the middle of the room. Returning their empty drinks and holding hands, they leave, his cane thumping lightly on the wooden floor.
I snake my way through the thinning crowd. Taking my husband's hand, we head out for the next people watching gallery, dinner out. He hands me the keys from one of the many pockets of his work pants as I tell him of the field beyond.