The saturnine nature of the (sandwich) artists

The Sub Club is not like the Warhol Factory. While the expressions of the Subway staff are morose, these "artists" frequently forget their work's motivation.

The Discreet Charm of the Bohemian Bourgeoisie

On Friday Joe and I discussed attending Transformer Gallery's "Soup Kitchen" part of their four week series called "Summer Camp." Two local artists served "up sustenance for hungry campers during dinner hours." The event was described as a chance to engage "the relationship of art and community service with the common concerns of our current economic situation, in the format of communal experience." They advertised that the leftover food would be donated to S.O.M.E., (So that Others Might Eat) a local non-profit. 

We didn't make it inside.  Splayed on the sidewalk just 20 feet outside the gallery was a homeless man, who may have been in early stages of hypothermia. As I dialed 311 to get medical attention for him, we felt a bit foolish to go inside at that point. Financially secure performance art enthusiasts enjoyed their mock soup kitchen on that frigid night chanting kumbaya style camp songs over hot bowls of soup, unaware a fellow human being was suffering in the worst way just outside the door. 

I thought to myself  that performance art can be so trivial, so petty, at times. We turned away from the gallery and marched ourselves to our local wildly-overpiced organic pizza joint and dropped $120.