|And I didn't even get to the--oh, wait, those are for surprises.
||[Jun. 5th, 2010|10:25 pm]
markgritter, timprov, and I met porphyrin at Taste of Scandinavia to do St. Anthony Park Art Fest today. Yes, I know it's called Finnish Bistro now. I haven't started calling Dayton's Macy's yet, have I? and it was Marshall Field's in between times. I love St. Anthony Park Art Fest. Love love love love it. My parents are Minnetonka partisans, but for my time, St. Anthony Park has the best art fest. And I don't just say this because it benefits the library. Or because I have a Helsinki necklace and an x-ray greeting card of a seahorse and, as I told Facebook, had a very near miss on being forcibly adopted by a roving band of five amazing Scandosotan potters. Who are so blatantly influenced by Tove Jansson or at least by her influences that I could swear that that wolf there is friends with Little My. As well a wolf should be. There is no one reason to love St. Anthony Park Art Fest. It is large. It contains multitudes. And with my snazzy new cane, I can reach those multitudes and only be completely wiped out afterwards.
But that's not why I've called you all here today. No, it's this: we want a thing, and it's not a thing we can do. The garden metalworkers are making decorative garden metalwork, which is all very fine, decorative metalwork that can stand weather is very good, and there were aliens and fierce steampunk dragonflies I almost wanted enough to try to talk markgritter into one even though the garden is his domain and like that. But what we really want is decorative/interesting/fancy useful garden metalwork. Like tomato cages. We have to have tomato cages, for lo, we have these many tomato plants. Is there some reason why the tomatoes need the cages to look like they currently do? I'm thinking not so much. I'm thinking someone who knew tomatoes could experiment with creative asymmetry. With wandering wire writ large. With something interesting, and--as tomato cages are not Protestant weddings--not just on the back. (Obscure joke, ask my mother.) And you, oh internet: you know people. Go forth.