De Ce Monde Secret de l’ Amelie Americaine

This is me staring at the ceiling of my very nice, historic hotel in San Francisco. Presidents have been shot at on its steps. Celebrities have graced it’s corridors, and I had the very good fortune of staying here while working on a corporate show at the Moscone Center.

Everything was paid for. Food was brought to us every three to four hours. And not the usual craft service of weak coffee and packaged junk food. Instead I was treated to steak, fish, pasta, mexican, chinese, and there was always dessert: chocolate cake or chocolate moose. I was never hungry. It was there at my fingertips before the thought even crossed my mind.

I’m not use to my needs being anticipated. My bed was made for me and although the hallway on the fourth floor reminded me of the hotel in “The Shining”, I couldn’t of asked for a nicer experience. I was happy, grateful, and rested.
There was even time before work to walk around Union Square and take some photographs or stop by one of the several bistros that lined Powell Street and sip espresso.

However, here I was in what my sister called, “A cleaner New York.” A place that I had left ten years ago for the trenches of NYC, enjoying unusually balmy weather (mid-seventies), and every photo I took had the same over yellow, bland expression. Somewhere, I was “lost in translation”. It was beautiful. I was not the least bit stressed by either my surroundings or the job was on, and still I couldn’t find “it”. That part of me that zeros in on the moment and is able to capture it artistically.

What I had to ask myself…”Is my art rooted in my discontent?” And if so, what is going to happen to me or my work if I have nothing to complain about?

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