Here

Here is Philly, here is everywhere. Thoughts on art and humanity.

We were in the middle of Philadelphia in an old brownstone building which had been converted into a conglomeration of shared art studios. Tonight, the space had a pulse, a body of music, an artful youth and rebellion which stemmed from souls of the 70s and 80s, a generation who was here to remind us what it meant to be young, creative. But as I sat in the crowded, hot hallways, experiencing the art and eavesdropping on conversations, I found myself needing to move. There was movement in the art, in the building, in the world. The summer air blew the breaths of a million artistic thoughts onto streets where it mingled with the smoke of a billion addicted cigarette smokers into the windows of lawyers who knew where to find pharmaceutical ecstasy from ages past. It blew through the terrifying and exhilarating streets of Philadelphia into overcrowded buildings where it became stale until it wafted out on the steps of a new pair of black vans, snuck into the screamo concert on floor three, caressed the tattoos of a few dozen heavily-pierced, black-clad rebels, and finally, wound itself around my hand, pulling my brother and I into a stairwell where the air moved freely again, drifting under closed doorways which seemed to whisper secrets about art, life, and love.

Let’s explore, I said. On floor four, there was an open door. Nobody was there, just hallways where fluorescent lights had been left on, and dried paint carelessly covered the cement floors and plaster dividers which seemed to scream “we’re not done yet, this is art.” On floor four, there was a door which beckoned to a rickety fire escape which led to floor five, whose door had been propped open. We stepped cautiously into the fifth floor, more open doors, revealing unfinished works of art, empty studios which hinted at artists who were out for a smoke-break, mingling on floor two, head-banging on floor three, trusting their art to persevere through the chaotic Philadelphia rumble. The open doors were a dare, tantalizingly declared with the knowledge that it would never be fulfilled. “Destroy me, hurt me.” But only monsters and artists destroy art. Here, monsters became human, and artists destroyed only to recreate. Here, we breathed the air of a million people with a million vices, and fell in love with ourselves anyway. Here, humans tried to figure out what it all meant, even though the meaning was already there. Here is in the hearts and souls of every thinker, lover, creator. Here sneaks behind locked doors, runs free in the streets when Pride Parades dare you to tell them no, blatantly defies old men who think urinals can’t be art, whispers around the burka of a brave woman. Here laughs at a world of cynicism, hurt feelings, walls. Here demands to be seen, heard, felt. Excuse me? A quick tap on the shoulder, a little wave. Hey. We’re here.