ArtStory by American artist, Roz Dimon. Information Paintings.

Life goes on and we deal with the hills and valleys but sometimes a special crest, a bump comes along that speaks to the "stuff" -- the "sweet stuff" that connects people not to the 'hip' the 'cool' but to all of that and more . . . cradles of love we once escaped from but also long for . . . yes, I'm talking mostly about all the weird, wonderful, creative Manhattan types who love to say "of course I LEFT CINCINNATI", and "Egads, Alabama - like , I ran away so fast . . ." Yes, to work as a starving typist here in Manhattan, be spit on by someone you don't even know (yes I dodged a spit the other day; somehow it's worse when it's 'anonymous') OK I"m winding up to a story here folks.

PICTURE THIS: We're in Chelsea (think new, cool, art, that only takes three subways and two avenues that go the wrong way to get to . . . how did all these people get here? And in a recession?) I digress. Here we are at my friend's opening, her first in 33 years. (yes it's tough in NYC. You lose a gallery? Who cares? You'd better, as you'll never get back in on another's good will. Yea. Sweet home Alabama.) So here we are. My friend has sold a few pieces because yes, her work rocks to young and old and we've managed to get a cadre here (including a famous curator) for these two young women gallery dealers who are 'taking a chance on believing' and it's been a good evening.

We're on the elevator in one of 'coolest art blocks in Chelsea on a Thursday evening where the chic, the young, the longing to be 'in' are gathered - it's an elevator that can chug up a three ton sculpture, or hey 25 young, desperate seekers. My husband pushes "L" and shouts "LET'S SING "KUMBAYA!" I cringe. Holy God. Well of course, I mean, it seems these people most of whom I'm assured are devout atheists just CAN NOT WAIT (I cover my cross) so it starts: "Kumbaya my Lord, Kumbaya" Floor 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 -- It seems like forever . . . Yes six full verses varied to fit the impulse and nano-seconds . . .

We'd made a reservation around the corner at what I had been assured was the "best and cheapest Chinese restaurant in Chelsea." Well it was packed. I'd looked into it and declined to make a reservation as you could get your head chopped off in the 'shrimp with garlic sauce' just for a miscount. Appears to be what New Yorkers love . . . the rudest place on earth -- a restaurant you can trust. Here's a typical review: "I love this place. My baby was born under the table here in 1979 and they still don't even say hello. Order the Soup Dumplings." So yes, we found ourselves in this packed, thronged Chinese joint in the middle of 'cool, let's-be-remote' land -- and yes the Chinese food was to die for. Our Chinese waitress treated us appropriately as in "you are dead." Still it was good food and eight people for $100 dollars? My husband, ever reticent to speak out :) announced to all of us as he received the bill, "We must stand up and applaud!" So we did. The claps were with us . . . I mean "How much fun is it to be alive?" I rang out, "Here's to humanity!" and heard another hearty, "Hey, we made it through another day!"

We had. And it was good.

George Held
Jan Lichtenstein (still enjoys life here on the planet)
Walter Liedtke