The time: Tuesday, September 1, 1981. Late afternoon. 

The place: An art gallery in the South of Market neighborhood, San Francisco, California. 

Some of the artists, dressed mostly in black, are huddled together, looking out a window. I can tell something is wrong. Wandering a little closer, I try to listen to their conversation while pretending I’m looking at a large blurry painting of a blue car (at least I think it’s a car).

“Look at him smoking pot out there on the street corner … he won’t come up here,” I hear Jill Coldiron say. “I mean, he doesn’t like his placement, but I don’t know why he’d sabotage himself this way during the reception.” 

I head over to the food table to grab some more grapes and that yummy, crusty sourdough bread. I have no idea what Jill is talking about, but I do know that if anyone can solve a problem, she can. 

Jill is the organizer of this art opening and a good friend of my parents. I like being around her because she’s smart, loud, and funny. Sometimes my mom and I drive south across the Golden Gate Bridge and into San Francisco to have lunch downtown with Jill—I love doing that. She and my mom laugh so hard when they’re together it makes my ears ring. When Jill invited my dad to be in this group art show he yelled to my mom from the other room “Good news Patrish … Jill wants my cars in the San Francisco show!” 

The warehouse gallery is full of bright light, and the high ceiling is echoey with the sounds of clinking glass, people talking, and live music played by some nice musicians in the corner. 

I’m the only ten-year-old here, something I’m pretty used to since I’m an only child. I don’t mind because I’m good at secretly spying on adults, just like Harriet the Spy.

Slightly wobbly in my wavy-soled high-heeled hand-me-down Famolare shoes and flowered Gunne Sax dress, I walk around looking for my parents. Spotting them across the gallery, I see that they’re standing next to one of my dad’s art cars. They look happy. That’s how they usually look.

Lately, when he’s not writing, my dad works on his cars. Most of his art, both the large wooden constructions, and the cars, make some sort of point about politics. I don’t understand the messages, but I like what he makes. A lot of other people seem to like his art too since there have been articles about him and his art in magazines and newspapers.

The cars are shaped out of wood and have shiny parts made of sheets of aluminum that he hammers thumbtacks into. There are funny looking characters in the driver’s seat that he shapes out of clay. The cars have names I can’t pronounce, like Senator Kincade’s Private Secretary, Compulsory Arbitration, and The Subcommittee Investigator.

I like it when my dad’s art is in shows, mostly because I get to spend extra time with him. Once he had his art in a street fair in Palo Alto and my cousin Laurel and I helped him set everything up. People stopped by and talked to us and bought some of his work. Normally, I’m not allowed to have sugar, but that day I got to have some cotton candy.

We know a lot of artists. I like to make art too, but I don’t think I’m very good at it. My mom makes pottery on a big wheel that I can spin, and my best friend Portia’s parents are both silkscreen artists—when I sleep over at her house we sneak into their studios. We’ve seen stars through the skylights. We shake the brightly colored paint bottles and run soft paintbrushes across our cheeks. Sometimes Portia’s mom drives us to the art supply store in Santa Rosa in her tan VW bus. She lets us pick out pastels in colors we like. 

When is this art opening going to end? My feet are getting tired, and my stomach hurts from eating all that fruit. The artist who was outside earlier is back inside the gallery now, talking to Jill in front of his sculpture that looks like huge melted Tinkertoys. His eyes are red and he still looks mad. 

Now lots of people are gathered around my dad’s cars. A lady who is a friend of my parents commissioned (that’s a fancy word for “bought”) one of my dad’s cars for her husband. She’s giving it to him as a surprise. The musicians play a happy song while my dad announces that he made the car especially for the lady’s husband. There’s even a head that looks like his head driving the car. Everyone claps loudly. The man looks surprised and smiley, and his wife gives him a big kiss. 

Time to ask mom and dad if we’re leaving soon. I’m too full of art and fruit. 

I’m thinking about how art seems to make adults happy—when they’re making it and when they’re looking at art that other people made.

Except for that one artist, I guess.