San Francisco Art Institute. March, 2013

My eyes completely skipped to acknowledge the two landmarks and zoomed right into him, walking so carelessly on the edge of the cement bleachers; adjacent to a short institutional abyss.
It was an instant playback of memories from my own art school days of wandering, questioning and exploring the whys with your own set of imaginary wings. Wings which were made out of edible glitter during the day, and powered by classic philosophy while listening to NPR at night.

Recording moments and instances is something that we as humans tend to do.
Sorting memories is something that the brain does independently perhaps – whether we chose to revisit them is a different process and we are often quickly triggered by specific sightings. Most of the time by being exposed to a specific scent; the scent of your past.

I have been to the SFAI many times over the years for lectures, exhibits, talks. A school that I fell in love with due to its history, Diego Rivera, and its location. And almost attended, but didn’t. I hold a BFA from an equally outstanding Bay Area art institution.

As I was trying to catch my breath walking up something like 3 or 4 flights of stairs from the institute’s rear entrance, my lungs were burning with a rather distinct fire from the one that once burnt with curiosity and exposure to the unknown.
Then that person was there along with a brief representation. I observed.
And quickly after, that moment was gone.

// Objectivity, Spring 2013.