Cowboy. Poet. Two powerful words. We think of autonomy, no boundary, hearts that rip apart and heel back together. Theirs and ours. Cowboys and poets, stars in the galaxies of our fantasies.
Lunch. Plebian, mundane, a quotidian event that is not essential. Not breakfast, the “most important meal of the day”. Not dinner, the meal that creates national merit scholars. Lunch. So optional. Lunch, the star of garden variety hedonists.
LUNCH IS ON, THEN OFF, then on again, depending on how they’re getting along on the given day.
Yes lunch. “Joe and I are meeting at the Safeway at noon.”
No lunch. “Chris is being difficult.”
Yes lunch. “Joe and I have smoothed things over.”
Chris Earnshaw and Joe Mills are kindred spirits who can be passionate foes. They are now also photographer and printmaker, respectively, and artist and curator. They’ve got a baguette, mustard packets, loose supermarket roast beef and a heap of liverwurst. They are inspired by each other, not listening to each other, at each other’s throats about everything. Art. Film. Life. Death. It’s June 2012 at the Wisconsin Avenue Safeway.
Read on here.
Thank you, Mr. Fixit, for sending this story to me. Makes me love Washington.