I guess I should have known what I was getting myself (and my innocent friend) into–the mission of the Flux Factory states that it “is a non-profit art organization that supports and promotes emerging artists through exhibitions, commissions, residencies, and collaborative opportunities. Flux Factory…functions as an incubation and laboratory space for the creation of artworks that are in dialogue with the physical, social, and cultural spheres of New York City.”
But still, when I read about the event going on there last night, I thought it sounded like a good alternative to the “hang out at a bar talking to friends until they get tired and leave around 9pm which is really just an excuse to go home to their boyfriends, leaving you alone and lonely as always” practice.
I thought it would at the very least be entertaining, if not entirely exciting. I thought we would encounter some fun people who, while they may be crazy because they are artists, would be welcoming and not creepy. Instead, we were met with this:
In case you can’t tell, here we have a room full of pillows, with bubbles floating down, guarded by a weird looking guy just lying there at the entrance. (We did not go in.)
So okay, I wasn’t the target audience, and I should have realized anything this “artsy” is not intended for those of us who don’t get a thrill from being intentionally counter-culture or whatever. And maybe my obsessive quest to find new things to write about on this blog led me astray into this situation.
But can you say you spent last night (or at least 10 minutes of it until you felt you’d fully felt the effects of essentially crashing a stranger’s party) immersing yourself in a world you usually have nothing to do with?
No. And I have to say I’m envious of you for that.