Portland, Oregon. Art, desperation and 8 dollar a slice pie.

I’m back in Barcelona after a month in Portland, Oregon, my hometown. I’m jet lagged so consider this while reading.
Portland is out of balance. Line around the block brunch joints on Thursday mornings, 8 dollar slices of pie and growing homeless tent towns.
There is a palpable and real sense of desperation and fear which disturbingly rubs up against those that have come for pie and brunch.
There are more creative people doing creative things than in any other place that I have been to, and I been to a lot of places. Now whether or not the quality of the creative matches the quantity is another question.
The food in Portland is amazing but there is something troubling about it’s lack of roots. It all tastes great but in many cases it’s seemingly superficial and not just a little bit decadent. It’s consumption without comprehension. But it tastes great.
People in Portland have sex.
There is an incredible music scene.
The tatuage is insane.
I think this stew creates a fertile ground for creativity. It’s not comfortable, nurturing and safe, but it seems to be working.
Oddly this is not reflected in the visual arts as most of art galleries feature work that is less than earth shaking.
Barcelona on the other hand is stable, culturally deep, resonate and substantial.
It is not however a cauldron of creativity. It feels static and safe. With only a couple of exceptions the art work in the Barcelona galleries is equally as pedestrian.
Portland in general still has this slight inferiority complex… the average Portlander’s skin is not exactly thick.
I feel much more at home in Barcelona. There is less posturing. Less posing. OK, it’s Portland posing… but it’s posing. It’s probably more of an American thing than a Portland thing. Butt sniffing. Iphone/Samsung watching. Who are you? What do you do?
8 dollar slice o’ cherry pie? Jefe, I want you to slowly pit those suckers one at a time with a golden cherry pit pitter.
