Echo Beach Tide Pools

 

Java Junk and Art Jive

By Keith Alan Johnson
03-26-2000

      It took me a long time to start drinking coffee. I went through high school and college without touching the stuff. I never acquired the taste. Odd for a Seattleite, I know. My father likes coffee that will dissolve spoons, or at least allow them to stand up in the mug for a few minutes. Perhaps that's why I didn't drink the stuff for so long. Or perhaps it's because I have a sweet tooth and coffee tastes bitter. In the end it was that sweet tooth that was the first half of my downfall.
      On a side note, my introduction to abstract art was in college. A professor there would go on and on about what I would call "Paint thrown randomly on a canvas". Then he would go up to a student's piece of fantasy art and rip it up. I decided abstractionists were full of s**t and that abstract art was a reflection of their soul.
      What's this got to do with coffee? There is a connection. My Uncle is an artist. He paints what I call abstract realism. Perhaps there is actually an art form called abstract realism, I don't know for sure. His art is abstract, but you can actually see what he is painting. He managed to show me the finer side of abstract art, how abstract art in the hands of a master could actually be something very cool, something you could drink a latte in front of and not feel like a yuppie. That was the second half of my downfall.
      One cold December night back in 1989 I attended an opening night gallery show of the latest artworks of my uncle, Dale V. Cox. He had three dominant themes there; "Flowers in the Field", "Night Railroads", and "Doomsday Clock Graffiti". I had seen many versions of these works under construction, but I had never seen them displayed in a gallery setting. My uncle's art adorned the walls, throughout this hollow, cold, single room gallery. Each painting had it's own spotlight. Either the piece would warm the surroundings with its touch of heartfelt whimsy, or it would chill you further with its bleak outlook on the future. And then, as a counterpoint to both of those themes the third would give you a feeling of powerful mystery.
      Just outside the gallery entrance there was a latte cart. The steam from the esspresso machine surounded the cart, barista and patrons with an erie mist in the cold night. The cart beckoned to me. "Come to me" it said. "Let me warm your hands. Come to the
dark roast side. Smell my eggnog latte." I didn't have a chance. Soon I was standing in front of "Cascade Division" with a white paper cup topped with a plastic lid... a 12 oz single short eggnog latte with a dust of nutmeg. It was ecstasy. It was my first time.
      I was lost. I was hooked. For the next ten years I would be drinking "double tall skinnys with a touch of hazelnut", or "single short skinny mint mochas". I would have stories I would relate about how new espresso shops would open up in foreign cities in far off lands, like San Diego, and how they wouldn't know what to do with them. I would show off my knowledge with the flare of my ordering technique. I would pass judgment on the talents of baristas. My wallet filled itself with coffee club cards from around the country until it would nearly explode. I became a coffee connoisseur. I could tell the difference between a dark Italian roast and a light Kona blend, even though I would still smother both in a cream sweetener. I would sip with many people. I could even offer to "buy a cup of coffee" for a social visit. I would sit in coffee shops with out of town friends and visit. I would sit in a coffee shop by myself, reading the newspaper and nursing from that white plastic topped cup. Best of all, in the morning I could bring a warm cup of coffee to my wife and place it in her hands, one of the many displays of love and affection.
      It all started with that one eggnog latte and an art show.
      Fast forward to last month, over ten years later. Something clicked. I don't truly know what it was, but one night the romance faded, I stopped drinking coffee. I haven't had a cup for three weeks. I haven't had the desire. I haven't had any withdrawal symptoms. The flame simply faded and I just stopped drinking coffee. I don't know what I'm going to do at the next art show I go to. I have to admit though, that a lot of my artistic friends are just as comfortable viewing a piece of art with a can in their hands that reads "enjoy Coca-Cola".
My wife gave up coffee for lent. I don't know why she decided to do that. I didn't even know she participated in lent. Perhaps it was a show of support to me or perhaps it was just something she wanted to do. I must say though, there is no romance in placing a cold can of soda in her hand in the morning. Perhaps we will use all that tea stash that I've had stored since my college days.

03-26-2000

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© 2000 by Keith Alan Johnson.