by donald dusinberre imartsyfartsy@gmail.com
Saturday, January 26th was the night I observed hundreds of life-journeys in the throes of reminiscence and longing. Attending a brief art gallery exhibition, Baby Boomers now living in Jacksonville descended upon the R. Roberts Gallery to meet (or re-introduce themselves to) Peter Max, one of the best-known visual artists of their generation.
Since I had already seen Max’s work earlier in the week, I was content to watch the star-struck fans while my wife examined the artwork. I was unaware of how popular Peter Max is among folks who grew up in the sixties and seventies, and it was truly fascinating. Standing next to the man whom they credit as the illustrator of their formative years, all the former hippies and counterculture dabblers tried their hardest to buy their way back to the Summer of Love.
Humorous as the scene was, I was impressed as dozens upon dozens of colorful paintings were removed from the walls and brought to Max, who faithfully personalized the back of each painting with a signature and a hand-drawn sketch made out to the buyer, afterwards posing for a photo with the gleeful new owners. Practically every fan reverted to a teen-idol-worship mode, where they either leered at Max or stood in line with old posters and coffee table books for him to sign.
Though most of the guests merely amused us, there were a few who delivered some revealing information, and I witnessed a few small events that, together, set my mind upon a theme.
A woman I estimated to be in her forties (and dressed nice, albeit only slightly less provocatively than a hooker) was shamelessly making eyes at Max, who is now 70-years old.
I stood next to a woman who began describing a previous encounter with Max. It was the sixties; she was at a party in LA and tripping on champagne and LSD. Peter Max showed up with a bunch of paintings he was trying to sell. Later I remarked to my wife that I had never met any person from the “upper crust” so casually mention her past use of LSD. In contrast to her proper appearance, she seemed to harbor a small degree of sadness about giving up that life, and I wondered about the series of decisions that might have taken her from a life of excitement and discovery to the life of an upper-middle-class wife living in Avondale or Ponte Vedra.
While overhearing our conversation, yet another man admitted his past love of LSD while confirming that the world was full of folks such as he and the aforementioned woman. He lamented specifically about his involuntary decision to return to the fold.
I’ve never really spoken to a Boomer about the changes they endured in such a radical era: from inexperienced to adventurous and idealistic, then to proper and normal. These days, we hear a lot about the failure of the hippie era, but I’m too young to have participated, and I’ve never heard anyone mention his own metamorphosis.
It was then that the evening’s theme was fully realized: There exists an entire generation of people who have failed to maintain their ideals, and now they can only cling to colorful drawings and celebrities from that era to remind them of the promise they once held.
This story doesn’t end so drearily, though. Peter Max hasn’t failed. He seems even more devoted to the same ideals he held in the sixties. He has actually increased his creative output over the years, gently parrying the ups and downs of the last few decades with ease. Maybe all those people weren’t just there for the autograph. Maybe they wanted to breathe the same air they did way back when.
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