art... art... art...

Don't tell anyone, but I'm not reciting the backpacker mantra at the moment.

After arriving three hours late to find Francois still waiting for me at the airport, we hopped into his taxi-driver friend's cab and headed to his and Phuong's new place. It's about ten minutes from central Saigon but has the same feel of the neighborhood the three of us used to live in: red-tile roofs and gated 'villas' (big, airy houses), gravel roads and some empty lots. Big trees shading balconies and pretty courtyards in the gated front areas of homes. I have my own room, bathroom, and balcony with potted plants. Plus an ample supply of Jumbo - the mosquito repellent coils I came to rely upon, as my blood apparently tastes like buttah. I am so happy and relieved to find Phuong & Francois in such elevated circumstances, as they had several years of hardscrabble living before they both made it to this point. Both are exporting coveted stuff - Vietnamese coffee and vintage French-colonial tiles - and life is much easier and deservedly so.

Last night we went with Francois' father, who moved his family here six months ago after visiting F and garnering an art exhibition in Hanoi a year later. He and his wife wanted to attend an art opening to make some connections and get people to go to his show as well, and so the five of us hobnobbed with expats and Vietnamese art types in the gallery of an American Viet Kieu (overseas Vietnamese). After that we had a smoky, noisy, grill-your-own dinner down the street, and then to a popular expat bar afterwards for drinks and pool. Over the course of the evening I had pathetically pidgin conversations in Spanish, French, Japanese and Vietnamese, realizing how tenuous a grasp I have on the languages that I comprehend to varying degrees. Meanwhile, F's father's wife - who is Spanish - speaks fluent Spanish, French and English and very good Japanese. I'm sure she'll pick up Vietnamese after six more months. Much like my Mexican housemate in Tokyo (who is fluent, more or less, in seven languages), this woman is another reminder that I need to work harder and think less about such goals.

This morning F's father - who is French and speaks little else, but who paints like hell - took me to his gallery and studio, which he'll have to vacate once the show is taken down in February. At the moment, he's showing these wonderful large canvases painted with media he's mixed himself, using powdered pigment, a gluey painting medium, turpentine and asphalt. Now he's working on several series using asphalt paints on paper, and the subject matter of these is more abstract expressionist and use more neutral colors.

So after I post this, I'm going off to another gallery to see the computer-generated work of a New York artist I met at the opening last night, and tonight there's an opening in a private home that a Swedish woman has rented solely to construct a huge tunnel inside. This weekend is ALL ABOUT ART - so I'm willing to blow off the backpackers for that (just for now).

So off I go.