Creative momentum – Writer finds the city’s talent and enthusiasm in live art event

My inner dialogue at most art functions is 80% critical. I just don’t go to art shows, concerts or plays without thinking about the cultural merit of the thing (I should also admit the other 20% of my preoccupation is devoted to finding a drink). When I was asked to write a first-person narrative about the BR Walls fundraiser Come Paint With Me, an event where the public could paint with local artists, see live hair styling, dance to DJ Otto and witness the acrobatics of Lee Guilbeau and Lauren Collignon, I said yes and then immediately entered into a big moral dilemma. If I were to be underwhelmed by this art-party-fundraiser, I couldn’t get away with just listing the facts.

My critical side had already kicked in before I even set foot in Mud and Water that December evening. On the way there, I complained about the concept to my friend. “Art isn’t something you dilly-dally with at some bar because you have free time,” I ranted on, bemoaning the recent trend of live art events in Baton Rouge. She nodded, but her wise and knowing grin said, Write the article, Erin, but no one wants to read about your hobby as an art critic because you took 30 hours of art history in college.

When I walked in, the first thing I saw was several canvases at various stages of completion propped up in front of the DJ booth. Seconds later, Lily Betancourt, one of the artists I was supposed to paint with, came up to me. “The paint is over there. Grab something,” she said. Heat bloomed in my face. It dawned on me, Is there a more intimidating request? You want me to dial into my creative brain in public, in real time? Maybe I could just streak down Third Street instead.

“Over here?” I asked, pointing to a table of paper plates with acrylic paint. I waited until she looked away, then beelined it to the bar.

From the sidelines I watched Betancourt and her artist cohorts, Raina Wirta, Jill Hackney and David Williams, generously guide and encourage those braver than me. To the right of them was stylist Jami Eastin, who had helped organize the event, armed with a hairdryer, piles of pink hair and determination. I spoke to her days before, and while witnessing Eastin sculpt hair into geometric shapes, her comments started to resonate.

“I think events like this make people aware of just how much talent and inspiration there is here in Baton Rouge. I’ve lived in Seattle, Portland, L.A. and Austin, and I want to be right here,” she said.

“How did you get involved in something like this?” I asked.

Her answer was more or less a round of applause for Casey Phillips and Kathryn Thorpe, the people behind the BR Walls Project. I’ve seen their names in news articles but had never met them. I scanned the crowd that was growing denser by the minute. Phillips, because of his height and distinctive haircut, is easy to spot; Thorpe is much shorter, but I found she emits enough energy to make her seem just as tall.

I couldn’t shake the question of what a live art event like this has to do with elevating the arts in Baton Rouge. Phillips responded, “This is not about Kathryn and I’s vision of the promised land for [the BR Walls Project].” Rather, he said, it’s about “harnessing the power of an artistic groundswell that has been building for decades.”

And then he proceeded to pay homage to a long list of local art activists, gallery owners, restaurateurs, music venue managers and more who have supported the arts movement. But what he said next was the point of transition. It was the moment this assignment went from judgmental and self-serving to humble and enthusiastic.

“The progressive culture is no longer searching for a home—B.R. is the place, and now is the time. Those still stuck in the City Club mentality may not have gotten the memo in 2012, but … [they are invited] to join—not fight—us in the evolution of our city in 2013.”

That night, I was not only reminded of the extreme courage it takes to put art on a wall or paint on a canvas, and how fierce the talent is here—whether the tools are hairspray or vinyl—but I was struck with the realization that Baton Rouge has made it. The event, more than a single fundraiser, is part of a larger hellraiser; it is not about my opinion of art but of our collective power to expose people to a perspective. And to do that while maintaining the momentum required to negotiate and execute 20-foot murals on walls that haven’t been touched in probably six decades is, in fact, a very solid definition of art.

So maybe a first-person narrative was the wrong format, because Come Paint With Me wasn’t about me, but us.