There’s a club downtown called Walla Faces. It was an instant attraction to me. The fusion of eclectic art and beautiful wine was nearly intoxicating, not to mention the live jazz and weekly salsa nights.
Everyone is accessible. The owners mingle. The musicians sit chatty around the table with you. I met the artist as well, who spoke of a longing to return to Paris, where appreciation for the arts was vibrantly alive, and where even common homes stood as galleries to the investment made in the arts. “Americans,” she contrasted, “have a lesser interest in owning art,” and hers hangs here as a wall of faces.
For some reason, it got me thinking about community.
I grew up an army brat, and we moved frequently. For me, “community” was just another word for where you lived. The people in it were just a wall of faces. It wasn’t until I moved to Vero that the concept of community came home to me.
That was when the wall of faces took on names, occupations, anxieties, and aspirations. Lines of connectedness began to form between them. Sometimes those lines created barriers. Sometimes it felt like a maze. But over time, I learned my way, and a deep appreciation for this community was formed within me.
Now I stand before a new wall of faces. Much like the Parisians, I want to take it home and hang it on the hearth of my very heart. I am intrigued at this new wall of faces, this new set of stories that have twined in this moment to form this community. I am curious to know her personality, her struggles, her ambitions. I am eager to find my way, discover my role, and make my contribution. It feels to me like a Grand Social, the gala event of the year… and I am dressed for the party.