Ripped on the Art Gallery Stroll in 2006

[Editor’s note: For this week’s essay we’ve once again pulled out a relic from the drunken compendium of Slim Goodbuzz, who served as Duluth’s “booze connoisseur” from 1999 to 2009. Twenty years ago the Sultan of Sot took a tour of Downtown Duluth art galleries and composed this article for the June 5, 2001 edition of the Ripsaw newspaper.]

Let’s get one thing straight: I love art. I mean, there’s no greater art than getting drunk. So, with that in mind, I’m on my way to the Art Gallery Stroll — the first of five monthly, multi-gallery art receptions this summer in Duluth. Pop those corks, artsy-fartsies; I’m out to get completely, utterly and entirely fucking Brandenburged.

Art receptions, as any seasoned alcoholic knows, are the most abundant source of complimentary wine in the world. But this adventure is about more than saving money; it’s about improving my health. Instead of sitting on a stool in a smoky room and staring dumbly at myself in a Budweiser mirror behind a bar, tonight I’m going to air out my hemorrhoids by walking around and staring dumbly at, for example, a clay sculpture of a bear with a cup and saucer on his head.

My tour begins with a stop at Lizzard’s Art Gallery, where a woman is acting as bartender, standing behind a counter and pouring out the blood of Christ into cute little glasses. While I of course appreciate the complimentary intoxicant, I must say this is not the preferred method of distribution. Free wine should be self-serve, so I don’t have to feel like the leech I am every time I need a refill.

A situation like this requires developing rapport with the pourer — or what I call “repour.” Otherwise I’m risking getting out-and-out cut off or, more likely, having passive-aggressive hints sent my way to stop hogging the hooch. So, I’m trying to think of a good conversation starter. Something that sounds like it means something, but really doesn’t, like, “Have you noticed how Ann Jenkins’ brushstrokes have a certain dreamy quality?” Of course, before I say something like that I’ll have to throw myself in front of a Hummer.

The minor inconvenience of having my intake monitored, however, is nothing compared to the horror I find upon arriving at the Duluth Art Institute. There is no wine here, no one in the gallery and no traces of a reception going on at all. And I wasted precious minutes of my free drinking time walking over here.

Facing this adversity head on and sprinting to Canal Park, however, pays off. Waters of Superior has everything laid out just right. Wine has been pre-poured into plastic cups on a tray in the middle of the gallery. The employees are both in the adjacent room, leaving the patrons seemingly unsupervised. Obviously we’re being watched either by camera or mirror, but as long as we don’t have to look anyone in the eye every time we take a free drink, we’re all happy.

I can see a few of my friends are already here, gawking at the Blacklock nudes and trying to eat brie like it’s cheesecake. It only takes a couple uncultured West Duluth dipshits to make me look like I’m Robert-fucking-Hughes or something.