Conversation around a table in Knoxville

We were sitting around a table with friends at a restaurant in Knoxville. We had driven up because our friend’s adult granddaughter Kelsie, who works at the Knoxville Museum of Art, was introducing a new exhibition that she had curated, and we wanted to see it – as well as visit her grandmother and her parents. We have known everyone for many years; they are island friends who we only see when we are at the beach.

Kelsie is an artist herself – incredibly talented, creative, smart, and her own person, just like her grandmom. She is one of those people who just seems to ooze talent which is communicated by the sparkle in her eyes, her clothes and hair, and a certain reserved confident aloofness – not a casting judgement aloofness, but a demeanor of someone who perhaps sees things that other people do not.

The exhibit pulled almost a dozen artists from all over the South as well as local artists. The art was full of big ideas – big picture vistas – “high art.” That is, most of it was contemporary, mixed medium, conceptual and symbolic. Think plastic, glass, photo-images, cardboard, dreams, memory and more.

All the artists were there with their work. The museum was serving hors d’oeuvres, wine and beer, and there may have been music. The exhibit was a true event – a melding of ideas, talent, knowledge, experience and connection. Everyone seemed to be plugged into the same energy, and at times it felt overwhelming to me, but, at the same time, alive, engaged, and fun.

Anyway, as we sat around the table post-show, my wife was telling a story, and part of the story for some reason had something to do with Johnny Carson. She stopped mid-sentence during her story though, and looked at the granddaughter and said, “you have no idea who I am talking about do you? You don’t know Johnny Carson, do you?” Kelsie’s completely blank look on her face was her answer. She looked around the table for clues. Nothing. We got nothing.

I think most of us were caught off guard momentarily – surprised and startled a bit. It was no big deal though; it was just one of those moments. I mean, why should we expect a gen Y to know Johnny after he had been off the air since 1992? (The last show was May 22, 1992 – wow. The first show was

More about Kelsie

Kelsie Conley also owns and manages her own gallery in Knoxville called “Bad Water Gallery” (website: LvL3official. com). It is located at 320 East Churchill Ave. Her gallery recently was cited in London’s Financial Times along with three other galleries around the world as an example of the new emerging art venues of note – “making shows for the next generation.”

October 1, 1962.). The rub is that he/ his memory remains so clearly in place for my generation and those close, and it is hard to remember that our frames of reference – no matter how clear they are to us – may be diddly squat to others.

Who is Johnny Carson?

Who is John Galt?

How about Lenny Bruce, Richard Brautigan, Ken Kesey or Wavy Gravy?

How about David Foster Wallace, Julia Butterfly Hill, Bobby Sands, or H Rap Brown?

And Rachael Carson?

I know them all, but, well, that’s just me. Others do not. Indeed. But they know people and stuff and events that I don’t know. Maybe that’s the point.

When son Hans was in first or second grade at Alpharetta Elementary, his teacher (Mrs. Benton?) asked him what his favorite music was. “Anything by Rodgers and Hammerstein,” he replied. Huh?

I polled my kids – just for fun – asking them if they knew who Johnny Carson was. They made fun of me and my question. Figures.

To try to buffer possible embarrassment for Kelsie, I asked her if she was familiar with Howard Finster. Her face lit up. “Yes, of course. Summerville. I was at his studio last year. Some of my friends have some of his stuff.” It didn’t look like anyone else at the table – there were about 10 of us –other than my wife – had Finster on their radar.

Who is Howard Finster?

I often say that “everything important I learned in life, I learned from my children.” Well, almost everything. And the irony is that one of the main reasons they can teach me, is because I taught them – and they remember.

William Faulkner said that “the past

See KNOXVILLE, Page 19