There is no real chronological order to how we ended up being sitting here next to each other describing an art collective that we all join into.
The Room 22 is Clara, Marie Jane, Linny, Anthony, Zach, Alex, Megan, Botello and Dutch.
Clara, short dark hair, freckles, a camera, film; her head sticking out of the car, in the wind, takes a picture of Marie Jane, through the other window.
Stylist, photographer, her eyelashes flicker in the sunlight, Clara is soft and sweet like fruit salads first thing in the morning.
When we go for breakfast, we draw on the paper placemats, she does beautiful portraits of people we love, playing with texture and colors.
Marie Jane, opens her mouth and lets the air roll fast between her teeth.
Darker eyes, a bad temper, she lets her blond hair shake away her fragile scattered brains into a big black and white painting with layers and strings dangling and dangling down into miles and miles of writing.
She lets the words skip from a page to the next; her thoughts run faster than the trees passing by, faster than the houses and the piles of melting snow and faster than her camera’ lens captures the light.
Zach’s behind the wheel, his shades on, shaking his head to some beats on his laptop, switching franticly from one song to the other, skipping right to the best parts. He’s got the perfect sound for every moment, non chalant, he mumbles a few words and then shouts. Music is imprinted in the back of his green eyes, in the back of his ears, in the middle of his mind, as if there was never such a thing as silence, only to justify the impact of music.
The rays go through the windshield, in and out of the glass, right through our eyes, into Linny’s hair, long with red highlights, flying onto her pale skin and blue eyes. She crossed paths with us so recently but we seam to have known her for a long time. She is elegant, knows everything about fashion and listens to old school dirty hip hop.
She polishes our esthetic, outlines the designs.
Alex is graphics, and he wasn’t in the car at the time, like water creeping in and out of the ice on the lake he is quiet, and rational. As if his eyes saw in a different color shade, or he could see the shape of air, he creates graphic designs making forms and tints come out of white pages seducing us like Anthony does to girls, in bars, on weeknights.
Anthony, Anthony, the boy with plaid shirts, and a beautiful face. Gentle boy, who loves to rock and roll, he is the reincarnation of Mick Jagger, without the gold pants, but with the boots and the leather jackets, and the beer in hand.
Anthony is our poster boy and our post-punk rebel.
Megan comes right after, a few photo shoots in bathtubs and paint on our bodies, she is our private greek goddess, with infinite legs and an infinite knowledge on painters and writers, her short stories and many seductions carry us into her mind, dancing and drinking Chivas on ice. She rests her hands around Botello’s hips, our beautiful mexican dreamer. He takes pictures and turn reality into a work of infinite mystery with endless possibilities. He is curious about everyone, everything, so eager for more, he carries the straight of youth and the spirituality of a home of traditions, culture and faith.
The final addition is Dutch, our mystery man who challenges all authority. Full of amazing endless ideas he feeds our urge for more, for meaning and for art. Dutch is a poet and a painter. Sarah rests in his arms, his hands caresses her Klimt tattoo while he talks about Bukowski and shapes his vision of a space we are giving birth to.
We present The Room 22, a mountain, a pile of little things we do and love.
A blog as well as an Art Collective, we are sitting quietly over the horizon, we were always there, but you just hadn’t notice us yet.
Room 22 at the Motel St-Jacques
(this is a draft, original coming up briefly)
Song: Hank the Knife and The Jets – Guitar King
The Room 22 in Technicolor