Any Kind of Fool Could See

I've long been firmly in the Foodist Colony camp. Hell, I'd wear their t-shirt if they had one.

The needy get food from the food bank, the artists pay forward good karma and people such as me get a new piece of art to live with. What's not to support?

I'd been to two such events in the past seven years, one at the short-lived Thanky Space on Brook Road and another put together by VCU students in a rented building on Main Street. Today I got my third piece of art paid for with cans - tuna fish, soup, peanut butter - to add to my walls and increase my pleasure in looking at them.

A last minute brunch invitation had me scurrying (as much as you can scurry whislt carrying a bag with 19 cans in it) over to 1708 Gallery right at noon to submit cans, ogle prints and make my selection.

The invitation had been appealingly groovy: "Pick whatever time you're going to arrive and then don't be late. Be true to your own time." I am the first to arrive so the volunteers work out their process on me as we figure it out together.

As my cans are considered for their worth, I admire the wooden crates that have been designed with orange lettering on one end proclaiming, "Foodist Colony," the handiwork of organizer Travis Robertson.

Then it's on to the art. Not surprisingly, several prints catch my eye. I look long and hard because I want to choose something that will still give me daily pleasure years from now - much like considering a mate - before deciding on Travis' clean red, green and black image.

I'm drawn to its brilliant colors, line work and symbolism. It's also the second of Travis' works I've bought, the first one scooped up at an early Jonny Z Festival and now framed and residing whimsically between two sunny windows in my living room.

Interestingly enough, that older print is also done in shades of red, green and black. But that one isn't hand-signed or numbered (16/35) like this one is. Sometimes a girl wants authentication.

By the time I walk out with my empty bag and coveted print in my hand, 1708 is filling up with bag and box-toting art lovers, including a former gallerist and artist who says, "If I'd been out of town for this, I'd have flown home for it."

We bond over our love for Travis' Foodist Colony before I set off to meet my brunch date.

Breakfast for him and lunch for me was attempted at Perly's (mobbed) and eaten at Lucy's (never disappoints), where bacon doughnut holes got us started while Player's "Baby Come Back" crooned overhead. Hello, '70s AM radio.

Young women at the bar next to us sipped successive mimosas as they discussed the hazards of saying yes too often to one's boss. "Um, no thanks, I do not want to go to another festival tonight." It must be tough being on the fast track career-wise. I certainly wouldn't know.

The '80s arrived when "Billie Jean" inexplicably followed Player, accompanying a lumberjack-sized special of fried softshell over grits with eggs on top, providing me with more than I could eat and that was after requesting just one egg instead of two.

Sopping up the last of the yolk with buttered wheat toast, it was time for me to go home and get some work done. New art procured? Oh, yes. Donation to food bank made? Check. Mid-day meal savored? Yup.

True to my own time? Always. Pride at being part of the Foodist Colony? Immeasurable.