That said, her spirit remains. My girlfriend, all tousled hair and innocent naiveté, asked me if there could ever be another show like Woodstock. Never. Because today, before the show itself, we would hire our press guys. We would pay our photographers. We would check our children into day care and be certain that all was right in the world before we ventured out. There was less of that in Woodstock. Less hope. Thus, more chance for change.
My girlfriend reads Marx and Engels. She understands the things that can be understood. She knows the years of practice, patience and sacrifice that create a revolution. She has seen it wasted in misuse and practice. Her revolution is a desecrated Communism. Her 60s is a Ben & Jerry’s flavor and Rolling Stones appearances at the Super Bowl.
Yet, she is there. Wearing a piece sign around her neck and no bra. She is drinking and laughing, unbothered that it is a Thursday night and she has an important meeting at work the next day. She is laughing and flirting with me, with innocence and power. She is surrounded by images of the same seductive innocence and power. When I asked the Morrison Hotel Art Gallery if I could write about this show, they were unconcerned. How could they tell me whether or not I could express myself? That same alluring freedom running through me, as it passed from picture to movie to them to now.
You could buy a piece and hold it forever on your wall, a reminder of a time when the picture mattered less then the moment. In fact, I encourage every reader to do so. In fact, buy two, one would look amazing at the office. Better yet, just realize what is available when you create a temporary camp, and let a beautiful blonde walk through it. Consider the cost of being in the moment.