Last night I performed in a club in Lewiston, Maine constructed in large part of brick.
Whenever I find myself adjacent to a brick wall, I reach out and touch a brick, knowing that a bricklayer once placed this brick, and all the rest around it, into the wall.
Unlike sheet rock or plaster or wood, I feel like I’m reaching into the past when I touch a brick. This small object was once held by a human being who spent hours constructing this wall, and perhaps days and maybe weeks constructing all the walls all around me. It’s the perfect example of something born from nothing.
Craftsmanship and artistry constantly seen and yet almost always ignored.
It’s a wall that will likely last longer than the person who built it, and when I touch a brick, I feel like I’m reaching into the past and connecting with the person who placed this particular brick in this particular place.
It’s my attempt to acknowledge the extension of their existence, our connection in this moment, and my gratitude for their talent and labor.
It’s also another example of my persistent, ongoing, omnipresent existential crisis, but you probably knew that already.
