Going to a Salon

This past Sunday, I went to a salon. The artist's kind. My friend Anna, a writer who lives just a block from me in Park Slope, met the host at MacDowell last summer. Jerome Kitzke is a musician and percussionist, and he has people over to his apartment in Inwood (way, way at the top of Manhattan, in the 215's) every once in a while to share their work.

I can't quite say "salon" without a little smirk—it sounds a bit too highbrow bohemian for this struggling fiction writer, who still, most definitely, doesn't think of herself as an artist. But the afternoon was amazing: laid-back, open, and inspiring. We heard a composer, Cindy, play a suite of six original pieces on the baby grand—and the theme, appropriately enough, was inspired by Colorado wildflowers. Another group performed the kernel of an opera project, with ancient Mayan flutes and ballet dancers. One woman sang "Rejoice Greatly," from the Messiah, to practice for a Christmas Eve concert. Anna read a few pages from her novel-in-progress. We nibbled on apple cider donuts and fresh mozzarella. As a newbie, I didn't present anything—not least because I went into it feeling intimidated by all these "accomplished" artists. But I promised Jerome that I would share something at the next salon. Fake it till you make it.