It’s the opening night reception and the place is packed. Most of the visitors face each other, not the paintings, little groups of glittering guests in their Friday-night finery, wine in plastic cups. The din is ecstatic—we need more fiber art. Three people are scrutinizing the paintings, elbowing their way past gossiping friends uninterrupted in their close examination of the canvases—the overall, from-a-distance effect will have to be assessed later. Two of these are painters themselves, one teaches at the college. The third works at the bank. Maybe he is a buyer? Are any of the guests buyers? I don’t want to ask how anyone makes a living at this and I don’t want to finish this wine.