Now You Can Die Happy, Western Bridge
A Morbid Quarterly Column of Unbridled Praise
Western Bridge, we know that after October 20, you are closing your great big heavy front door for the last time, sealing shut 10,000 square feet and eight straight years of solid awesome. You gave us enormous videos of the Amazon at dusk. You gave us dancers in total darkness, running at each other at high speeds and just missing, while we watched wearing night-vision goggles like perverted intruders. You gave us Lenny Bruce playing on the radio inside a car being fake-snowed on inside the gallery. You gave us bouncy houses and rooms tilted at such an angle it made us dizzy. You gave us The Tomb of Club Z, made of white paper and white ceramics and sad ejaculatory memories. You made us cry. You gave us a massive blown-up version of a regular apartment window, and for months at a time, it was covered in a curtain that just opened and closed, letting in light and shutting it out again. You gave us a small dog and a large dog, wandering around as art. You gave us silver balloons and lightbulbs pilfered from a faraway cabin on the Washington Coast. You gave us the greatest art parties in the history of the city. You inspired more people than you'll ever know. We would prefer that you didn't die at all, Western Bridge. We have begged you not to die. But if you must die, you can sure die happy.