This afternoon at 𝐒𝐜𝐨𝐭𝐭’𝐬 𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐝, Doug and I stepped into a room where art, music, and story braided themselves into something unforgettable. Jazz moved through the air like a second tide off the Bay, spoken word rose and fell with breath and conviction, and the walls themselves seemed to listen.

At the heart of it all was 𝐃𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐝 𝐎. 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐞—artist, teacher, and living archive. His work, shown at the 𝐆𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐦 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐦 and in galleries and museums across the country, carries histories that refuse to be silent. The stories he shared—those he lived, those he witnessed, those entrusted to him—defied belief not through exaggeration, but through their depth, endurance, and truth.

I went modestly, hoping for one piece. 𝑰 𝒍𝒆𝒇𝒕 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒅, 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒆—𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒓, 𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆. In a moment of shared enthusiasm and goodwill, I sold one of the larger works to another collector I had outbid, at a small profit, because he and his wife truly wanted the painting. It felt less like a transaction and more like the artwork choosing where it needed to live.

The evening was beautifully 𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐈𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧, a Vallejo native and former student of Mr. Greene, whose warmth set the tone from the first note. Irene oversaw all aspects of the afternoon’s event. I met family, friends, fellow artists, and admirers—𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑠𝑡, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑦 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘 𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚 𝑓𝑒𝑙𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑦 𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑦.

And then there was the 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜—𝐯𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 that exceeded every expectation, lifting the night beyond program and schedule. The food was so good I went back twice, and the waiters, bartenders, and staff moved with grace and generosity, making the entire experience feel effortless.

It has already been an extraordinary week—gallery openings, museum moments—and it isn’t finished yet. This Sunday in Benicia, I’ll read a poem honoring 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐖𝐚𝐫, carrying history forward in another form, another voice.

For now, I’ll sit with the quiet pleasure of abundance—and begin the gentle, happy task of finding the right walls for new art that has already begun speaking.