The first time I arrived at the The Flying Monkey located in Lowe Mill, an old textile factory, I exited my car with both wonder and hesitation. The old factory with it’s dilapidated exterior and expansive height was slightly intimidating. Nevertheless, I made my way towards the building and noticed a white, immobile trailer with a photo of a chef near the right side of the serving window. I soon learned that this belonged to the calm, familiar spirit of Chef Will, a chef who prepares vegetarian food that feels like home.
I wondered into the first floor area where the locally owned restaurant, Happy Tummy, resides. There were people sprinkled in the seating area, steeped in conversation. Neat, I thought. I began to wonder through the building, noticing the character of the antiquated floors and peering into the windows of studios, lining the hall, to steal a peek at the artists and their creations. A feeling of gratitude came over me as I took in the fact that I was not only getting a peek at these people’s physical creations but more so, a glimpse into their souls. You see, art has been a mainstay in my life since I was a child, and I recognize the depths from which art spills out into our physical realities for everyone to see, to judge. This realization in tow, I adventured on and soon discovered the horror movie-esque elevator operated by a cool, Tom Selleck like gentleman. My nerves kicked up a notch as the ancient elevator slowly crept up to the next couple of floors. If you’ve never been on an elevator whose doors must be pulled down manually to close, then you have no idea what I’m talking about. If you have been on one of these contraptions, I digress.
Before long I was met by a hall lined with tables and people selling their most precious hand-made commodities. I fell more in love. I love handmade goods. I walked on and stepped into a used bookstore, which unfortunately no longer resides there. I inhaled deeply. I felt like I’d hit the jackpot. I picked up books for the pure joy of flipping through the dingy pages filled with character. I smelled them. Seriously, I smell old books. It’s pure joy for me. The discounted prices of the books couldn’t be beat so I purchased a few and conversed with the owner for a short time before continuing on my journey. A few feet down the hall, I came across a vintage boutique clothing store. “Do you know where everything is located?” A welcoming lady asked. She went on to explain how the clothes were sorted, and I began to explore. The fabrics, some rarely used today. Shiny, sequenced. The styles, 1950s, 1970s, 1990s. Mangled corsets hung from the ceiling. This place sparked the imagination. I didn’t buy anything that day, but vowed to return in the future, which I have several times. The wonder didn’t stop there.
I was taken to the next floor, and was met by more artist studios with special windows to peer into. My curiosity finally lead me to sparking conversations with the artists. One, a seemingly wise, sparkly eyed photographer. “How long have you been doing this? Where was this photo taken?” I asked, noticing that his photos were not taken in the United States. One artist after the next entertained me as I lingered in their space.
Before I left The Flying Monkey that day, I felt creatively high. If this experience seems glamorized, I can assure you it’s because for me, it was. Creativity is my passion. I adore being in the space of those who can’t help but to create and who are courageous enough to share those creations with others. I, for example, normally choose to keep my creations private. God forbid someone actually see something that I’ve made. You wouldn’t believe how long it’s taken me to post this article, not because it was incomplete, but because of the fear that accompanies the thought of being judged. Perfectionist artist. Stifled artist. No way to be. So if you love art, or even kind of sort of like art., take a trip to The Flying Monkey at Lowe Mill. Indulge your imagination. Take classes there. Eat good food there. Linger there. Hopefully you’ll feel. Something.
No Place Like Huntsville 