Wilmington is on a natural harbor that was once home to famous shipyards. One single smoke stack had been kept from the shipyards, and it now loomed over the cinderblock chain outlet stores of Shipyard Shops. Kitty-corner sat the Delaware Center for the Contemporary Arts, a tin-sided building down in Riverfront Plaza. The girl working the counter had dirty blond hair, big blue eyes, and a pouty lower lip. Six hoop earrings lined the bottom of her earlobe, with a final ring through the top of her ear. She wore a black zip-up sweater with cords around the neck above a light blue skirt.
"I'm not that familiar with his work," she answered, "to make that statement [that people here are isolated like in Hopper's paintings]. It depends on the person of course. You are what you put out. I don't see Wilmington as an isolated place, but I've grown up here. That makes a big difference."
"Are you an artist?" I asked.
"No," she laughed. "I love art. I love looking at it. But as far as raw talent? Nah! My mother's an artist and I've tried doing what she does, but I just end up hurting myself somehow." She giggled again. "She's a jeweler, and I've done it and bled. Cut myself. Nah!" She shook her head.
"So you're a perfect example that art is painful," I joked.
"You have to bleed to be an artist," she agreed, chuckling. "You have to hurt yourself so many times before completing a work. You can only lose so much blood."
"There is an artist's colony up north," she offered. "All the houses have a lot of sculptures. It's just in a class by itself. They're their own city. Arden Town."
"Art in Town?" I misunderstood.
"Arden," she clarified, spelling, " A-r-d-e-n. I don't know all the history to it. But it's a very, very old artists community. And it's so much fun. They have their own little theater. Like one of the oldest outdoor theaters in the country. They do Shakespeare every summer. I don't think enough people know about it."