The Dean floated over the new College of Architecture building at Arizona State University. Dressed in an almost oily black gown, he was sat down barely in front of the cantilevered concrete entry portico. His Wingtips hit the brick pavers and the quartet of violins and violas and cellos crescendo’d in sync with the muffled oohs and aahs of us conspiring aspirants. Only the half inch steel cable rising from the Dean's robes into the night sky, kept checked his divinity, letting us know, this was all a show.
 
I stepped forward, a priest, in black as well, except for the tight little square of white at my throat and out of the audience of ooh'ers and aah'ers stepped Artissa and Architecture. I and both of them, part of the show.
 
Artissa was draped in a long flowing gown of blue, shining silver, cobalt necklace, earrings, bracelet and heels. Oh, the living art of that woman that night.
 
And Architecture, stiff tuxedo, formal cut, cufflinks and tie and perfectly polished, patent leather shoes, established, foundational, proudly put. Architecture. Only his cummerbund shined blue.
 
Artissa put her hand into the waiting arm of Architecture. The violins and violas and cellos opened loud with Pachelbel's Cannon in D. The glowing couple marched to the madness of their union.
 
The priest (that was me) married them there, married them then. On the spot, wed, conjoined, congealed and hitched them up for time and all eternity, Artissa and Architecture.  Yin and Yang.  Male and Female created He Them.  The Grand Sixty Nine.  It Is Done.
 
A Rolls Royce limo, ivory pearled, pulls up. Architecture, kissing Artissa, sweeps her up, off her feet, carries her in, slamming the mirrored memory of her trailing silvery state and off they speed.
 
Only to return, not one minute more, to an adoring crowd. The door springs open and out piles Art in a floral bikini and skirt, opened to the hilt, lime green. Then Architecture, dude, pride prince, prances out, wearing bottoms, only. He be jammin', he be jammin'.
 
The violins and violas and cellos are gone and a Cola starts to form behind a bearded bongero, beating to the heat, the moment elongates into a sinuous curving python of smiling, dancing bodies in and around and under and through the architecture and the art of it all.
 
Lots of oooooohs and a lot more aahhhhhhhhhhhhhs.
 
Even the Dean and the priest, black cloaks torn away, in his hot pink pajamas and me in my shorts, sling into the Cola as it Marimbas to the roof deck, wedding party started.
 
Nineteen Seventy Nine.  Graduation day.  Party time.
 
That was the day I wed Art and Architecture.
 
If Art ever leaves my Architecture, tell me. Call me up and say, "Hey Marley! What's up? That damn box isn't up to snuff. Not like your stuff."
 
I'll wake up and make sure that Art never leaves Architecture. Married at the hip, they say.
 
You betcha!