During the members' reception for Gallery 5's "Disrobed" exhibit, a guy walked up to me and told me I should be one of the models. "More than any of the models upstairs, I'd want to see you naked."
Half an hour later, a music geek asked me a similar question, "Are you one of the models?" Do I look like a model? Um, no.
Walking into the gallery once it opened. the first two models pointed and giggled at the clothed passersby. It was some sort of alternate reality. But seeing the varied body types in the room, I realized that anyone and everyone was fair game for modeling in this show. The models themselves were a study in variations of the human body, old and young, slender and large, tattooed and not, hairy and hairless.
Turns out I did look like a model because the models looked like everyone else you know. Like real people. It was brilliant.
Making our way around the room, the models shifted place and position every couple of minutes. Adding to the visual interest were piercings, braids, tiaras, a cock ring, scarves and nipple rings. Bodies were painted white, gray and black. Figures bent and folded, stretched and arched. It was a fascinating piece of ever-evolving performance art.
Somewhere Laurie Anderson was smiling.
The biggest challenge was not lingering too long. Because of the frequent changes in pairings and positions, every time the models moved, we were tempted to look back at how a former grouping had morphed. It was only guilt about the long line forming outside that kept us moving forward at all.
Walking out past the line of eager attendees-to-be, they scanned our faces to gauge our reaction to what we'd seen. Smiling broadly (because I smile too much), several people nudged their friends, as if it meant something that someone leaving appeared happy about what she'd seen.
Decide for yourself would be my advice.
When I left Gallery 5, it was to meet my couple date at Amuse for a post-Picasso dinner. Their couple date had cancelled on them, so they invited me as a single replacement. I was late because of "Disrobed" but they were happy enough sipping their Hemingways and admiring the view from a table instead of my usual bar perch.
After giving me a hard time about my tardiness (something once unheard of with me) and their inability to call and see if I was road kill (due to my lack of cell phone), I was allowed to chose the wine and opted for the 2009 Bouchard Finlayson Blanc de Mer.
Partly it was the fact that it's South African (a personal favorite), partly because it was a blend (38% Viognier, 32% Sauvignon blanc, 13% Rhine Riesling, 9% Pinot blanc and 8% Chardonnay) but mostly because I wanted seafood and it seemed like it would be a good pairing.
Tonight's amuse bouche was salmon roe and cucumber relish on a toasted crouton, a delicious and beautiful bite as we watched the sun begin to sink behind the Pauly Center. Little beads of roe scattered on the plate, but we scooped them up.
Because Amuse is still working off the Picasso menu (much less adventurous than before), I had had all the appetizers before. That said, the mussels with Sausagecraft sausage in a white wine/garlic broth and stuffed poquillo peppers are standouts no matter what the menu, so we made them our first course.
I enjoyed watching the she-half of the couple teach the he-half how to sop bread in mussel broth. He mastered the skill quite rapidly despite apparently his S.O.P. being just to use a spoon to gather broth.
Fool.
Listening to the evening's specials, the eyes of all three of us had lit up when our server had mentioned softshell crabs over roasted garlic grits with crispy bacon and a chunky green tomato and red pepper relish. Without even consulting the female contingent at the table (perhaps he just read our minds), my friend held up three fingers to the server.
Soon three plates arrived with what were their first softshells of the season and my third. We tucked into them as the end of the sunset reflected in the mirror behind the bar and back at us. Before long, the lights in the sculpture garden came on and the slimmest sliver of a moon began rising in the sky.
We call that absinthe time.
Knowing that Amuse is taking away their absinthe drip when Picasso returns to France is more than enough incentive to enjoy it while we have it. Bartender Stephen says they will still carry absinthe, but without the magic of the absinthe fairy, it won't be the same.
While we were savoring our fairies, a couple of my friend's neighbors stopped by the table, seeking absinthe advice. How did it taste? What effect did it have? Should they try it?
Happy to lead them to the
Dessert was the milk chocolate pate with fresh berries and whipped cream, shared three ways. Just as we were finishing it, the feminine one looked at me in all seriousness, grinned and said, "I've never had two absinthes. Let's try it!"
Okay, I have had two absinthes and no coercion is required to get me to have another. Her beloved, appalled at our bohemian ways, switched to a mixed drink. His loss.
She and I were quite enjoying our little l'heure verte, having segued into talk of summer and beach walks, oceanfront champagne sipping and salty breezes coming through open windows.
Tiny crescent moons and absinthe seem to bring out the wistful in (fully clothed) people.
No comments:
Post a Comment