Winding Down with a Bug

I wasn't sure what to expect from First Fridays Version 2.0.

Instead of 7:00-10:00, the new hours were 5:00 - 9:00. Vendors and musicians had to be off the street at 9 p.m. and no parking was allowed on Broad Street, not that that affected me.

But as someone who usually made early plans and didn't begin artwalking until after 8:00, it represented quite a change for me.

Never let it be said that Karen can't change. So around 6:30, I left Jackson Ward Central (my apartment) to see what was what.

What I had forgotten was that it was August, so First Fridays was already a pale imitation of itself due to the time of year.

ADA Gallery was closed. I'd seen the show at Ghostprint last night. Metro had music out front. Quirk's show was a carryover I'd already seen.

And the police presence was huge. Before I even got to Broad Street, I happened on two of RVA's mounted squad stationed at Marshall and Madison. You know, just in case.

But honestly, the mounted squad is in J-Ward on a regular basis (some of the guys even recognize me), so that wasn't all that noteworthy.

But up on Broad, it was uniform city.

I commented to one of Richmond's finest that they sure were out in force tonight and he grinned and said, "That's because we knew you were coming."

Now they're teaching these guys PR skills?

I assured him that, as a J-Ward resident, I had no qualms about the neighborhood, but was glad to know that others might feel better about their presence.

From there I went to Art 6 for the Judy Rifka show because I knew that this Manhattan-based artist came out of the same scene that produced Keith Haring and Jean Michel-Basquiat.

"Judy Rifka Posted" took over the entire gallery, top and bottom. Downstairs, the enormous wall painting was the star alongside prints of her "paper monsters."

Done in a loose hand in black and blue, two figures emerged from trees, leaves and other vague squiggles.

The figures had an historical look to them (breeches, apron), but the overall effect reminded me as much of Raoul Dufy as anything I could think of.

I made a stop at Bistro 27 because, on walking by, I saw a nearly empty bar. Further proof that it was an August First Friday.

Sipping a glass of Tenuta San Pietro Gavi de Gavi, I listened to the chef's tales of eating and escalators on his recent trip to China.

Scorpions and Peking duck in Peking seemed to be the least impressive meals.

Afterwards, I meandered over to Gallery 5, although not for the August Fest tasting of Virginia microbrews that clearly drew so many people there.

But I made my way through the madness to see "Enigmages," a show by artist Mr. Visions of an array of images from a girl with a black eye to jazz musicians to Poe.

The moment I finished, though, I wanted out of the mass of beer-swilling humanity. It was hotter in there than it was outside.

So slthough Gallery 5 was having music, I had my sights set on another show.

Over at Cellar Door, Frank Rourk, flamenco guitarist extraordinaire, had put together a program so unique that I wouldn't have missed it.

It was a re imagining of Philip Glass' "Metamorphosis," originally written for solo piano from music used in a theatrical production of Kafka's "The Metamorphosis."

Frank had redone the five-movement piece for guitar, hand drums, bass and flute.

As if that wasn't impressive enough, he and two other artists had created artwork (and posters for sale) that also tied into "The Metamorphosis."

Even the programs were works of art, each signed and numbered (I got 16/40) with art on both front and back.

Every seat was taken and, both surprisingly and thankfully, the audience treated the performance like a listening room.

It wasn't just me. People paid rapt attention to the musicians, following the rise and fall of the  musical imagery.

All except for one very drunk guy who first talked loudly over the music and then actually went and stood directly in front of Frank as he played. He was maybe a foot from the musicians.

But like any good drunk, he allowed himself to be led away and eventually found a table to sit out the rest of the performance.

The entire audience breathed a sigh of relief and went back to savoring the unique interpretation of a piano work on guitar, flute, bass and drums.

Afterwards, Frank likened the interruption to one of John Cage's "chance moments" that become part of the performance.

I liked his thinking on that.

Frank had conceived of this show as the start of a series for people still too keyed up after First Fridays to want to end their evening (a feeling I know well).

He raises an excellent point. With the art fun over by 9:00 now, who won't want to find  someplace cozy like Cellar Door to relax, hear some well-crafted music and enjoy a cold beverage (I opted for Manon Rose)?

Rifka, Kafka, Cage and Glass. Such an intelligent evening for a First Friday.

Surely I gained as many brain cells as I lost.

Welcome to First Fridays Version 2.0 After Hours.

Geeks like me are going to love it.