Obits as Art

I had no idea I'd be considered fetching reading a wall of obituaries.

Which, by the way, were not for sale.

Gallery A down in the Slip was hosting the opening of sculptor Myron Helfgott's new work and at the start of the show, there were three walls of mounted obits of interesting people.

Patti Page. Ed Koch. Tom Wesselman. Andy Williams.

For crying out loud, even Van Cliburn's obit was mounted and up there and he only died yesterday.

As I scanned the obit headlines, a cowboy-looking man came through the door, stopped and exclaimed, "Those are the prettiest stockings I ever did see."

He must not get off the ranch much.

Further in, I ran into Myron himself, an artist I first met thirteen years ago through a mutual friend.

Tonight he welcomed me, leaning in to say, "There's free booze!" as if I needed any incentive to come see his work.

He failed to mention live music by the Kevin Johnson Group, but that was apparent and making for a particularly festive feel in the gallery.

And the new work!

For a man who was born before WWII, Myron remains an incredibly fresh sculptor.

"Hibiscus" was a life-size print of an hibiscus tree, cut out in roughly the shape of the tree and supported by a wood frame.

A woman near me admired it, looked at me and said, "At least it doesn't need water."

Ah, but it does, I corrected her.

Leading her around behind the piece, I showed her a real but fading hibiscus tree in a pot hidden behind it.

That Myron is so funny.

Nearby, "Tree" was another full-color print, much larger (well, it was a tree) on an even bigger frame, but looking behind it, I found nothing.

Myron eschews the predictable.

"Mannequins" was a series of life-sized female figures seen from the back and mounted to a half moon-shaped framework so the viewer was presented with a series of backsides.

Very attractive, curved backsides. Lots of back cleavage.

Nice work, Myron.

In the back were a series of (what else?) prints, these of different flowers in different vases, mounted on vases with dried flower petals scattered between.

Myron, you crack me up.

Throughout the gallery were many large works on paper, some decidedly robust and others more of a fractured picture over another whole unrelated picture.

Toward the back of the room, I saw Myron again and this time, he was making promises. "At my next opening, I'll have a movie, too."

I wouldn't be the least surprised.

With one last pass through the obits (Patty Andrews of the Andrews Sisters, Herb Vogel), I headed the car west for Ghostprint Gallery.

The place was mobbed when I arrived for Sterling Hundley's "The Spoils of Saint Hubris."

The enormous "A Fruitless Endeavor" had already been sold by the time I arrived; admiring its vivid brushwork, I could only wish I had a wall big enough to hang such a thing.

Several works were delicate collages, mainly black and white on brown paper and depicting animals, with titles like, "Loyalty," "Apathy" and "Ambition."

"The Huntsman" was the first piece to root me in place as I admired the loose brushwork and vivid red of his jacket and the background.

"Waiting" was even more impressionistic, with a nude woman's body sitting on a bed in stark contrast to the orange-red and browns around her pale form.

Moving around the crowded gallery, I saw familiar faces and met new ones.

Near the table holding wine and cheese I was handed a glass of wine, only to have a man inquire of me if I'd been to a certain town in Italy.

I had not and the question seemed rather out of the blue.

As it turned out, he'd seen the bottle from which my wine had been poured and assumed I had an affinity for Italy and took off with it.

I told him of my trip to Italy last fall and heard that he'd been recently in Sorrento, too.

He told me about an exceptional trip to India, where he'd had a friend and his wife as guides there, making for a true insider's experience.

"But I find I have to go back to Italy every few years," he said.

Well, yes, in a perfect world, don't we all?

Much as I was enjoying sharing memories of Italia, I had places to be and headed further west to UR's Lora Robins Gallery.

Opening tonight was "The Silent Strength of Liu Xia: An Exhibition of Photographs" and while I'd missed the panel discussion that preceded the opening, I intended to see the photographs.

Walking in, I was surprised at how many people were in this gallery that (sadly) I had never been in.

Everywhere, people were looking at cases of rocks and shells, eating off the buffet table or talking animatedly about repression and politics.

And no wonder, UR's showing is the only U.S. appearance of this exhibit.

But we're also talking about an artist who is the wife of the 2010 Nobel Peace prize winner now imprisoned for signing Charter 08 calling for Chinese freedom.

A woman now under house arrest for fear her subversive art will be seen by the masses.

And it is being seen, right here in Richmond.

The photographs feature dolls, in many cases unattractive dolls, covered, bound, confined and in general commenting on the anger and frustration of Chinese oppression.

One doll in particular with a wide open mouth has an especially horrific look, whether placed between masks on a wall, set on a beach or about to be hit by another doll.

The power in the images was equal to the weight of the knowledge that the artist behind these works is essentially cut off from the world by her government.

Since I hadn't been to the Robins Gallery before, I also made my way around, checking out parts of its extensive collection based on nature.

I ran into an artist friend near the buffet table and he introduced me to his companion by trying to explain who I was and what I do.

Once they cleared that up to my satisfaction ("What are you doing here? How many places have you already been?"), my gallerist friend inquired if I'd ever been to the Robins Gallery before.

When I admitted the omission, he proceeded to school me.

"It's a great hangover place, great for Sundays. It's like the Jefferson with that big lobby and nice, deep chairs. I highly recommend it."

The last thing I expected when I set off for my evening of gallery hopping was advice on how to handle a hangover.

But now that I've got it, you can be sure there's a long afternoon at the Robins in my future, no matter what the night before holds.

I can only hope it's half as enjoyable as reading obituaries while strangers comment on my legs.