Paint Me

Oh, to have been immortalized in paint.

Such was the fortune of Claire Wesselmann, wife of Tom, and part of tonight's documentary screening at VMFA.

I picked up a girlfriend on the rainy way to the museum, the better to have a conversational partner for after the movie.

One must always think ahead.

Walking up to the desk to get a ticket, I discovered my bottle of water had leaked all over the inside of my purse, leaving a 2" puddle at the bottom.

It wasn't pretty.

Ticket secured, we went downstairs to find good seats and await, "I Only Want to Paint," made in 1996.

The film opened with Wesselmann in his NYC studio, opera music playing, before going on to him explaining the arc of his career through specific works.

He came across as smart, driven and eager to share what he'd been trying to do every step of the way.

I was a little surprised to hear him say that at no point had he intended any social or cultural commentary in his large scale collages using billboard imagery.

But who knows? He was saying that as a 70-something, and perhaps he was remembering it as she chose to and not as it really was.

After recently having seen "Red," a play about painter Mark Rothko, I got a big kick out of that artist's assessment of pop art.

"There comes a time when one must say no!" he opined, clearly disdaining the work of the up and coming generation behind him.

In the film, we saw his model and assistant and it occurred to me what a fabulous job it must be to mix paints and take off your clothes for an artist like Wesselmann.

It was interesting to hear Wesselmann say that he would enlarge his drawings on a wall to "see how big they want to be."

Because, you see, it was up to the drawings, the source of all art, in his opinion.

We learned that Wesselmann had written and recorded scores of country songs, but the most interesting moment came in the talk after the film with the artist's wife and former studio manager.

Curator John Ravenal mentioned a painting now hanging at the end of the exhibition, hung just a few days ago.

Turns out it's a gift from the artist's estate to the VMFA for giving Wesselmann his first retrospective in America.

The crowd burst into applause when they heard the news.

Claire was full of anecdotes from past years, talking about the group of young lions coming up in the art world in the '60s.

She recalled a cocktail party with many of them in attendance and eavesdropping on their conversation.

They were bragging to each other about how long they worked at painting each day.

Not about concepts or methods or even art history, but about time put in to the work of art.

What a fascinating picture it presents of that generation of painters.

By the time the discussion ended, I felt like I had much more of a sense of the man who'd created all those nudes and smoking mouths.

And isn't that why we go out on a Friday night, to learn something?

Yes, of course, but also to eat, drink and be merry, so rain be damned, we made our way to Secco for supper.

Settled into the center of the bar, I ignored the gray weather with a Brazilier Rose, tasting of red berries and with nice acidity.

Because Friend has upcoming bathing suit season on the brain, I suggested salads, which was met with limited enthusiasm.

That changed once she had a bowl of local field greens, roasted pistachios ("I do so like a good pistachio," she admitted) and chevre in a lemon-thyme vinaigrette.

Perfectly balanced flavors in every bite.

Next came a smoked fish dip with the most gloriously pungent ramp pesto and grilled sourdough intended as a conveyance to get that fish and pesto into our mouths.

"They should put a warning on the menu not to order this if you're going to kiss anyone later," she laughed as we both piled it on every bite.

No applicable, we agreed.

Personally, I'd find a man who likes onions and garlic as much as I do and kiss away.

Suddenly I felt a hand on my back and there was a chef I know, uncharacteristically dressed up and out with his main squeeze celebrating her birthday.

It may well have been the first time I ever saw them together except for in the restaurant.

But, as we all know, birthdays are sacred, so good for them for escaping for a night of celebration.

We finished with a bruschetta rubbed with garlic, topped with crushed avocado, radish slices, English peas (so perfectly al dente we both mentioned it), fresh basil and chunks of beets.

When our charming server described it to us, he summed it up simply. "It's magical!"

Who wouldn't love the sound of that?

The melange of flavors with the earthy sweetness of the beets at the finish was such a well-thought out parade of flavors that we both agreed we'd order it again next time we were in.

And then we ordered more wine so we could linger and talk about beach vacations, clothes that fit but don't look the same as they once did and, naturally, men.

Don't get us started.

When we came up for air, it was to notice that the bar population was dwindling fast, once again leaving us to wonder how we'd not noticed the tables emptying out.

Damn, I hate to think it was our raging ramp breath.