Ink in My Dimples

Of course I'm going to RSVP "yes" when I get an invitation referencing me as "part of the tattoo community." Moi?

Sure, I'd love to attend the preview for "Japanese Tattoo: Perseverance, Art and Tradition." Don't mind if I do.

In the Claiborne Room upstairs at the VMFA, I found a roomful of tattooed body parts and the realization that I was most certainly going to be in the minority. When the VMFA's director said hello, I hypothesized that we were among the few un-inked people in the room.

Wrong. He's not only got a tattoo but he's already got his next one planned. Would have had it done before this opening if he hadn't been so understandably busy running one of the top ten museums in the country and all.

He was part way through a fascinating explanation of the origins and significance of his tattoos when a museum employee apologized and told him it was time to speak. He seemed to relish sharing stories of members calling his office, chagrined that the VMFA was going to have a tattoo-as-art show. Had the calls been put through, he said he'd have defended the choice and brought up his own ink.

The curator from the Japanese American National Museum in Los Angeles (where the show originated) also spoke, emphasizing the long history of tattoo art in Japan. He compared it to calligraphy and woodblock printing, two art forms considered low brow once but now appreciated for their skill and artistry.

Pointing out that if museums don't do something provocative, they may as well close their doors, there was much nodding. Amen. This show should bring in an entirely new audience.

Downstairs in the Evans Court galleries, the images of tattooed bodies were more than enough testament to the masterful talent of these artists. A series of two-sided panels showed men with full body suits, their skin inked from neck (sometimes with a tattoo of a beaded necklace) to calf or sometimes thigh.

Let me begin by being honest. It's been a long time (okay, never) that I've seen pictures of that many men's butts at once. True, they wore loincloths, but in the back, that disappears into the cheeks. No objection here; most of them were pretty good looking butts.

Looking at a striking tattooed man done by Adrian Lee, I overheard a tattoo artist explaining to a friend the importance of Lee -considered a new style Japanese tattoo artist - in his own stylistic development. He was in awe looking at the piece.

What was so compelling about all the tattoo photographs (besides the  abundance of colors - brilliant red, so many shades of blue, dazzling white) was how they pulled from traditional Japanese art imagery: swords, warriors, birds, tigers, fish, dragons, calligraphy. Just on someone's skin (and a half dozen kites at the end of the exhibit).

Some were purely decorative and others told a complex story with characters and actions on different parts of the body. There were tattoos shaped like a vest or a bolero. It was entire bodies as canvas for artistry of the highest order and not just a random collection of body art. It was magnificent.

The question is, will those complaining members get that? I only hope so.

Leaving the VMFA afterwards. I saw that  the brick sidewalks were wet so apparently it had rained while I'd been ogling men's backsides (and chests), but just enough to raise the humidity to Hell-level. The air was thick out there.

After a pit stop to change from platform espadrilles to flip-flops, I landed at Sound of Music Studio for a show. Slipping in the back entrance (front isn't an option), the guy at the door starts to inform me there's a $5 admission but before he can get it out, I have un-clenched my fist and he removes the $5 bill from it.

Sheepishly, he thumbs over his shoulder, saying, "Then you know...?" Where the stage is? Sure do.

And here's more good news for the evening. The show begins nearly on time with young but always impressive Way, Shape or Form. It happened last week at Gallery 5 and I'd been impressed then. Is this a mini-trend? Could musicians finally be committing to starting shows on time? Be still, my heart.

As I let Way, Shape or Form's angular sound capture and then continually surprise my ears, I looked around at the inside of Sound of Music Studio. Talk about an intriguing place, it's got built-in bookshelves along an enormous 40' wall. My guess was that the collection was probably a reflection of more than one person's taste in reading.

When I spot Thomas Pynchon's "Vineland," I think of a guy I met at Rappahannock two summers ago who judged people on whether or not they'd read Pynchon (I haven't. I will).  I also see the dorky-sounding"In Quest of Quasars" and Darwin's "Origins of the Species."

A pristine red copy of "Mr. Boston's Official Bar and Party Guide" sits near lesser-known bar books and art histories.

"Diet or Die: The Dolly Dimples Weight Reduction Plan" boasts a lurid red, white and black cover complete with before and after pictures, presumably of Dolly on the cover. I have to squint to read the copyright (1968) because the dim room is lit only by the LED lights of the soundboard and a couple of strings of multi-colored Christmas lights strung up two pillars and draped in between.

Perusing "Pioneer Women: Voices from the Kansas Frontier," a 1981 gem, I see someone at my side. It's one of the studio's owners and he's gracious enough to say, "Feel free to take them down and read them." Read? I want to borrow Dolly Dimples and take it to a party.

Along another wall of the room sits a collection of objects - a large canvas of a smiling woman in the Pop art style so probably '70s, a table harp, a toy piano (grand, not upright), a globe where the bodies of water are sepia-toned and not blue. Look, there's a guy in a "Heck no techno" t-shirt.

Almost everyone is in shorts, although I'm still sporting the same $3 thrift dress I wore to the VMFA opening that netted a compliment from a  museum staffer in the photography gallery. I'm getting good mileage out of it today.

Blanco Basnet was next and the singer announced them as from Durham, N.C., which is redundant because you can look at some bands and know at once they're from North Carolina (see: the Connells). One song in and I could see why they were on this bill.

While their sound leaned a bit more rock/pop than Way, Shape or Form, they still had the tempo changes, unconventional song structure and occasional jazz drumming of the younger band. The crowd took to them enthusiastically, cheering them on when they chose to try a brand-new song

It was warm in there and before long the singer was wiping his dripping face with a towel between songs but his clear, melodic voice didn't seem to suffer any from the warmth.

After their set, I went over to ask the sound guy who was last. That's when he told me Dumb Waiter had to bow out because guitarist Nick was sick. Too bad. I'd been looking forward to them, as had he.

"By the way, I see you at shows all the time," he said extending his hand and introducing himself. I have lost count of the number of friends I have met after they've uttered some variation of those words. Go places and people will talk to you, kids.

Last up was Houdan the Mystic ("We hope you'll like us") and theirs was a harder sound, although still in the same musical family, just more fast and furious. A trio, every instrument counted more (lots of terrific bass parts) and they played that way.

During their sound-check, the guitarist told a joke, eliciting laughter, so when the bassist sound-checked, he began singing "Blue Moon," of all the unlikely things.

"How was that? I mean, besides great? I know it wasn't telling a joke or anything..." the bassist cracked. Their set winds up being a boisterous finish to the evening's music.

It's not quite as miserably hot when I leave Sound of Music, but it's not great, either. Back in my apartment sipping cold water, I hear cyclists' voices as they glide down the street. I can't quite make out what the first guy says.

Matter-of-factly, the other responds, "Okay, go home and commit suicide and we won't get together later" as their bikes whiz by to catch the light at the corner.

So ends another day in J-Ward.