Plans, it seems, are just suggestions and now I reek of a stranger.
Waking up after only seven hours of sleep this morning, I couldn't drift back off. I knew I had exactly three things planned for today, each one progressively more appealing: an interview on the Northern Neck, lobster dinner with my parents at the Inn at Montross and a show with my favorite music lover.
Returning from a walk where I'd investigated the eastern end of Brown's Island (finding it soggy, debris-strewn and still inaccessible to the pipeline walkway), I found a message from Dad: we would meet at the Kilmarnock Inn, not Montross.
This was actually more convenient for me (less driving) so I sign off on the change. The moment I hit the send button, I get an email from my editor asking if I can please cover an event tonight from 6-8.
Well, not if I'm eating dinner on the Northern Neck I can't.
Now I've got to check with Dad and see if we can meet before my interview for lunch instead of dinner. He agrees, but warns me he won't be freshly shaven if we do.
Shaving not required, I tell him.
The drive out is pleasant and only mildly unnerving when I get to the White Stone bridge which is being worked on. This means only one lane is open and a flagman is directing traffic, but it also means stopping at the pinnacle of the bridge for our turn to go and, let me tell you, it's an unsettlingly windy place to stop.
I console myself by looking at the portable toilet perched atop a trailer next to the construction equipment, feeling grateful that while I have to sit in my car at the height of this bridge, at least I don't have to relieve myself on high.
And as along as I was up there, I took a few photos out the window of the shimmering blue Rappahannock surrounding me, my arm hairs glinting in the sun.
The Inn is crowded and the table next to us is discussing impeachment, which would be a good thing except they're discussing Clinton. My parents live deep in conservative territory, so they're often in the minority when it comes to politics.
Dad and I have Crab Louie salads piled high with crabmeat and we all share housemade peach ice cream for dessert while Dad tells me how much relief he's getting from acupuncture and Mom ghoulishly describes watching the needles being inserted.
When I get to where my interview is scheduled, I learn that the interviewee is stuck on the bridge, which is how I wind up in an Adirondack chair on the front porch of a radio station reading the Washington Post waiting for the manager to escape the bridge line.
A woman who'd won a prize on the morning radio show drives up and asks if I work for the station. When I say no, she heads inside to claim her prize. I learn that today is also her birthday and I wish my fellow Gemini a happy one.
Because my subject was a half hour late, I get back to Richmond later than planned and I need to be at this event in half an hour. Fortunately, it's 3 blocks away and I walk quickly.
I have just long enough to glance at my inbox, where I'm surprised to see that a friend from Boston has emailed, but I don't bother opening it now when I have somewhere to be.
Once there, I begin talking to people for my story and all of a sudden a woman approaches, throws her arms around me and hangs on for dear life. I don't know her, but I hug her back so long and hard that she finally mumbles, "You're a really good hugger!" Even so, we hang on to each other even longer.
We move over to a bench to sit down and I get a whiff of her scent on me. It makes me feel very unlike myself since I don't wear perfume, but I unexpectedly enjoy knowing that I smell girly. She tells me I'm beautiful, raves about my dimples and runs her fingers through my hair, saying we should start a band because of our punk hair.
I have no idea what rabbit hole I've gone down.
After the tribute ends, people begin drifting over to Quirk for drinks (a somewhat ironic way to celebrate a man who died of alcoholism) and several ask if I'm coming. Because I have plans in an hour, I really can't, although it would be a beautiful evening to be on the rooftop at Quirk.
Turns out the friend from Boston is in town for the night only and wants to get a drink and chat after not seeing each other in years. I have exactly 58 minutes free before being picked up for music, but I'm game and ask where he is.
Before he responds, I hear from my favorite music lover, who is suffering from too little sleep (join the club, Tiger, I'm operating on a two-hour deficit myself and all because of anticipation about seeing you-know-who) and indigestion, so he's bowing out of music tonight.
As compensation, we spend a pleasurable hour volleying words back and forth as I put away the detritus from today's road trip, take off my going out clothes and settle myself contentedly on the balcony with a bowl of raspberry sherbet.
And, man, do I smell good. Too bad nobody will know.
Showing posts with label 1708 gallery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1708 gallery. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Saturday, June 11, 2016
I Was There and I'm Told I Had a Good Time
I can always count on my neighborhood to deliver.
Walking up Henry Street just after 8:00 on a Friday evening, I hear the sounds of chanting and a drum. Here come the anti-Trump protesters down Marshall Street, not in lock step, but in solidarity against the racist white man running for President and the rally he's staging a few blocks east.
It's pretty catchy.
No KKK
No facist USA
No Trump!
I don't hesitate to stop and chant along in accord and one of the marchers brings me a flyer about destroying white supremacists like Trump and his ongoing campaign demonizing Blacks, Latinos and Muslims. I spot the drummer from No BS Brass band among the protesters carrying banners and signs.
Behind the marchers is a cadre of VCU bicycle cops and a young white one rides over to greet me. "How are you, ma'am?" he says in a smarmy tone, as if he assumes I'm as disdainful of the march as he apparently is. Just fine, I tell him.
Nodding toward the marchers, he rolls his eyes and condescends, saying, "Just another day in the neighborhood." I roll my eyes in return and walk away without saying a word.
I revel in living in a place where people make their beliefs known in a peaceable way capable of inspiring others. I've marched in parades in J-Ward on multiple occasions, a fact I'm proud of.
A few block further at 1708 Gallery, people are gathering for the Bijou's pop-up members' screening, noshing and sipping. Talk beforehand centers on how the Bijou is moving toward weekly events, both first-run and repertory and how they'll make a point to screen on 16mm and 35 mm whenever possible.
I consider that essential for the Bijou since there are now so many people who have no sense of seeing movies on actual film.
Tonight's first 16 mm film, Truffaut's "Les Mistons," introduced me to the beautiful Bernadette Jouve and, predictably employed the most important trope in a French film: a woman riding a bike in a dress, a fact I've gleaned from years of attendance at the French Film festival.
It was decidedly French in attitude, as when when the lovely Bernadette asks her lover what he feels for her and he responds, "A brutal physical appetite."
Not a bad answer.
Perhaps most interestingly of all, there were many occasions where the actors spoke and no subtitles were provided, a decided difference from today's inane captioning of every grunt and moan.
Also shown on 16 mm, "Mouseholes," by Helen Hill used 1999-era handmade animation and voice-over spoken by her dying grandfather in the hospital for a moving tribute to the man.
The main event was the Richmond premiere of "Chekhov for Children," by Sasha Waters-Freyer, the title referring to a group of kids in NYC's P.S. 75 who rehearsed and produced Chekhov's "Uncle Vanya" in 1979 as part of an intensive arts program targeted at specific schools in the late '70s and early '80s.
Sasha explained that she'd been the student director of the production. Hello, for my one and only school play, I'd been chosen student director, which some thought was a waste since my dramatic nature had earned me the childhood nickname "Camille" with my Dad.
What she wanted to explore was how she'd grown up thinking that that experience, as well as the many films the school's students produced, was perfectly normal.
Only as a an adult did she see that having 10 and 11-year olds interpret the dark, adult viewpoint of Chekhov was not a typical rite of childhood passage.
The documentary was fascinating for the amount of archival footage she had to work with as well as the conversations with her fellow students, now grown up. Everyone credited the program and the play with making them feel like their possibilities were limitless.
Seeing children deliver heavy Chekhovian dialog with passion and adult weariness was startling. One little girl credited her emoting to dealing with her parents' divorce and the sadness that had caused her.
That's some deep stuff.
But they also felt like the production itself, not performing it for an audience (although they did that, too with a nearly 2 1/2 hour production at a real theater), was the point. They were doing it for themselves and the experience, a wonderful thing to teach 5th graders.
Fittingly, we heard a lot from the teacher who'd conceived the project and loved Chekhov.
Let me tell you, I was eating up this film's subject with a spoon. It was a sterling example of what the Bijou will mean to Richmond by having a small theater that shows this sort of film - the kind that never plays here or a classic piece of cinema like the Truffaut or even an artistic gem like the Hill film - week in and week out.
With a bar, I might add.
My great regret was having to leave before the Q & A period to meet friends because I'd have relished hearing more from the director about her original experiences.
Instead I revisited my own childhood, albeit not as a member of a Chekhov production, First up was presenting myself at Belmont Food Shop to meet two couples who'd just finished dinner and after minor chit chat, we strolled back to Holmes' house for a listening party.
"This album is so good I'm going to listen to it for the rest of my life," he announced, piquing everyone's (okay, my) interest.
The CD in question was the Monkees' latest, "Good Times!" which was intended as a commemoration of the band's 50th anniversary and something I somehow hadn't even read about.
The music was striking for how spot-on Monkees-like it sounded, not like an update or interpretation of their sound, but simply like a long-lost record had been unearthed. What was cool were the collaborators: Ben Gibbard, Adam Schlesinger of Fountains of Wayne, Noel Gallagher, Rivers Cuomo and Paul Weller.
But the one that made us melt into teen-aged puddles was "You Bring the Summer," sung by my favorite Monkee, Mickey Dolenz and written by the fabulous Andy Partridge of XTC.
The three-minute gem is a practically perfect pop song.
We listened to the CD straight through twice, marveling at how good the songs sounded, how fortuitous it was that they had an unreleased Davy Jones track they could add backing vocals to and a Nilsson demo that Mickey could "duet" with in true Nat "King" Cole style.
They even included - wait for it - an unreleased Boyce and Hart song and as every girl who was ever Vice President of the local Monkees fan club knows, a lot of the Monkees' '60s hits were written by that songwriting duo.
Wait, it gets better. Calling into my local radio station to request the Monkees' new single, "Pleasant Valley Sunday," I'd been instead put on the line with the in-studio guest that day: singer Bobbie Gentry. Sure, I made small talk with her, but all I really wanted was for them to take my song request.
Of course, no kid would have time to listen to pop music if they were busy studying their lines for a Chekhov production.
Sounds like I got the childhood I was supposed to have.
Walking up Henry Street just after 8:00 on a Friday evening, I hear the sounds of chanting and a drum. Here come the anti-Trump protesters down Marshall Street, not in lock step, but in solidarity against the racist white man running for President and the rally he's staging a few blocks east.
It's pretty catchy.
No KKK
No facist USA
No Trump!
I don't hesitate to stop and chant along in accord and one of the marchers brings me a flyer about destroying white supremacists like Trump and his ongoing campaign demonizing Blacks, Latinos and Muslims. I spot the drummer from No BS Brass band among the protesters carrying banners and signs.
Behind the marchers is a cadre of VCU bicycle cops and a young white one rides over to greet me. "How are you, ma'am?" he says in a smarmy tone, as if he assumes I'm as disdainful of the march as he apparently is. Just fine, I tell him.
Nodding toward the marchers, he rolls his eyes and condescends, saying, "Just another day in the neighborhood." I roll my eyes in return and walk away without saying a word.
I revel in living in a place where people make their beliefs known in a peaceable way capable of inspiring others. I've marched in parades in J-Ward on multiple occasions, a fact I'm proud of.
A few block further at 1708 Gallery, people are gathering for the Bijou's pop-up members' screening, noshing and sipping. Talk beforehand centers on how the Bijou is moving toward weekly events, both first-run and repertory and how they'll make a point to screen on 16mm and 35 mm whenever possible.
I consider that essential for the Bijou since there are now so many people who have no sense of seeing movies on actual film.
Tonight's first 16 mm film, Truffaut's "Les Mistons," introduced me to the beautiful Bernadette Jouve and, predictably employed the most important trope in a French film: a woman riding a bike in a dress, a fact I've gleaned from years of attendance at the French Film festival.
It was decidedly French in attitude, as when when the lovely Bernadette asks her lover what he feels for her and he responds, "A brutal physical appetite."
Not a bad answer.
Perhaps most interestingly of all, there were many occasions where the actors spoke and no subtitles were provided, a decided difference from today's inane captioning of every grunt and moan.
Also shown on 16 mm, "Mouseholes," by Helen Hill used 1999-era handmade animation and voice-over spoken by her dying grandfather in the hospital for a moving tribute to the man.
The main event was the Richmond premiere of "Chekhov for Children," by Sasha Waters-Freyer, the title referring to a group of kids in NYC's P.S. 75 who rehearsed and produced Chekhov's "Uncle Vanya" in 1979 as part of an intensive arts program targeted at specific schools in the late '70s and early '80s.
Sasha explained that she'd been the student director of the production. Hello, for my one and only school play, I'd been chosen student director, which some thought was a waste since my dramatic nature had earned me the childhood nickname "Camille" with my Dad.
What she wanted to explore was how she'd grown up thinking that that experience, as well as the many films the school's students produced, was perfectly normal.
Only as a an adult did she see that having 10 and 11-year olds interpret the dark, adult viewpoint of Chekhov was not a typical rite of childhood passage.
The documentary was fascinating for the amount of archival footage she had to work with as well as the conversations with her fellow students, now grown up. Everyone credited the program and the play with making them feel like their possibilities were limitless.
Seeing children deliver heavy Chekhovian dialog with passion and adult weariness was startling. One little girl credited her emoting to dealing with her parents' divorce and the sadness that had caused her.
That's some deep stuff.
But they also felt like the production itself, not performing it for an audience (although they did that, too with a nearly 2 1/2 hour production at a real theater), was the point. They were doing it for themselves and the experience, a wonderful thing to teach 5th graders.
Fittingly, we heard a lot from the teacher who'd conceived the project and loved Chekhov.
Let me tell you, I was eating up this film's subject with a spoon. It was a sterling example of what the Bijou will mean to Richmond by having a small theater that shows this sort of film - the kind that never plays here or a classic piece of cinema like the Truffaut or even an artistic gem like the Hill film - week in and week out.
With a bar, I might add.
My great regret was having to leave before the Q & A period to meet friends because I'd have relished hearing more from the director about her original experiences.
Instead I revisited my own childhood, albeit not as a member of a Chekhov production, First up was presenting myself at Belmont Food Shop to meet two couples who'd just finished dinner and after minor chit chat, we strolled back to Holmes' house for a listening party.
"This album is so good I'm going to listen to it for the rest of my life," he announced, piquing everyone's (okay, my) interest.
The CD in question was the Monkees' latest, "Good Times!" which was intended as a commemoration of the band's 50th anniversary and something I somehow hadn't even read about.
The music was striking for how spot-on Monkees-like it sounded, not like an update or interpretation of their sound, but simply like a long-lost record had been unearthed. What was cool were the collaborators: Ben Gibbard, Adam Schlesinger of Fountains of Wayne, Noel Gallagher, Rivers Cuomo and Paul Weller.
But the one that made us melt into teen-aged puddles was "You Bring the Summer," sung by my favorite Monkee, Mickey Dolenz and written by the fabulous Andy Partridge of XTC.
The three-minute gem is a practically perfect pop song.
We listened to the CD straight through twice, marveling at how good the songs sounded, how fortuitous it was that they had an unreleased Davy Jones track they could add backing vocals to and a Nilsson demo that Mickey could "duet" with in true Nat "King" Cole style.
They even included - wait for it - an unreleased Boyce and Hart song and as every girl who was ever Vice President of the local Monkees fan club knows, a lot of the Monkees' '60s hits were written by that songwriting duo.
Wait, it gets better. Calling into my local radio station to request the Monkees' new single, "Pleasant Valley Sunday," I'd been instead put on the line with the in-studio guest that day: singer Bobbie Gentry. Sure, I made small talk with her, but all I really wanted was for them to take my song request.
Of course, no kid would have time to listen to pop music if they were busy studying their lines for a Chekhov production.
Sounds like I got the childhood I was supposed to have.
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Any Kind of Fool Could See
I've long been firmly in the Foodist Colony camp. Hell, I'd wear their t-shirt if they had one.
The needy get food from the food bank, the artists pay forward good karma and people such as me get a new piece of art to live with. What's not to support?
I'd been to two such events in the past seven years, one at the short-lived Thanky Space on Brook Road and another put together by VCU students in a rented building on Main Street. Today I got my third piece of art paid for with cans - tuna fish, soup, peanut butter - to add to my walls and increase my pleasure in looking at them.
A last minute brunch invitation had me scurrying (as much as you can scurry whislt carrying a bag with 19 cans in it) over to 1708 Gallery right at noon to submit cans, ogle prints and make my selection.
The invitation had been appealingly groovy: "Pick whatever time you're going to arrive and then don't be late. Be true to your own time." I am the first to arrive so the volunteers work out their process on me as we figure it out together.
As my cans are considered for their worth, I admire the wooden crates that have been designed with orange lettering on one end proclaiming, "Foodist Colony," the handiwork of organizer Travis Robertson.
Then it's on to the art. Not surprisingly, several prints catch my eye. I look long and hard because I want to choose something that will still give me daily pleasure years from now - much like considering a mate - before deciding on Travis' clean red, green and black image.
I'm drawn to its brilliant colors, line work and symbolism. It's also the second of Travis' works I've bought, the first one scooped up at an early Jonny Z Festival and now framed and residing whimsically between two sunny windows in my living room.
Interestingly enough, that older print is also done in shades of red, green and black. But that one isn't hand-signed or numbered (16/35) like this one is. Sometimes a girl wants authentication.
By the time I walk out with my empty bag and coveted print in my hand, 1708 is filling up with bag and box-toting art lovers, including a former gallerist and artist who says, "If I'd been out of town for this, I'd have flown home for it."
We bond over our love for Travis' Foodist Colony before I set off to meet my brunch date.
Breakfast for him and lunch for me was attempted at Perly's (mobbed) and eaten at Lucy's (never disappoints), where bacon doughnut holes got us started while Player's "Baby Come Back" crooned overhead. Hello, '70s AM radio.
Young women at the bar next to us sipped successive mimosas as they discussed the hazards of saying yes too often to one's boss. "Um, no thanks, I do not want to go to another festival tonight." It must be tough being on the fast track career-wise. I certainly wouldn't know.
The '80s arrived when "Billie Jean" inexplicably followed Player, accompanying a lumberjack-sized special of fried softshell over grits with eggs on top, providing me with more than I could eat and that was after requesting just one egg instead of two.
Sopping up the last of the yolk with buttered wheat toast, it was time for me to go home and get some work done. New art procured? Oh, yes. Donation to food bank made? Check. Mid-day meal savored? Yup.
True to my own time? Always. Pride at being part of the Foodist Colony? Immeasurable.
The needy get food from the food bank, the artists pay forward good karma and people such as me get a new piece of art to live with. What's not to support?
I'd been to two such events in the past seven years, one at the short-lived Thanky Space on Brook Road and another put together by VCU students in a rented building on Main Street. Today I got my third piece of art paid for with cans - tuna fish, soup, peanut butter - to add to my walls and increase my pleasure in looking at them.
A last minute brunch invitation had me scurrying (as much as you can scurry whislt carrying a bag with 19 cans in it) over to 1708 Gallery right at noon to submit cans, ogle prints and make my selection.
The invitation had been appealingly groovy: "Pick whatever time you're going to arrive and then don't be late. Be true to your own time." I am the first to arrive so the volunteers work out their process on me as we figure it out together.
As my cans are considered for their worth, I admire the wooden crates that have been designed with orange lettering on one end proclaiming, "Foodist Colony," the handiwork of organizer Travis Robertson.
Then it's on to the art. Not surprisingly, several prints catch my eye. I look long and hard because I want to choose something that will still give me daily pleasure years from now - much like considering a mate - before deciding on Travis' clean red, green and black image.
I'm drawn to its brilliant colors, line work and symbolism. It's also the second of Travis' works I've bought, the first one scooped up at an early Jonny Z Festival and now framed and residing whimsically between two sunny windows in my living room.
Interestingly enough, that older print is also done in shades of red, green and black. But that one isn't hand-signed or numbered (16/35) like this one is. Sometimes a girl wants authentication.
By the time I walk out with my empty bag and coveted print in my hand, 1708 is filling up with bag and box-toting art lovers, including a former gallerist and artist who says, "If I'd been out of town for this, I'd have flown home for it."
We bond over our love for Travis' Foodist Colony before I set off to meet my brunch date.
Breakfast for him and lunch for me was attempted at Perly's (mobbed) and eaten at Lucy's (never disappoints), where bacon doughnut holes got us started while Player's "Baby Come Back" crooned overhead. Hello, '70s AM radio.
Young women at the bar next to us sipped successive mimosas as they discussed the hazards of saying yes too often to one's boss. "Um, no thanks, I do not want to go to another festival tonight." It must be tough being on the fast track career-wise. I certainly wouldn't know.
The '80s arrived when "Billie Jean" inexplicably followed Player, accompanying a lumberjack-sized special of fried softshell over grits with eggs on top, providing me with more than I could eat and that was after requesting just one egg instead of two.
Sopping up the last of the yolk with buttered wheat toast, it was time for me to go home and get some work done. New art procured? Oh, yes. Donation to food bank made? Check. Mid-day meal savored? Yup.
True to my own time? Always. Pride at being part of the Foodist Colony? Immeasurable.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
National Chocolate Chip Cookie Day
Love is dead. Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy announced their conscious uncoupling today.
Even an optimist like me has to have her faith in happily ever after shaken a bit by that. Who's next, Mom and Dad?
Setting aside personal concerns for the greater good, I walked over to 1708 Gallery for tonight's talk and dinner on BridgePark. Although it hadn't been all that long since I'd attended a community conversation on BridgePark, tonight's was less a meeting and more of a social.
In other words, there was a cash bar.
More importantly to me, there was also a week-long exhibit devoted to a model, sketches, a film and enlarged photographs of the proposed BridgePark connecting the green spaces of the state capital to the river and Manchester.
The challenge was being able to see these ideas brought to the gallery's walls and floor space given the crush of warm bodies filling 1708. It wasn't the same crowd that had attended the last meeting in Manchester. No, this was a far artsier crowd and with drinks in hand, the feeling was more of one big cocktail party.
Not that there's anything wrong with an art meet and greet.
Gallerists and arty types abounded, along with young families, river devotees and BridgePark's growing following.
One large photo of the James at sunset made comparisons:
The Seine
The Arno
The James
Another showed two eagles facing off in mid-air. It read:
Food, Music. Fun.
And eagle battles.
After the crowd was nicely lubricated, organizer Ted got the crowd's attention - no easy task amid all the kvetching - and did a shorter presentation than the one I'd seen last.
He admitted to our collective love affair with the old train bridge piers in the river (we can't deny it). He spoke of making better use of an under-utilized bridge. To really grab the crowd, he showed a photo of the July 4th fireworks taken from the bridge.
When all of a sudden technology failed him and the images wouldn't move forward, a guy near me shouted out, "Kill the DJ!" I thought it was funny. Device again working, we finished the presentation with no further good-natured heckling.
Then and only then were people allowed to go through the food line, enjoying a repast curated by the Underground Kitchen, cooked by Chef Carly Herring with food supplied from Belmont Butchery, Renew Richmond, Shalom Farms and VSU with a charming row of vases holding mostly pink zinnias courtesy of Tricycle Gardens lining the center of the table.
Conveniently, I'd stationed myself near the food table for the presentation, so it wasn't far to be the second person in line (behind the tiny woman with the sleeping child in her arms). Beef vegetable soup, beautifully balanced kale salad with Feta and craisins in a honey dressing, a simply dressed tomato and onion salad that tasted like the tomatoes had been in the ground this morning and the heel a loaf of Sub Rosa's brown bread filled up my plate.
We'd been told that the reason for the large communal table was so that we might sit next to a stranger (something I do on a fairly frequent basis, btw) and build community by discussing our impressions and hopes for BridgePark with others also interested in the project.
I sat down with empty chairs on either side of me.
Her backside had barely hit the chair when the woman next to me introduced herself and I recognized her as a rock climber who'd expressed concerns about losing the southside climbing wall in the plans for the park. She confirmed her love of climbing, informing me that we were one of the rare cities who had natural climbing places downtown.
We'd already heard from Ted that we were one of two state capitals with eagle habitats downtown. And don't get us started on our Class IV rapids downtown or we might go on for days.
Another woman sat down next to her, explaining that she was a lawyer who'd known Ted before he stopped lawyering to run the BridgePark non-profit. Next came a familiar face - a WRIR DJ who also plays around town as a DJ - across from me, but I couldn't very well send him on his way just because I knew him, could I? I spotted the Man About Town standing in the food line holding lemonade for a young damsel.
Carly's soup with Belmont Butchery's beef in the starring role was ridiculously appealing given that it was still 90+ degrees outside. Sub Rosa's bread soaked up every bit of broth. I chatted with my new friends about BridgePark's possibilities.
To accompany our meal, Rodney the Soul Singer crooned at the front of the room as the film showing the majesty of the James played behind us. Everywhere around me, people were busy eating and talking about the concept of a bridge park in Richmond.
They were putting on a good show, but I'm willing to bet that under those lively facades, their hearts were aching with the depressing news of Kermit and Piggy's breakup. What hope is there for the rest of us?
As far as moi is concerned, sometimes you just have to eat a chocolate chip/macadamia/coconut cookie and call it a day.
Even an optimist like me has to have her faith in happily ever after shaken a bit by that. Who's next, Mom and Dad?
Setting aside personal concerns for the greater good, I walked over to 1708 Gallery for tonight's talk and dinner on BridgePark. Although it hadn't been all that long since I'd attended a community conversation on BridgePark, tonight's was less a meeting and more of a social.
In other words, there was a cash bar.
More importantly to me, there was also a week-long exhibit devoted to a model, sketches, a film and enlarged photographs of the proposed BridgePark connecting the green spaces of the state capital to the river and Manchester.
The challenge was being able to see these ideas brought to the gallery's walls and floor space given the crush of warm bodies filling 1708. It wasn't the same crowd that had attended the last meeting in Manchester. No, this was a far artsier crowd and with drinks in hand, the feeling was more of one big cocktail party.
Not that there's anything wrong with an art meet and greet.
Gallerists and arty types abounded, along with young families, river devotees and BridgePark's growing following.
One large photo of the James at sunset made comparisons:
The Seine
The Arno
The James
Another showed two eagles facing off in mid-air. It read:
Food, Music. Fun.
And eagle battles.
After the crowd was nicely lubricated, organizer Ted got the crowd's attention - no easy task amid all the kvetching - and did a shorter presentation than the one I'd seen last.
He admitted to our collective love affair with the old train bridge piers in the river (we can't deny it). He spoke of making better use of an under-utilized bridge. To really grab the crowd, he showed a photo of the July 4th fireworks taken from the bridge.
When all of a sudden technology failed him and the images wouldn't move forward, a guy near me shouted out, "Kill the DJ!" I thought it was funny. Device again working, we finished the presentation with no further good-natured heckling.
Then and only then were people allowed to go through the food line, enjoying a repast curated by the Underground Kitchen, cooked by Chef Carly Herring with food supplied from Belmont Butchery, Renew Richmond, Shalom Farms and VSU with a charming row of vases holding mostly pink zinnias courtesy of Tricycle Gardens lining the center of the table.
Conveniently, I'd stationed myself near the food table for the presentation, so it wasn't far to be the second person in line (behind the tiny woman with the sleeping child in her arms). Beef vegetable soup, beautifully balanced kale salad with Feta and craisins in a honey dressing, a simply dressed tomato and onion salad that tasted like the tomatoes had been in the ground this morning and the heel a loaf of Sub Rosa's brown bread filled up my plate.
We'd been told that the reason for the large communal table was so that we might sit next to a stranger (something I do on a fairly frequent basis, btw) and build community by discussing our impressions and hopes for BridgePark with others also interested in the project.
I sat down with empty chairs on either side of me.
Her backside had barely hit the chair when the woman next to me introduced herself and I recognized her as a rock climber who'd expressed concerns about losing the southside climbing wall in the plans for the park. She confirmed her love of climbing, informing me that we were one of the rare cities who had natural climbing places downtown.
We'd already heard from Ted that we were one of two state capitals with eagle habitats downtown. And don't get us started on our Class IV rapids downtown or we might go on for days.
Another woman sat down next to her, explaining that she was a lawyer who'd known Ted before he stopped lawyering to run the BridgePark non-profit. Next came a familiar face - a WRIR DJ who also plays around town as a DJ - across from me, but I couldn't very well send him on his way just because I knew him, could I? I spotted the Man About Town standing in the food line holding lemonade for a young damsel.
Carly's soup with Belmont Butchery's beef in the starring role was ridiculously appealing given that it was still 90+ degrees outside. Sub Rosa's bread soaked up every bit of broth. I chatted with my new friends about BridgePark's possibilities.
To accompany our meal, Rodney the Soul Singer crooned at the front of the room as the film showing the majesty of the James played behind us. Everywhere around me, people were busy eating and talking about the concept of a bridge park in Richmond.
They were putting on a good show, but I'm willing to bet that under those lively facades, their hearts were aching with the depressing news of Kermit and Piggy's breakup. What hope is there for the rest of us?
As far as moi is concerned, sometimes you just have to eat a chocolate chip/macadamia/coconut cookie and call it a day.
Saturday, November 22, 2014
Not Without You
If Picasso was right and art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls, I am dust-free. Immaculate, even.
How could I not be after taking in three shows in one night? Beginning at VMFA, the first was Miwako Nishizawa's "Twelve Views of Virginia," done by the Japanese-American artist in the traditional Japanese woodblock style.
At first glance, the prints could be mistaken for Japanese works, but on closer inspection, no. I found the prints a fascinating look at depicting the state, although less successful when larger figures were involved. The horse in "Colonial Williamsburg" or the statue in "College of William and Mary" had a clunky solidity that I don't expect from true Japanese prints.
But "Skyline Drive," "Blue Ridge, the Priest" and "Hollywood Cemetery" translated beautifully. In any case, the twelve prints are as different a depiction of familiar landmarks as any you'll see.
From there, I stepped out of the gallery long enough to admire the people tangoing below in the atrium before walking to Evans Court, past a group on a Friday tour looking at Byzantine art.
Walking into "Water and Shadow: Kawase Hasui and Japanese Landscape Prints," I was immediately surrounded by exquisite blue/gray walls that called to mind the sea at dusk. Just beautiful. The exhibit was far larger than I'd anticipated with multiple galleries of Hasui's sublime watercolors and prints.
Included were two large two-panel screens that were breathtaking. In "Coastal Landscape," you could see fish drying on a rooftop and people going about their business on the streets of the seaside village. "Lake Towada" was a study in serenity.
I'd learned in last week's lecture that Hasui had created these landscapes as a means of nostalgia, looking back at a Japan that was quickly being replaced with a more modern one. The simple scenes of winding roads, hillsides, boats on water and temples conjure up a simpler time.
You can imagine my surprise when I saw a woodblock print with the jolly old elf in it. "Christmas Card with Santa Claus in Japanese Landscape" was a tad jarring, but in the most beautiful way.
You see Santa from behind, his pack on his shoulder and leaving a trail of deep footprints in the snow behind him as he heads toward a typical Japanese-style house, with its roof and the surrounding trees laden with snow.
East meets west, right there in that one holiday print.
One thing that was apparent in looking at Hasui's work was how influenced he'd been by the western 19th century art he'd studied.
The other thing was that I was never going to be able to pick a favorite because every time I thought I'd chosen, I'd come upon another piece so striking that it became my new fave. Call me fickle (and some will), but if you see the show (and you definitely should), you'll likely find yourself with the same dilemma.
That, and an overwhelming sense of tranquility as you leave it.
Properly warmed up, my next outing was outside in the 27 degree air. "InLight" was being held in Monroe Park this year, meaning an easy walk for me and a fellow Jackson Ward dweller.
It was a shame it was so cold because the park was kind of a cool location for InLight - contained, but full of natural and man-made elements.
The first thing that caught my attention was "Not Without You," which used volunteers to don props - rabbit ears and a fox mask - and ride stationary bikes behind a lit screen to create a shadow play. One couple conspired to use their hands to shape a heart, eliciting an "ahh" moment from the crowd.
Did I mention it was 27 degrees?
Projections were being shown on the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart, and in looking at them we noticed the open doors. Coming through the vestibule, I saw the cathedral was lit only by candlelight. Inside, I was given a small votive and further down the aisle it was lit for me.
The entire effect of so many tiny candles near the altar was stunning, gorgeous even, and I stopped long enough to take it all in. A man near me had his head bowed in prayer while many people knelt in front of the mass of candles. Some sat in pews and so did I for a minute.
I imagine the effect was similar to that of attending church at night in the time before electricity. It was easy to feel like a small part of something much bigger. Hell, it was almost enough to make a heathen like me think about religion. Almost.
Next door at the Episcopalian church, I found some sort of service going on in the tiny chapel, but nothing InLight-related. That was okay mainly because the vaulted ceiling and wooden buttresses were so impressive, they made it worth going in even without a light show.
Walking in as I left, a girl asked her companion, "Is this part of InLight? What could be in a church?" Her companion shot back, "Jesus." So, there was humor (and heat) at the Episcopal church at least.
On the far side from that, the neon tree house was noteworthy because its framework had been constructed around a couple of the large tree's branches, so we could see limbs against flashing blue neon. Appropriately, a neon ladder hung from it.
But my first thought when I saw it was that it owed a debt to the Jackson Ward house installation at InLight several years ago. Same idea, just smaller and higher off the ground.
And speaking of trees, a huge, old magnolia tree had been given a cluster of magnolia blossom lights - made of heavy coated paper - hanging from its branches. They were lovely, evoking the real thick-petaled blooms of the magnolia with the only thing missing being the smell.
Unfortunately, the brightest thing at InLight was that gaudyMosque Landmark Altria theater marquee. Too bad because the projections of shimmering water on to the front of the theater were so well done. The artist had even planned it so that the projections were only on the flat parts of the facade and not on the recessed arch.
The problem with tonight's sub-freezing temperatures was that I wasn't motivated to stand in long lines to see a couple of installations such as the one with the shack over the ice hole. Curious about it? Undoubtedly. Willing to stand and wait and freeze (even in velvet pants over tights)? Not so much.
There was even a topical installation about Monroe Park. You asked a question about the park into a microphone and the screen showed someone talking about that subject. It was kind of amazing how quickly the program pulled up a local person's sound bite on the subject. Ah, technology.
But at the end of the night, my most vivid memory was of the cathedral lit by candlelight. No technology, no computer, no projections. Just light in a beautiful space. Art.
Soul dusting of the highest order.
How could I not be after taking in three shows in one night? Beginning at VMFA, the first was Miwako Nishizawa's "Twelve Views of Virginia," done by the Japanese-American artist in the traditional Japanese woodblock style.
At first glance, the prints could be mistaken for Japanese works, but on closer inspection, no. I found the prints a fascinating look at depicting the state, although less successful when larger figures were involved. The horse in "Colonial Williamsburg" or the statue in "College of William and Mary" had a clunky solidity that I don't expect from true Japanese prints.
But "Skyline Drive," "Blue Ridge, the Priest" and "Hollywood Cemetery" translated beautifully. In any case, the twelve prints are as different a depiction of familiar landmarks as any you'll see.
From there, I stepped out of the gallery long enough to admire the people tangoing below in the atrium before walking to Evans Court, past a group on a Friday tour looking at Byzantine art.
Walking into "Water and Shadow: Kawase Hasui and Japanese Landscape Prints," I was immediately surrounded by exquisite blue/gray walls that called to mind the sea at dusk. Just beautiful. The exhibit was far larger than I'd anticipated with multiple galleries of Hasui's sublime watercolors and prints.
Included were two large two-panel screens that were breathtaking. In "Coastal Landscape," you could see fish drying on a rooftop and people going about their business on the streets of the seaside village. "Lake Towada" was a study in serenity.
I'd learned in last week's lecture that Hasui had created these landscapes as a means of nostalgia, looking back at a Japan that was quickly being replaced with a more modern one. The simple scenes of winding roads, hillsides, boats on water and temples conjure up a simpler time.
You can imagine my surprise when I saw a woodblock print with the jolly old elf in it. "Christmas Card with Santa Claus in Japanese Landscape" was a tad jarring, but in the most beautiful way.
You see Santa from behind, his pack on his shoulder and leaving a trail of deep footprints in the snow behind him as he heads toward a typical Japanese-style house, with its roof and the surrounding trees laden with snow.
East meets west, right there in that one holiday print.
One thing that was apparent in looking at Hasui's work was how influenced he'd been by the western 19th century art he'd studied.
The other thing was that I was never going to be able to pick a favorite because every time I thought I'd chosen, I'd come upon another piece so striking that it became my new fave. Call me fickle (and some will), but if you see the show (and you definitely should), you'll likely find yourself with the same dilemma.
That, and an overwhelming sense of tranquility as you leave it.
Properly warmed up, my next outing was outside in the 27 degree air. "InLight" was being held in Monroe Park this year, meaning an easy walk for me and a fellow Jackson Ward dweller.
It was a shame it was so cold because the park was kind of a cool location for InLight - contained, but full of natural and man-made elements.
The first thing that caught my attention was "Not Without You," which used volunteers to don props - rabbit ears and a fox mask - and ride stationary bikes behind a lit screen to create a shadow play. One couple conspired to use their hands to shape a heart, eliciting an "ahh" moment from the crowd.
Did I mention it was 27 degrees?
Projections were being shown on the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart, and in looking at them we noticed the open doors. Coming through the vestibule, I saw the cathedral was lit only by candlelight. Inside, I was given a small votive and further down the aisle it was lit for me.
The entire effect of so many tiny candles near the altar was stunning, gorgeous even, and I stopped long enough to take it all in. A man near me had his head bowed in prayer while many people knelt in front of the mass of candles. Some sat in pews and so did I for a minute.
I imagine the effect was similar to that of attending church at night in the time before electricity. It was easy to feel like a small part of something much bigger. Hell, it was almost enough to make a heathen like me think about religion. Almost.
Next door at the Episcopalian church, I found some sort of service going on in the tiny chapel, but nothing InLight-related. That was okay mainly because the vaulted ceiling and wooden buttresses were so impressive, they made it worth going in even without a light show.
Walking in as I left, a girl asked her companion, "Is this part of InLight? What could be in a church?" Her companion shot back, "Jesus." So, there was humor (and heat) at the Episcopal church at least.
On the far side from that, the neon tree house was noteworthy because its framework had been constructed around a couple of the large tree's branches, so we could see limbs against flashing blue neon. Appropriately, a neon ladder hung from it.
But my first thought when I saw it was that it owed a debt to the Jackson Ward house installation at InLight several years ago. Same idea, just smaller and higher off the ground.
And speaking of trees, a huge, old magnolia tree had been given a cluster of magnolia blossom lights - made of heavy coated paper - hanging from its branches. They were lovely, evoking the real thick-petaled blooms of the magnolia with the only thing missing being the smell.
Unfortunately, the brightest thing at InLight was that gaudy
The problem with tonight's sub-freezing temperatures was that I wasn't motivated to stand in long lines to see a couple of installations such as the one with the shack over the ice hole. Curious about it? Undoubtedly. Willing to stand and wait and freeze (even in velvet pants over tights)? Not so much.
There was even a topical installation about Monroe Park. You asked a question about the park into a microphone and the screen showed someone talking about that subject. It was kind of amazing how quickly the program pulled up a local person's sound bite on the subject. Ah, technology.
But at the end of the night, my most vivid memory was of the cathedral lit by candlelight. No technology, no computer, no projections. Just light in a beautiful space. Art.
Soul dusting of the highest order.
Friday, October 3, 2014
Up for an Undertaking
When you live in Jackson Ward, the world is your oyster and it's all within four blocks.
Behind Nick's Deli, I see a friend conducting a photo shoot of good-looking Richmond guys (read: bearded) for Ledbury Shirts in the exquisite early evening light.
I'm on my way to 1708 Gallery for the opening of "Exquisite Corpse," an exhibition based on the Surrealist parlor game where each person draws a part of the whole without seeing the other contributions first.
Some of the pieces are fluid and seamless, a marvel since no one knew what the other was doing, while some are disjointed and abrupt but come together only because they're part of a greater whole. Every single one is fascinating in some way, often many ways.
It doesn't take long for me to recognize artists' names and styles: Heide Trepanier, Kevin Orlosky, Diego Sanchez, Michael Lease, Noah Scalin, Sally Bowring all catch my eye.
I am most intrigued by seeing several by Travis Robertson because I purchased one of his pieces back in 2008 and I've never met him to tell him how much I still love seeing that piece every day.
The 27 pieces in the show demonstrate such creativity. One has a sound component, another has a collaged section. Some are black and white while others glow with fields of color. Sequins and fake jewels are part of some.
Admiring one, a woman approaches me and I learn she's one of the artists who has done a section on one of the pieces. As we admire it, she asks if I'm an artist. When I explain I merely write, she insists I am an artist, too.
On the back wall, an artist has begun an enormous exquisite corpse piece, to be covered up and continued tomorrow night during the artwalk. The scale is huge and the orientation horizontal rather than vertical, but it's fascinating to watch as animals and details emerge from his brush.
When I go to leave, I run into a gallerist I know and he tells me he recently spotted me on my walk near Second Street. After driving around for an hour, he was on the downtown expressway when he caught sight of me overhead, crossing 195 on an overpass.
"She's still walking!" he recalled thinking. And mighty easy to spot in those bright pink shorts, I might add.
My next stop was Quirk Gallery for Brad Birchett's show, "Return," a collection of mostly monochromatic shades of gray, black and white with occasional lines of color - pink, coral -and images receding in and out of the painterly surface, occasionally etched into the paint, with sound recordings he'd made playing in the back of the gallery.
Making my way around, I ran into my favorite Quirk staffer (and very talented set designer) and asked what he'd been up to.
"I'm doing a lot of work on hotel stuff," he said, referring to the upcoming Quirk boutique hotel that's coming to the neighborhood. "There'll be a rooftop bar there for you."
Don't I know it. You can be sure I plan to be a habitue of that rooftop bar three blocks from my house.
Walking out, I ran into the man about town, telling him it's always nice to see him. "Nice to be seen by you," he acknowledged, doffing his hat and bowing as I swept out the door.
I was pleasantly surprised to find ADA Gallery open (turns out it's the first time they're participating in the Thursday preview night) for a new sculpture show, "Heroic Measures," by VCU alum Shannon Wright.
The larger piece was called "Folly" and was modeled on the Coliseum in Rome, assuming it had been built by the Parks and Rec Department out of bike rack parts. Almost circular, with rows on top of rows of arches, it looked both monumental yet gently mocking of public art. I'd love to see it find a home in Richmond.
When I got to Ghostprint Gallery, I found a lively crowd for Josh George's new show, "Attroupement," including the well organized gardener drinking a beer and giving me a hard time as soon as I arrived.
I've watched Josh's progress as a painter over his past four shows since he came to Richmond and I continue to be impressed by the development of his talent and vision in wonderfully vibrant and colorful works exuding the passion and energy of life.
The room was full of familiar faces and I kept stopping to chat as I ran into a poet, a tattoo artist and a former writer as I worked my way around the room.
Standing back to admire "Kissy Bat," a large scale work of a lovely woman with long hair and full lips in front of strips of floral wallpaper and a flock of bats, a man approached me and said, "I was told that you posed for this painting."
Someone was lying to him and I corrected him, but a writer friend standing nearby leaned over and said, "He obviously has money. You should have said it was you." Right.
The Corbieres series in the back, a group of small landscape pieces done after Josh's trip to France, were stunningly evocative of the French countryside with the look of work painted a century ago.
By contrast, there were several large works of urban streetscapes with skyscrapers reaching heavenward that were firmly grounded in the here and now. "Up for an Undertaking" was my favorite, with rows of buildings on either side of the streets receding into the unknown, luring a visitor to spend time exploring.
Josh's love of wine and sense of humor came to the fore in "Devil says, 'Roast it in the oven!' Angel says, 'Deep fry it!" A couple sits with wine on the table in front of them as the man prepares to cut up a bird for dinner.
My vote for most charming goes to "The Things Needed," a mixed media piece of a girl on a bike with a basket full of flowers, wine and a baguette. I didn't spot it, but presumably there was cheese in there, too.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and the gardener was there to say goodnight, kissing me on the cheek but complaining when I did the same to him. "Don't leave lipstick on my cheek! I'll get in trouble when I get home!" Where's the trust, my friend?
My last stop was at Gallery 5 for "An evening among whores: a spoken word event," whatever that meant. It was being curated by the inimitable Herschel Stratego, so anything was possible.
Already the poet had made it over from Ghostprint before me and not long after, I saw the arts activist who's given up drinking (looking newly slim and fit), heard my name called by the not so classic movie lover I'd met at the weekly B movie series over the summer, chatted with the author who lived in my apartment before I did, and been joined by the sound techie who'd just returned from two weeks touring south of the border.
That got us off on a tangent about traveling alone and we compared adventures; I'd done four days alone in Italy and he'd done time in Mexico City and we agreed that there's a unique dynamic to being alone in a country where you don't know the language and you have no companion to fall back on for navigation and companionship.
Next thing we knew, Herschel was taking the stage to tell us the saga of his friendship with the recently deceased Dave Brockie of GWAR.
He wanted to begin with the story of how he'd made out with Dave, eager to share it "for bragging purposes only." Actually, they'd only kissed once (and even then, it was a fish lips kind of a kiss, not a good French kiss) and only because they'd challenged a woman to kiss one of them if they kissed each other.
They did, she didn't, at least not in front of the one who lost (Herschel).
But that was far from the end of his storytelling, as he went on share that they'd both peed together in the same toilet ("Although Dave Brockie peed a little longer"), that he wasn't going to get sentimental and that he recalled Dave singing along to "Only the Good Die Young" at a Superbowl party.
While I claim to go on and on, Herschel has me beat by a mile.
When he finally ceded the stage, it was for comedy from Dave Marie-Garland who said things such as, "What's the difference between a guy with a ponytail and a girl with a flat top? Nothing, they're both human beings."
He got the most laughs saying he'd had a dream where he had sex with a girl but when he asked if she'd loved him, she said no. "I woke up crying because sex without love is just sad. Am I right, guys?"
Yea, pretty funny stuff.
Musician and DJ Shannon Cleary did a rumination on aging, pets and parenthood with its roots in him having turned 30 last year.
He recalled being in speech class and being asked to speak on procreation, the problem being at that point he had no idea what the word meant. "My friends tried to show me with hand gestures, pelvic thrusts and "cab hands," he deadpanned as only Shannon can do.
Reading from her phone, Angie Huckstep shared a poem called "Remember That You Like to Read" (with the line "Finish that book like you know you want to") and "Spit Spot" ("Like Mary Poppins says," she explained. "You know, get your shit together!") about being in the shower with someone.
One of the best parts of the evening was the music played between performers, like Liz Phair's "Rock Me" before Melanie Rasnic came up.
Oh, baby, you're young but that's okay
What's give or take nine years anyway?
You think I'm a genius, think I'm cool
I'm starting to think that young guys rule
With a comedienne's timing and a past meant for mocking, she told of making the Shockoe Bottom walk of shame the morning after in heels (no small accomplishment) before explaining how a whore is formed. "By the way, my Mom is not a whore, so apparently it skips a generation."
She lamented being raised a Jehovah's Witness, trying to convert people on their porches by the time she was eight and denying her "all the things that made childhood bearable."
After that, Herschel returned to the stage long enough to tell us, "By the way, I have had sex before," tell some more off-color stories and announce, "This is my blue set."
Author Andrew Blossom took the stage to a song by Groucho Marx in honor of Groucho's birthday today (Andrew also works at Video Fan) and introduced his story, "In the Not Too Distant Future" about a guy named Joel who is middle aged, divorced and loses his job. He finds salvation in endless TV watching and a space show with a character named Joel.
Hey, when you're middle aged, you find your redemption anywhere you can.
Musician and poet Ryan Kent closed out the evening, loudly reading his poetry from an e-tablet, poems with titles such as "Nobody's Bitch" and lines like, "Ashtrays as truthful as your bank account" from "Long in the Tooth."
Top honors go to this line: "She was someone I left my fingerprints on, like cement and murder."
Naturally, Herschel had to come back up to close out the evening with more Dave Brockie stories, stopping just short of sharing sexual peccadilloes and reminiscing about when Dave had suggested he open for GWAR.
To prove his worth, Herschel had sung Dave a song and he wanted to sing it for us tonight.
"I forgot to being my instrument but I don't know the chords anyway, so I'll just sing it." It turned out to be Randy Newman's song about Karl Marx, "The World Isn't Fair."
Truthfully, Herschel's a capella rendition was just about perfect, an absurdist ending to a wild ride of a night.
My walk home was only four blocks...with no shame (or heels) involved.
Behind Nick's Deli, I see a friend conducting a photo shoot of good-looking Richmond guys (read: bearded) for Ledbury Shirts in the exquisite early evening light.
I'm on my way to 1708 Gallery for the opening of "Exquisite Corpse," an exhibition based on the Surrealist parlor game where each person draws a part of the whole without seeing the other contributions first.
Some of the pieces are fluid and seamless, a marvel since no one knew what the other was doing, while some are disjointed and abrupt but come together only because they're part of a greater whole. Every single one is fascinating in some way, often many ways.
It doesn't take long for me to recognize artists' names and styles: Heide Trepanier, Kevin Orlosky, Diego Sanchez, Michael Lease, Noah Scalin, Sally Bowring all catch my eye.
I am most intrigued by seeing several by Travis Robertson because I purchased one of his pieces back in 2008 and I've never met him to tell him how much I still love seeing that piece every day.
The 27 pieces in the show demonstrate such creativity. One has a sound component, another has a collaged section. Some are black and white while others glow with fields of color. Sequins and fake jewels are part of some.
Admiring one, a woman approaches me and I learn she's one of the artists who has done a section on one of the pieces. As we admire it, she asks if I'm an artist. When I explain I merely write, she insists I am an artist, too.
On the back wall, an artist has begun an enormous exquisite corpse piece, to be covered up and continued tomorrow night during the artwalk. The scale is huge and the orientation horizontal rather than vertical, but it's fascinating to watch as animals and details emerge from his brush.
When I go to leave, I run into a gallerist I know and he tells me he recently spotted me on my walk near Second Street. After driving around for an hour, he was on the downtown expressway when he caught sight of me overhead, crossing 195 on an overpass.
"She's still walking!" he recalled thinking. And mighty easy to spot in those bright pink shorts, I might add.
My next stop was Quirk Gallery for Brad Birchett's show, "Return," a collection of mostly monochromatic shades of gray, black and white with occasional lines of color - pink, coral -and images receding in and out of the painterly surface, occasionally etched into the paint, with sound recordings he'd made playing in the back of the gallery.
Making my way around, I ran into my favorite Quirk staffer (and very talented set designer) and asked what he'd been up to.
"I'm doing a lot of work on hotel stuff," he said, referring to the upcoming Quirk boutique hotel that's coming to the neighborhood. "There'll be a rooftop bar there for you."
Don't I know it. You can be sure I plan to be a habitue of that rooftop bar three blocks from my house.
Walking out, I ran into the man about town, telling him it's always nice to see him. "Nice to be seen by you," he acknowledged, doffing his hat and bowing as I swept out the door.
I was pleasantly surprised to find ADA Gallery open (turns out it's the first time they're participating in the Thursday preview night) for a new sculpture show, "Heroic Measures," by VCU alum Shannon Wright.
The larger piece was called "Folly" and was modeled on the Coliseum in Rome, assuming it had been built by the Parks and Rec Department out of bike rack parts. Almost circular, with rows on top of rows of arches, it looked both monumental yet gently mocking of public art. I'd love to see it find a home in Richmond.
When I got to Ghostprint Gallery, I found a lively crowd for Josh George's new show, "Attroupement," including the well organized gardener drinking a beer and giving me a hard time as soon as I arrived.
I've watched Josh's progress as a painter over his past four shows since he came to Richmond and I continue to be impressed by the development of his talent and vision in wonderfully vibrant and colorful works exuding the passion and energy of life.
The room was full of familiar faces and I kept stopping to chat as I ran into a poet, a tattoo artist and a former writer as I worked my way around the room.
Standing back to admire "Kissy Bat," a large scale work of a lovely woman with long hair and full lips in front of strips of floral wallpaper and a flock of bats, a man approached me and said, "I was told that you posed for this painting."
Someone was lying to him and I corrected him, but a writer friend standing nearby leaned over and said, "He obviously has money. You should have said it was you." Right.
The Corbieres series in the back, a group of small landscape pieces done after Josh's trip to France, were stunningly evocative of the French countryside with the look of work painted a century ago.
By contrast, there were several large works of urban streetscapes with skyscrapers reaching heavenward that were firmly grounded in the here and now. "Up for an Undertaking" was my favorite, with rows of buildings on either side of the streets receding into the unknown, luring a visitor to spend time exploring.
Josh's love of wine and sense of humor came to the fore in "Devil says, 'Roast it in the oven!' Angel says, 'Deep fry it!" A couple sits with wine on the table in front of them as the man prepares to cut up a bird for dinner.
My vote for most charming goes to "The Things Needed," a mixed media piece of a girl on a bike with a basket full of flowers, wine and a baguette. I didn't spot it, but presumably there was cheese in there, too.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and the gardener was there to say goodnight, kissing me on the cheek but complaining when I did the same to him. "Don't leave lipstick on my cheek! I'll get in trouble when I get home!" Where's the trust, my friend?
My last stop was at Gallery 5 for "An evening among whores: a spoken word event," whatever that meant. It was being curated by the inimitable Herschel Stratego, so anything was possible.
Already the poet had made it over from Ghostprint before me and not long after, I saw the arts activist who's given up drinking (looking newly slim and fit), heard my name called by the not so classic movie lover I'd met at the weekly B movie series over the summer, chatted with the author who lived in my apartment before I did, and been joined by the sound techie who'd just returned from two weeks touring south of the border.
That got us off on a tangent about traveling alone and we compared adventures; I'd done four days alone in Italy and he'd done time in Mexico City and we agreed that there's a unique dynamic to being alone in a country where you don't know the language and you have no companion to fall back on for navigation and companionship.
Next thing we knew, Herschel was taking the stage to tell us the saga of his friendship with the recently deceased Dave Brockie of GWAR.
He wanted to begin with the story of how he'd made out with Dave, eager to share it "for bragging purposes only." Actually, they'd only kissed once (and even then, it was a fish lips kind of a kiss, not a good French kiss) and only because they'd challenged a woman to kiss one of them if they kissed each other.
They did, she didn't, at least not in front of the one who lost (Herschel).
But that was far from the end of his storytelling, as he went on share that they'd both peed together in the same toilet ("Although Dave Brockie peed a little longer"), that he wasn't going to get sentimental and that he recalled Dave singing along to "Only the Good Die Young" at a Superbowl party.
While I claim to go on and on, Herschel has me beat by a mile.
When he finally ceded the stage, it was for comedy from Dave Marie-Garland who said things such as, "What's the difference between a guy with a ponytail and a girl with a flat top? Nothing, they're both human beings."
He got the most laughs saying he'd had a dream where he had sex with a girl but when he asked if she'd loved him, she said no. "I woke up crying because sex without love is just sad. Am I right, guys?"
Yea, pretty funny stuff.
Musician and DJ Shannon Cleary did a rumination on aging, pets and parenthood with its roots in him having turned 30 last year.
He recalled being in speech class and being asked to speak on procreation, the problem being at that point he had no idea what the word meant. "My friends tried to show me with hand gestures, pelvic thrusts and "cab hands," he deadpanned as only Shannon can do.
Reading from her phone, Angie Huckstep shared a poem called "Remember That You Like to Read" (with the line "Finish that book like you know you want to") and "Spit Spot" ("Like Mary Poppins says," she explained. "You know, get your shit together!") about being in the shower with someone.
One of the best parts of the evening was the music played between performers, like Liz Phair's "Rock Me" before Melanie Rasnic came up.
Oh, baby, you're young but that's okay
What's give or take nine years anyway?
You think I'm a genius, think I'm cool
I'm starting to think that young guys rule
With a comedienne's timing and a past meant for mocking, she told of making the Shockoe Bottom walk of shame the morning after in heels (no small accomplishment) before explaining how a whore is formed. "By the way, my Mom is not a whore, so apparently it skips a generation."
She lamented being raised a Jehovah's Witness, trying to convert people on their porches by the time she was eight and denying her "all the things that made childhood bearable."
After that, Herschel returned to the stage long enough to tell us, "By the way, I have had sex before," tell some more off-color stories and announce, "This is my blue set."
Author Andrew Blossom took the stage to a song by Groucho Marx in honor of Groucho's birthday today (Andrew also works at Video Fan) and introduced his story, "In the Not Too Distant Future" about a guy named Joel who is middle aged, divorced and loses his job. He finds salvation in endless TV watching and a space show with a character named Joel.
Hey, when you're middle aged, you find your redemption anywhere you can.
Musician and poet Ryan Kent closed out the evening, loudly reading his poetry from an e-tablet, poems with titles such as "Nobody's Bitch" and lines like, "Ashtrays as truthful as your bank account" from "Long in the Tooth."
Top honors go to this line: "She was someone I left my fingerprints on, like cement and murder."
Naturally, Herschel had to come back up to close out the evening with more Dave Brockie stories, stopping just short of sharing sexual peccadilloes and reminiscing about when Dave had suggested he open for GWAR.
To prove his worth, Herschel had sung Dave a song and he wanted to sing it for us tonight.
"I forgot to being my instrument but I don't know the chords anyway, so I'll just sing it." It turned out to be Randy Newman's song about Karl Marx, "The World Isn't Fair."
Truthfully, Herschel's a capella rendition was just about perfect, an absurdist ending to a wild ride of a night.
My walk home was only four blocks...with no shame (or heels) involved.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
All Lit Up
Location, location, location.
Tonight's InLight had what might have been the best location for this yearly evening of light-based art installations yet - the canal walk.
Yes, it was all-of-a-sudden cold and yes, crossing 14th Street was a bear, but the beauty of artists working off of water and bridges and the flood wall more than made up for it.
Hands down favorite: Ross Fish's "A Breath of Fresh Air," which required people to touch others (you know, strangers) and touch the metal cone in the center and one of the six pools of water to make music.
As someone noted, "That music is the soundtrack of the evening."
I stopped to meet Ross and introduce myself and he said he was thrilled beyond words with the outcome of his installation.
Translation: his master plan was working with strangers touching strangers and music the result, truly a wondrous experience.
There was so much to see: Amie Oliver's "Ladders" strung across the flood wall, the old school projections of Sonne, Ashley and Cohn telling stories of blue herons and Shockoe Bottom, the bridge's roof covered in ever-shifting light.
Call me a discophile, but I loved the lighted dance pavilion where people danced from behind and their images transmitted to the sparkly screen in front.
Best use of the site went to the Water Nymphs' Circus where images of dancers appeared on the canal, but only if you were on the south side.
The watery images of dancers were a thing of beauty (although a girl walked by and screamed, "I thought it was a dead body in the water!"), positively mesmerizing as they morphed in the water.
Despite the late hour, there were scads of people out and about and I'm willing to bet many of them were on the canal walk for the first time.
Thanks, 1708 Gallery. Your annual gift to the city was, as usual, the most illuminating night in November.
Tonight's InLight had what might have been the best location for this yearly evening of light-based art installations yet - the canal walk.
Yes, it was all-of-a-sudden cold and yes, crossing 14th Street was a bear, but the beauty of artists working off of water and bridges and the flood wall more than made up for it.
Hands down favorite: Ross Fish's "A Breath of Fresh Air," which required people to touch others (you know, strangers) and touch the metal cone in the center and one of the six pools of water to make music.
As someone noted, "That music is the soundtrack of the evening."
I stopped to meet Ross and introduce myself and he said he was thrilled beyond words with the outcome of his installation.
Translation: his master plan was working with strangers touching strangers and music the result, truly a wondrous experience.
There was so much to see: Amie Oliver's "Ladders" strung across the flood wall, the old school projections of Sonne, Ashley and Cohn telling stories of blue herons and Shockoe Bottom, the bridge's roof covered in ever-shifting light.
Call me a discophile, but I loved the lighted dance pavilion where people danced from behind and their images transmitted to the sparkly screen in front.
Best use of the site went to the Water Nymphs' Circus where images of dancers appeared on the canal, but only if you were on the south side.
The watery images of dancers were a thing of beauty (although a girl walked by and screamed, "I thought it was a dead body in the water!"), positively mesmerizing as they morphed in the water.
Despite the late hour, there were scads of people out and about and I'm willing to bet many of them were on the canal walk for the first time.
Thanks, 1708 Gallery. Your annual gift to the city was, as usual, the most illuminating night in November.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Safety Pins and Fireballs
Thank god it finally rained before we all succumbed to death by pollen.
When I walked over to my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, the wind was whipping around every Jackson Ward corner, but only hinting at, not delivering, rain.
Inside the store was an array of punk music lovers, appropriately clad in black, studs and, in one case, with a large safety pin through the ear.
To quote Paul Westerberg, "God, did it hurt."
But that's punk rock, right?
The band was Barren Girls, a North Carolina quartet scheduled to play Strange Matter tonight.
They began thrashing away, knocking out two songs in the first five minutes, before multi-tattooed lead singer Carla said, "We're tired and we're hungover."
So what else is new in punk rock?
Each song was a full-on blast of guitar, bass, drums and keyboard, but never lasting much more than three minutes, if that.
The all-ages crowd was enthralled for the most part, with heads and bodies shaking throughout.
"She Devil" was the biggest crowd pleaser and most melodic, and may even have clocked in at a record three and half minutes.
The entire set couldn't have taken much more than fifteen, but then they were tired and hungover.
I only hope they were planning to eat hearty before the show or it was going to be a long night for the girls.
The brevity of punk left plenty of time for art and 1708 Gallery was having an opening.
Of course, by then it was raining cats and dogs, but I'm willing to brave ankle-deep puddles for the sake of photography.
"Still Action!" explored space and time in unique ways, essentially having the artists perform in some way for the camera.
Or, as one of the curators put it, "We were looking for the ways artists could complicate light."
They found 'em.
Sharon Harper's "Moon Studies and Star Scratches" was like seeing through a telescope.
Looking at Geoffrey Short's "Untitled Explosion #6CP" was like looking at a sculpture of a heart of fire, moving and weighty.
At "Untitled Explosion #XCF18," I found myself next to two other women who wanted to discuss what we were seeing.
I was the first to admit that I saw an horrific creature coming out of the fireball's center, causing the two women to nod and agree.
It was the kind of terrifying natural image like a tidal wave, something so big and fearsome that you sensed no human could survive near it.
There were two video pieces by Kevin Cooley, an interesting thing to throw into a photography mix.
"LaGuardia Landing Pattern, Brooklyn" showed an apartment building at night, with the business of life going on inside the window views.
Overhead, light streaked the sky showing the flight patterns over Brooklyn; it was a marriage of still photography and movement.
It was especially eye-catching because the screen had been turned vertically, much the way a painter might turn his canvas sideways.
In his other video, "Empire Lightening," there was a static skyline with images of lightening around the Empire State building and in the foreground, cars busily traversing a roadway.
I stayed for the curators' talk, hearing fascinating details about the thinking behind the show and the process to accumulate pieces to reflect the various aspects of it - performance, sculptural and socially conscious statements.
It's a very cool show and they seemed justifiably satisfied with the final result.
Leaving 1708, it was still raining but now more like kittens and puppies, so not nearly as bad.
I found a restaurant with a bar and ended up by default next to a couple from Atlanta in town for a wedding.
They weren't a couple as in romantically, but co-workers here to see another co-worker married tomorrow.
They were eager to talk about their first day in Richmond, gushing about the beauty of the Capital and Shockoe Slip.
They'd lunched at Lift, marveling at the "eclectic" crowd and stellar coffee and sandwiches, saying they'd intended to grab and go and ended up staying for an hour and a half because it was so enjoyable.
He said they hadn't expected such diverse, interesting people in Richmond.
The wedding they're going to is at St. John's and the reception at the Jefferson, so I gave them the scoop on both.
"You're a regular tour guide," the man gushed after my spiel.
Aw, shucks.
When I heard where they were planning to have lunch tomorrow, though, I had to intervene, suggesting instead that they try Mama J's for a more satisfying meal at a far better price than where they'd intended to go.
Somebody's gotta steer the tourists right.
When she noticed I was drinking tequila, the conversation took a whole new turn because she was Mexican by birth, having moved to Atlanta when she was nine years old.
It's rare I get to discuss tequila with someone as knowledgeable and she said it's rare she meets someone who appreciates a good sipping tequila.
When we found out we were both oldest children, our bond may as well have been sealed with blood.
We instinctively knew each other's childhoods and the trials and tribulations of having to be the good child with endless restrictions.
Because they'd been into their meal when I sat down, I thought they'd be long gone before me, but once we got to chatting, they lingered, ordering more drinks and digging in.
When she went to the bathroom, he started telling me about his marriages, his job and his plans for the future.
Apparently tequila makes for fast friends.
She came back with a souvenir shirt ("Kiss Me, I'm Mexican"), saying, "My sisters will be so jealous, but I'm not going to buy one for either of them."
I told her that was their tough luck.
We made a toast with our tequila to oldest sisters.
When their cab arrived, they both hugged me, saying I had made their night with my sparkling company.
Maybe it's time for my own t-shirt.
Kiss me, I'm talkative.
When I walked over to my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, the wind was whipping around every Jackson Ward corner, but only hinting at, not delivering, rain.
Inside the store was an array of punk music lovers, appropriately clad in black, studs and, in one case, with a large safety pin through the ear.
To quote Paul Westerberg, "God, did it hurt."
But that's punk rock, right?
The band was Barren Girls, a North Carolina quartet scheduled to play Strange Matter tonight.
They began thrashing away, knocking out two songs in the first five minutes, before multi-tattooed lead singer Carla said, "We're tired and we're hungover."
So what else is new in punk rock?
Each song was a full-on blast of guitar, bass, drums and keyboard, but never lasting much more than three minutes, if that.
The all-ages crowd was enthralled for the most part, with heads and bodies shaking throughout.
"She Devil" was the biggest crowd pleaser and most melodic, and may even have clocked in at a record three and half minutes.
The entire set couldn't have taken much more than fifteen, but then they were tired and hungover.
I only hope they were planning to eat hearty before the show or it was going to be a long night for the girls.
The brevity of punk left plenty of time for art and 1708 Gallery was having an opening.
Of course, by then it was raining cats and dogs, but I'm willing to brave ankle-deep puddles for the sake of photography.
"Still Action!" explored space and time in unique ways, essentially having the artists perform in some way for the camera.
Or, as one of the curators put it, "We were looking for the ways artists could complicate light."
They found 'em.
Sharon Harper's "Moon Studies and Star Scratches" was like seeing through a telescope.
Looking at Geoffrey Short's "Untitled Explosion #6CP" was like looking at a sculpture of a heart of fire, moving and weighty.
At "Untitled Explosion #XCF18," I found myself next to two other women who wanted to discuss what we were seeing.
I was the first to admit that I saw an horrific creature coming out of the fireball's center, causing the two women to nod and agree.
It was the kind of terrifying natural image like a tidal wave, something so big and fearsome that you sensed no human could survive near it.
There were two video pieces by Kevin Cooley, an interesting thing to throw into a photography mix.
"LaGuardia Landing Pattern, Brooklyn" showed an apartment building at night, with the business of life going on inside the window views.
Overhead, light streaked the sky showing the flight patterns over Brooklyn; it was a marriage of still photography and movement.
It was especially eye-catching because the screen had been turned vertically, much the way a painter might turn his canvas sideways.
In his other video, "Empire Lightening," there was a static skyline with images of lightening around the Empire State building and in the foreground, cars busily traversing a roadway.
I stayed for the curators' talk, hearing fascinating details about the thinking behind the show and the process to accumulate pieces to reflect the various aspects of it - performance, sculptural and socially conscious statements.
It's a very cool show and they seemed justifiably satisfied with the final result.
Leaving 1708, it was still raining but now more like kittens and puppies, so not nearly as bad.
I found a restaurant with a bar and ended up by default next to a couple from Atlanta in town for a wedding.
They weren't a couple as in romantically, but co-workers here to see another co-worker married tomorrow.
They were eager to talk about their first day in Richmond, gushing about the beauty of the Capital and Shockoe Slip.
They'd lunched at Lift, marveling at the "eclectic" crowd and stellar coffee and sandwiches, saying they'd intended to grab and go and ended up staying for an hour and a half because it was so enjoyable.
He said they hadn't expected such diverse, interesting people in Richmond.
The wedding they're going to is at St. John's and the reception at the Jefferson, so I gave them the scoop on both.
"You're a regular tour guide," the man gushed after my spiel.
Aw, shucks.
When I heard where they were planning to have lunch tomorrow, though, I had to intervene, suggesting instead that they try Mama J's for a more satisfying meal at a far better price than where they'd intended to go.
Somebody's gotta steer the tourists right.
When she noticed I was drinking tequila, the conversation took a whole new turn because she was Mexican by birth, having moved to Atlanta when she was nine years old.
It's rare I get to discuss tequila with someone as knowledgeable and she said it's rare she meets someone who appreciates a good sipping tequila.
When we found out we were both oldest children, our bond may as well have been sealed with blood.
We instinctively knew each other's childhoods and the trials and tribulations of having to be the good child with endless restrictions.
Because they'd been into their meal when I sat down, I thought they'd be long gone before me, but once we got to chatting, they lingered, ordering more drinks and digging in.
When she went to the bathroom, he started telling me about his marriages, his job and his plans for the future.
Apparently tequila makes for fast friends.
She came back with a souvenir shirt ("Kiss Me, I'm Mexican"), saying, "My sisters will be so jealous, but I'm not going to buy one for either of them."
I told her that was their tough luck.
We made a toast with our tequila to oldest sisters.
When their cab arrived, they both hugged me, saying I had made their night with my sparkling company.
Maybe it's time for my own t-shirt.
Kiss me, I'm talkative.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Heart, Loin and Ice
To the far reaches I went tonight.
1708 was opening Jessica Segall's show, "A Thirsty Person," which spanned two journeys and had a fair crowd when we got there.
Segall had done residencies in the Arctic and Mongolia and the exhibit spoke to both, while she provided the anecdotes during her talk.
She'd traveled to Mongolia for a self-directed residency, expecting to find a third world sensibility.
"Everybody had solar panels, so they all had cell phones and TVs," she admitted with surprise. "The new thing is they herd sheep with motorcycles because it's more fun than on a horse."
"Cultures change quickly," she said, explaining the importance of documenting them.
So much for jokes about outer Mongolia.
The very abstract black and beige pieces used the varied patterns of solar panels as elements.
Further back, the work sprung from her Arctic adventure with old refrigerators sitting around, opened and lit, some on their sides and others upside down.
The centerpiece was a copper screen chilled by a freezer coil and showing a video of Segall in an elaborate solar-insulated costume she'd designed and worn for the shoot.
With the coil constantly cooling, the screen was slowly being covered by ice.
Segall told us we could touch it, but not to scratch our names in it.
The image on the screen was particularly lyrical because of the frosty layer forming over the image of the colorful Goya-inspired costume being broken up by areas of luminous copper.
It had a vintage photograph look - an exotic-looking woman on an icy landscape.
Near the front of the gallery was a photograph of her in the costume on top of the global seed vault (yes, there is one), with nothing but ice all around.
For me, I try to fathom so cold a place when I have cold hands inside my gloves on this merely 37 degree night.
The art lover and I went our separate ways as I headed up the hill to the far reaches of Church Hill to meet a buddy at Dutch & Co.
It was prime time, so I walked into a bustling bar under low, gas light and never even saw my friend, buried in the back at a table.
As it turned out, the benefits were its proximity to the Sub Rosa bread and the loo.
I joined the Cotes du Rhone lover in a glass of 2010 Ferraton et Fils, full of ripe fruit and blood-thickening warmth.
Winter is wearing out its welcome for this thin-blooded Irish type.
Best of all, he was already knee-deep in conversation with the two-top next door, who also happened to be the owners of Anderson's Neck Oyster Company, the ones served there.
How conveniently social for us.
Just last summer, I'd done a big piece on local oysters for a Northern Neck magazine and had talked to all kinds of oyster-raising folk, from the Rappahannock River Oyster Company cousins to a grandfather/granddaughter duo who began doing it to share a hobby and benefit the river.
This lovely couple was still doing it for philanthropic purposes, not yet having actually earned a profit on their endeavor but already increasing from 50,000 to 8 million seed oysters.
Since I'd had their oysters the first time I'd been in D & C, I felt comfortable telling them how much I'd enjoyed them.
My friend and I went even further, ordering a couple of plates of them off the $5 chalkboard menu.
Glasses of the Whitehall Lane viognier accompanied it and our server, affirmed it all, saying, "That is the way to start a meal."
Over bivalves, we talked news since he is the only other human I know besides my parents and me who still gets the Washington Post delivered to him everyday.
It is a unique bond.
So when I ask if he's read a certain article, he will begin with, "Front page of Style, left hand corner?" and I will confirm the location of the piece before we discuss its contents.
This is a singular pleasure to a newspaper nerd.
I was telling him about the 1708 opening I'd just seen when our server came up and joined in, saying she liked 1708 for how "out there" they were willing to go in showing art.
That's my kind of server.
When it came time to order, he wavered between the monkfish and skirt steak, eventually choosing the latter.
That worked out well for me because it came with a smoked pork belly, celery root, persimmon, brussels sprouts and ginger herb sauce that he was too full to eat.
As far as I was concerned, one entree seemed boring when I could get three small plates off tonight's $5 menu.
Cured venison loin and celery root were sliced paper thin and dotted with a rich, sweet blueberry beet sauce.
Venison merquez meatballs came atop cashew and pickled grape anchoiade for a satisfying contrast in flavors.
Corned beef heart was a thing of beauty with pickled mustard seed and peppery arugula.
When our server came to ask how we liked our food, I couldn't help but state the obvious.
Chef Caleb's a master with meat.
She laughed at my terminology but acknowledged that I was exactly right.
Shoot, the heart and loin told me everything I needed to know.
Since it was my friend's first time there, he scoped out the room, pondering the authenticity of the pressed tin ceiling, noting the wine shelving and the bar's materials.
I still maintain that the place looks lifted from Edward Hopper's painting, "Nighthawks," a reassuringly lit presence on Marshall Street.
He finds the interior too dim, making menu-reading challenging for him.
What a drag it is getting old.
As we finished up, the place was emptying out, not surprising given their 10:00 closing hour.
It would not be a meal out for this friend and me without dessert, so we agreed upon the chocolate chicory toffee cake with chunks of walnut nougat, decorative lines of orange "taffy," chocolate ganache and a mint sauce.
I found the mint sauce to be maybe one component too many, but the nougat was like something I made with my grandmother as a child, a unique touch.
And while taffy was a misnomer, the orange flavor complemented the chocolate even without the chew factor.
By then, we were among the very few, so we gathered up our necessaries and headed out into the not-so far reaches of the city.
That was some good eating.
1708 was opening Jessica Segall's show, "A Thirsty Person," which spanned two journeys and had a fair crowd when we got there.
Segall had done residencies in the Arctic and Mongolia and the exhibit spoke to both, while she provided the anecdotes during her talk.
She'd traveled to Mongolia for a self-directed residency, expecting to find a third world sensibility.
"Everybody had solar panels, so they all had cell phones and TVs," she admitted with surprise. "The new thing is they herd sheep with motorcycles because it's more fun than on a horse."
"Cultures change quickly," she said, explaining the importance of documenting them.
So much for jokes about outer Mongolia.
The very abstract black and beige pieces used the varied patterns of solar panels as elements.
Further back, the work sprung from her Arctic adventure with old refrigerators sitting around, opened and lit, some on their sides and others upside down.
The centerpiece was a copper screen chilled by a freezer coil and showing a video of Segall in an elaborate solar-insulated costume she'd designed and worn for the shoot.
With the coil constantly cooling, the screen was slowly being covered by ice.
Segall told us we could touch it, but not to scratch our names in it.
The image on the screen was particularly lyrical because of the frosty layer forming over the image of the colorful Goya-inspired costume being broken up by areas of luminous copper.
It had a vintage photograph look - an exotic-looking woman on an icy landscape.
Near the front of the gallery was a photograph of her in the costume on top of the global seed vault (yes, there is one), with nothing but ice all around.
For me, I try to fathom so cold a place when I have cold hands inside my gloves on this merely 37 degree night.
The art lover and I went our separate ways as I headed up the hill to the far reaches of Church Hill to meet a buddy at Dutch & Co.
It was prime time, so I walked into a bustling bar under low, gas light and never even saw my friend, buried in the back at a table.
As it turned out, the benefits were its proximity to the Sub Rosa bread and the loo.
I joined the Cotes du Rhone lover in a glass of 2010 Ferraton et Fils, full of ripe fruit and blood-thickening warmth.
Winter is wearing out its welcome for this thin-blooded Irish type.
Best of all, he was already knee-deep in conversation with the two-top next door, who also happened to be the owners of Anderson's Neck Oyster Company, the ones served there.
How conveniently social for us.
Just last summer, I'd done a big piece on local oysters for a Northern Neck magazine and had talked to all kinds of oyster-raising folk, from the Rappahannock River Oyster Company cousins to a grandfather/granddaughter duo who began doing it to share a hobby and benefit the river.
This lovely couple was still doing it for philanthropic purposes, not yet having actually earned a profit on their endeavor but already increasing from 50,000 to 8 million seed oysters.
Since I'd had their oysters the first time I'd been in D & C, I felt comfortable telling them how much I'd enjoyed them.
My friend and I went even further, ordering a couple of plates of them off the $5 chalkboard menu.
Glasses of the Whitehall Lane viognier accompanied it and our server, affirmed it all, saying, "That is the way to start a meal."
Over bivalves, we talked news since he is the only other human I know besides my parents and me who still gets the Washington Post delivered to him everyday.
It is a unique bond.
So when I ask if he's read a certain article, he will begin with, "Front page of Style, left hand corner?" and I will confirm the location of the piece before we discuss its contents.
This is a singular pleasure to a newspaper nerd.
I was telling him about the 1708 opening I'd just seen when our server came up and joined in, saying she liked 1708 for how "out there" they were willing to go in showing art.
That's my kind of server.
When it came time to order, he wavered between the monkfish and skirt steak, eventually choosing the latter.
That worked out well for me because it came with a smoked pork belly, celery root, persimmon, brussels sprouts and ginger herb sauce that he was too full to eat.
As far as I was concerned, one entree seemed boring when I could get three small plates off tonight's $5 menu.
Cured venison loin and celery root were sliced paper thin and dotted with a rich, sweet blueberry beet sauce.
Venison merquez meatballs came atop cashew and pickled grape anchoiade for a satisfying contrast in flavors.
Corned beef heart was a thing of beauty with pickled mustard seed and peppery arugula.
When our server came to ask how we liked our food, I couldn't help but state the obvious.
Chef Caleb's a master with meat.
She laughed at my terminology but acknowledged that I was exactly right.
Shoot, the heart and loin told me everything I needed to know.
Since it was my friend's first time there, he scoped out the room, pondering the authenticity of the pressed tin ceiling, noting the wine shelving and the bar's materials.
I still maintain that the place looks lifted from Edward Hopper's painting, "Nighthawks," a reassuringly lit presence on Marshall Street.
He finds the interior too dim, making menu-reading challenging for him.
What a drag it is getting old.
As we finished up, the place was emptying out, not surprising given their 10:00 closing hour.
It would not be a meal out for this friend and me without dessert, so we agreed upon the chocolate chicory toffee cake with chunks of walnut nougat, decorative lines of orange "taffy," chocolate ganache and a mint sauce.
I found the mint sauce to be maybe one component too many, but the nougat was like something I made with my grandmother as a child, a unique touch.
And while taffy was a misnomer, the orange flavor complemented the chocolate even without the chew factor.
By then, we were among the very few, so we gathered up our necessaries and headed out into the not-so far reaches of the city.
That was some good eating.
Friday, February 1, 2013
What Says the Deep Midnight?
I consider it a stimulating week when it runs the gamut from a talk on life and gaming to a rock and roll self-help guru doing a seance.
Even so, today was what I call stacked up.
There was a friend in from out of town who wanted to meet this afternoon before she went off to an excruciating client meeting at the Cheesecake Factory.
She insisted we meet at The Continental, not my first choice, but a place that opened weeks before she moved from her house two blocks away.
The restaurant was decked out in Valentine's Day finery of the variety I remember from elementary school.
Red tissue paper hearts that folded out 360 degrees hung from the ceiling and red glitter hearts over the bar.
Frankly, if I had to be in the Continental on Valentine's Day, I don't think I'd want to be reminded of it with fake hearts.
By the time I arrived, she'd ordered a bottle of Prosecco plus a grilled cheese with fries and an order of Mexican corn on the cob.
We shared the bubbles, she ate some of the corn, I tasted the sandwich and then she lost interest in food and had it taken away.
Maybe it was all our stimulating conversation.
She explained how she wants to design a house with separate wings for her and her boyfriend so they can live together harmoniously without giving up personal privacy.
Since I'm not the type to order food I'm not going to eat, I also think it's unlikely I'll ever get to design my own house, so I shared more mundane things.
As time drew near for her to head to the land of chain restaurants, I could tell she was dreading it.
But duty called and once the bubbles were gone, we parted ways, her to certain boredom and me to much better things.
Ghostprint Gallery was doing their preview tonight of Benjamin Sack's "Eroica," incredibly detailed pen and ink drawings of imaginary cityscapes.
The centerpiece was "Us and the Universe," a mammoth 118" x 39" drawing that, as I heard someone observe, "belongs in someone's collection."
"Song of Pan" appealed to me for its pastiche of old world and new world cityscapes where domed cathedrals and skyscrapers coexisted.
Instinctively, I recoiled from "A Suburb of Utopia," with its massive on and off ramps to whatever mega-highway connected suburban hell (where the beige people live) to the real city.
As I walked around the gallery looking at these intricate drawings of buildings, roads and land masses, all I could do was admire Sacks' patience.
An artist who could get so far into the zone as to create these elaborate imaginings is a man of infinite fortitude.
If it weren't for my threadbare writer's pocketbook, I'd have wanted to buy "What Says the Deep Midnight?" with its sky full of swirling buildings.
I did notice that three of the smaller works had already sold, so some art collector is luckier than me.
From there I crossed the street to 1708 Gallery for Eric McMaster's talk on his show, "The Obstruction of Action, which I'd seen here.
On the sidewalk, I ran into a favorite painter and wine lover who was on his way to Ghostprint.
1708 was more packed for a talk than I'd ever seen it, but I managed to find a seat just before it started.
He began by promising to take questions after the talk as long as they were easy ones.
First came his favorite video of a chimp being taught to do an action to get a treat, then kids being taught the same thing.
When the chimp figures out how to get the sweet without doing the action, he does but the children continue to go through the motions.
McMaster was fascinated by that societal manipulation, presuming that it was because adults had told the kids what to do that they continued to do it.
His exhibition is based on that notion that too often our authentic action is modified by cultural teachings.
We heard about him hiring day laborers to play soccer while he filmed it.
About the clear sports uniforms he created and then photographed athletes in.
How he edited out the actual game footage of a beach volleyball game, leaving video of, as he put it, "Tall, beautiful people on a beach."
He finally got to the most poignant piece in the show, a video of a pairs figure skater skating alone.
"I had to do a lot of Facebook stalking to find a pair of figure skaters for this project," he said.
Hey, an artist has to do what he has to do, right?
The skater's partner had had a career-ending injury not long before McMaster was to film them skating separately.
As a result, McMaster filmed the guy skating alone for what, sadly, became his last skating performance.
"That's a bad way to end things," he cracked about closing with a downer.
During the Q & A, someone asked about whether the experience of filming an experience had more validity than someone watching a film of it.
Deep, man.
Then it was back across the street to Candela Gallery for rocker Ian Svenonius, who was performing a seance for his new book, "Supernatural Strategies for Making a Rock and Roll Group."
When I walked in, I said hello to Ward from Chop Suey, sitting at a table selling Ian's book, but continued on to the back gallery where the chairs were set up.
All at once, I heard, "Hello, Karen," from the mic and looked up to see Marty from Steady Sounds welcoming me. "Karen's always the first one."
I suppose I could be known for worse things.
The crowd straggled in but before long the room was overflowing with all the chairs taken, the benches and couch full and people standing in the other gallery to hear.
Clearly a lot of us were looking for some supernatural action tonight.
Eavesdropping on the guys behind me, I heard a discussion of dubstep that had me in stitches.
One guy brought up his latest obsession - dubstep.
"Sorry, dubstep and I are not on speaking terms right now," the other said.
"Really?" his friend asked.
"I couldn't even speak bass to dubstep right now," he admitted.
Wow, sounds like he and dubstep had ended really badly.
An acquaintance appeared and took the chair next to me, providing conversation about a favorite Fredericksburg restaurant, how much he liked Saison and where in northern Virginia he could find a psuedo-Brooklyn.
When Ian took to the mic, it was to promise us, "I'm going to do a little reading and give you some accrued knowledge."
Just then seven protesters, complete with signs, came in shouting and waving their signs, calling for Ian's book to be banned.
That was followed by their lawyer getting up to read a statement from the group about their issues with his book.
Ian had promised to give away dead rock stars' secrets and the protesters were living rock stars who didn't want to share the spotlight.
No, really.
Then Ian started lamenting not having any candles. A guy stood up and offered him some.
He bemoaned not having a robe and a woman gave him hers, a black one complete with hood.
"Now I need four volunteers," he said and my friend immediately grabbed my arm to raise it for me, but my arm was stronger than his hand.
Four willing volunteers were chosen, given scripts and candles lit.
"Hello, spirits," they said in unison, asking to conjure up the dead, preferably dead rock stars.
How else were we going to find out how to make a rock and roll band?
As it turned out, it was pretty easy to specify the spirits we wanted.
Paul McCartney spoke through Ian (of course he did), explaining that the Beatles' success was due to Puritanical American repression.
"Middle class Americans could only accept something primal like rock and roll once the Brits repackaged it for them."
Tell me something I didn't know, Paul.
He left and next Little Richard came through Ian, informing us that, "Nostalgia is the most fervent of all emotions."
His advice to new bands was to manufacture nostalgia and appeal to pre-teenagers, not teenagers and adults.
Next appeared Brian Jones and one of the volunteers stated flat out that she didn't have any idea who Brian Jones was.
"I usually listen to new bands like This Will End in Tears," she said, making me laugh out loud.
Can't you just imagine their earnest new record?
The drowned Rolling Stone advised the would-be rock and rollers to "Perform in an unready state or put out a bad record so you'll have a major obstacle to overcome."
The spirit told us that the only way to achieve rock and roll perfection was with death or by breaking up the band, also known as virtual death.
"Look at the Sex Pistols or My Bloody Valentine," he exhorted.
But, alas, he disappeared too, only to be replaced by the spirit of Jim Morrison, who reminded the unaware in the audience that he had been in the Doors.
He lamented the loss of album covers and liner notes. saying kids used to pore over albums for hours.
That they were objects to hold gave them an aura of meaning, something that no longer exists in this age of MP3s.
Naturally Morrison brought it all down to sex, saying that rock and roll was a replacement for erotic conquest.
"The protesters were right," Ian said. "Everybody should buy my book and burn it!"
There was his book pitch.
He commented on the beautiful Candela Gallery, saying, "It's like an interior version of Australia, wide open."
And what did the man who'd channeld dead rock stars leave us with?
"Failure is a career opportunity. Look at Loverboy and the Association!" he said, giving it his all. "Success just means failure eventually."
Ain't it the truth? Just ask This Will End in Tears.
Even so, today was what I call stacked up.
There was a friend in from out of town who wanted to meet this afternoon before she went off to an excruciating client meeting at the Cheesecake Factory.
She insisted we meet at The Continental, not my first choice, but a place that opened weeks before she moved from her house two blocks away.
The restaurant was decked out in Valentine's Day finery of the variety I remember from elementary school.
Red tissue paper hearts that folded out 360 degrees hung from the ceiling and red glitter hearts over the bar.
Frankly, if I had to be in the Continental on Valentine's Day, I don't think I'd want to be reminded of it with fake hearts.
By the time I arrived, she'd ordered a bottle of Prosecco plus a grilled cheese with fries and an order of Mexican corn on the cob.
We shared the bubbles, she ate some of the corn, I tasted the sandwich and then she lost interest in food and had it taken away.
Maybe it was all our stimulating conversation.
She explained how she wants to design a house with separate wings for her and her boyfriend so they can live together harmoniously without giving up personal privacy.
Since I'm not the type to order food I'm not going to eat, I also think it's unlikely I'll ever get to design my own house, so I shared more mundane things.
As time drew near for her to head to the land of chain restaurants, I could tell she was dreading it.
But duty called and once the bubbles were gone, we parted ways, her to certain boredom and me to much better things.
Ghostprint Gallery was doing their preview tonight of Benjamin Sack's "Eroica," incredibly detailed pen and ink drawings of imaginary cityscapes.
The centerpiece was "Us and the Universe," a mammoth 118" x 39" drawing that, as I heard someone observe, "belongs in someone's collection."
"Song of Pan" appealed to me for its pastiche of old world and new world cityscapes where domed cathedrals and skyscrapers coexisted.
Instinctively, I recoiled from "A Suburb of Utopia," with its massive on and off ramps to whatever mega-highway connected suburban hell (where the beige people live) to the real city.
As I walked around the gallery looking at these intricate drawings of buildings, roads and land masses, all I could do was admire Sacks' patience.
An artist who could get so far into the zone as to create these elaborate imaginings is a man of infinite fortitude.
If it weren't for my threadbare writer's pocketbook, I'd have wanted to buy "What Says the Deep Midnight?" with its sky full of swirling buildings.
I did notice that three of the smaller works had already sold, so some art collector is luckier than me.
From there I crossed the street to 1708 Gallery for Eric McMaster's talk on his show, "The Obstruction of Action, which I'd seen here.
On the sidewalk, I ran into a favorite painter and wine lover who was on his way to Ghostprint.
1708 was more packed for a talk than I'd ever seen it, but I managed to find a seat just before it started.
He began by promising to take questions after the talk as long as they were easy ones.
First came his favorite video of a chimp being taught to do an action to get a treat, then kids being taught the same thing.
When the chimp figures out how to get the sweet without doing the action, he does but the children continue to go through the motions.
McMaster was fascinated by that societal manipulation, presuming that it was because adults had told the kids what to do that they continued to do it.
His exhibition is based on that notion that too often our authentic action is modified by cultural teachings.
We heard about him hiring day laborers to play soccer while he filmed it.
About the clear sports uniforms he created and then photographed athletes in.
How he edited out the actual game footage of a beach volleyball game, leaving video of, as he put it, "Tall, beautiful people on a beach."
He finally got to the most poignant piece in the show, a video of a pairs figure skater skating alone.
"I had to do a lot of Facebook stalking to find a pair of figure skaters for this project," he said.
Hey, an artist has to do what he has to do, right?
The skater's partner had had a career-ending injury not long before McMaster was to film them skating separately.
As a result, McMaster filmed the guy skating alone for what, sadly, became his last skating performance.
"That's a bad way to end things," he cracked about closing with a downer.
During the Q & A, someone asked about whether the experience of filming an experience had more validity than someone watching a film of it.
Deep, man.
Then it was back across the street to Candela Gallery for rocker Ian Svenonius, who was performing a seance for his new book, "Supernatural Strategies for Making a Rock and Roll Group."
When I walked in, I said hello to Ward from Chop Suey, sitting at a table selling Ian's book, but continued on to the back gallery where the chairs were set up.
All at once, I heard, "Hello, Karen," from the mic and looked up to see Marty from Steady Sounds welcoming me. "Karen's always the first one."
I suppose I could be known for worse things.
The crowd straggled in but before long the room was overflowing with all the chairs taken, the benches and couch full and people standing in the other gallery to hear.
Clearly a lot of us were looking for some supernatural action tonight.
Eavesdropping on the guys behind me, I heard a discussion of dubstep that had me in stitches.
One guy brought up his latest obsession - dubstep.
"Sorry, dubstep and I are not on speaking terms right now," the other said.
"Really?" his friend asked.
"I couldn't even speak bass to dubstep right now," he admitted.
Wow, sounds like he and dubstep had ended really badly.
An acquaintance appeared and took the chair next to me, providing conversation about a favorite Fredericksburg restaurant, how much he liked Saison and where in northern Virginia he could find a psuedo-Brooklyn.
When Ian took to the mic, it was to promise us, "I'm going to do a little reading and give you some accrued knowledge."
Just then seven protesters, complete with signs, came in shouting and waving their signs, calling for Ian's book to be banned.
That was followed by their lawyer getting up to read a statement from the group about their issues with his book.
Ian had promised to give away dead rock stars' secrets and the protesters were living rock stars who didn't want to share the spotlight.
No, really.
Then Ian started lamenting not having any candles. A guy stood up and offered him some.
He bemoaned not having a robe and a woman gave him hers, a black one complete with hood.
"Now I need four volunteers," he said and my friend immediately grabbed my arm to raise it for me, but my arm was stronger than his hand.
Four willing volunteers were chosen, given scripts and candles lit.
"Hello, spirits," they said in unison, asking to conjure up the dead, preferably dead rock stars.
How else were we going to find out how to make a rock and roll band?
As it turned out, it was pretty easy to specify the spirits we wanted.
Paul McCartney spoke through Ian (of course he did), explaining that the Beatles' success was due to Puritanical American repression.
"Middle class Americans could only accept something primal like rock and roll once the Brits repackaged it for them."
Tell me something I didn't know, Paul.
He left and next Little Richard came through Ian, informing us that, "Nostalgia is the most fervent of all emotions."
His advice to new bands was to manufacture nostalgia and appeal to pre-teenagers, not teenagers and adults.
Next appeared Brian Jones and one of the volunteers stated flat out that she didn't have any idea who Brian Jones was.
"I usually listen to new bands like This Will End in Tears," she said, making me laugh out loud.
Can't you just imagine their earnest new record?
The drowned Rolling Stone advised the would-be rock and rollers to "Perform in an unready state or put out a bad record so you'll have a major obstacle to overcome."
The spirit told us that the only way to achieve rock and roll perfection was with death or by breaking up the band, also known as virtual death.
"Look at the Sex Pistols or My Bloody Valentine," he exhorted.
But, alas, he disappeared too, only to be replaced by the spirit of Jim Morrison, who reminded the unaware in the audience that he had been in the Doors.
He lamented the loss of album covers and liner notes. saying kids used to pore over albums for hours.
That they were objects to hold gave them an aura of meaning, something that no longer exists in this age of MP3s.
Naturally Morrison brought it all down to sex, saying that rock and roll was a replacement for erotic conquest.
"The protesters were right," Ian said. "Everybody should buy my book and burn it!"
There was his book pitch.
He commented on the beautiful Candela Gallery, saying, "It's like an interior version of Australia, wide open."
And what did the man who'd channeld dead rock stars leave us with?
"Failure is a career opportunity. Look at Loverboy and the Association!" he said, giving it his all. "Success just means failure eventually."
Ain't it the truth? Just ask This Will End in Tears.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Night Creeping on Apace
As Swedish pop master Jens Lekman put it, "It's a young Friday night."
Or at least it was when I arrived at the VMFA for Capitol Opera Richmond's evening of "Famous Arias and Duets."
The fairly recent company is the fifth in the group of all volunteer opera companies begun in state capitols and targeting community involvement.
Given my inability to carry a tune in a bucket (according to my paternal grandmother), my involvement is attending and applause.
Seated in the atrium, our hostess said it would be a program of "art songs and selections from H.M.S. Pinafore," which Cap Op (yes, I am already abbreviating it) would be performing March 8th and 9th at Henrico Theater.
"We're going to play for you for the next hour, or two if you want to sit here that long," she informed us.
Stephanie came out in a long, green dress and sang "The Hours Creep on Apace" from H.M.S. Pinafore.
Favorite line: "Oh, god of love and god of reason, say
Which of you twain shall my poor heart obey?
Isn't that the eternal question?
Next up was Jason, dressed far more casually, and doing another H.M.S. song before he and Stephanie did a duet.
Meanwhile, the seats in the atrium were all but full, with many couples sharing a bottle of wine while they listened to opera.
It was certainly an imbibing crowd.
From the two staircases and landings leading upstairs, people paused to watch and listen from above, some lingering for only a minute and others taking up residence for the duration.
Me, I was perfectly happy in a chair not far from the guy with the bad toupee and the old hippie chick with the floor-length skirt and poncho.
Michael took the stage and announced he'd be doing "an oddball collection of songs" by Schumann and Debussy.
"I don't know how many people here are Debussy fans," he said as I watched knowing nods from a healthy number of heads.
His voice was stellar.
Fran came up to do what she called "Mozart art songs," promising a translation before each.
"The Violet" was a song of a flower trampled by a foot (an all-too frequent tragedy), two she called "Mozart being funny," one about contentment and the other beginning with, "Men are always looking for a woman to nibble."
And is there anything really wrong with that?
"The Parting Song" was as sad as you'd expect from the title.
As I was watching this parade of opera singing, it occurred to me that I'd seen very different music on this stage before.
For the museum's opening, it was one of my favorite local bands, Marionette, with guitarist Adam playing in a suit and barefoot, wailing on his guitar.
Shortly thereafter, it was Alejandro Escovedo, he of the first wave punk scene before moving on to a harder roots rock sound and playing to a packed house for the return to the Jumpin' in July series.
In other words, very different than what I was hearing tonight.
And yet I was glad I'd come. Perhaps not as deeply as the people with their eyes closed during the singing, but enjoying it nonetheless.
After opera, you almost have to move on to art because anything else would feel insubstantial.
Conveniently, it was First Friday and while many galleries had held over their December shows, some had new work.
1708 Gallery had Eric McMaster's "The Obstruction of Action," a fascinating look at what happens when our authentic self is altered by the rules and conditions placed upon us.
A scaled down hockey rink dominated the show and I wasted no time in walking inside it beside a kid in his socks sliding across the plastic ice.
Most interesting to me was that a hockey game of six on six plus a referee had played in that tiny rink and McMaster had filmed it.
It was playing on a nearby wall.
By far the most poignant piece was "The Obstruction of Action by the Absence of Other," a film of a couples skater doing a couples routine without his partner.
The artist had intended to film each of the couple skating alone and show them side by side but before he could, the woman had had a career-ending injury.
So watching the man skate the routine he'd created with his partner alone became incredibly moving to see.
It wasn't what the artist had intended, giving it more weight for its tragic element.
And 1708 was hopping with VMFA people, Anderson gallery types, and probably people looking for something different this artwalk.
Over at Quirk Gallery was Michael Birch-Pierce's "Honesty in Artifice," a show about looking further than the superficial to see into the wearer's mind.
It was clear that he had a degree in fashion design based on the elaborate articles of clothing he made and photographed on people.
There were also small scale works on the wall, complete with magnifying glasses for closer inspection.
Finishing with one of the magnifiers, the guy next to me raised an eyebrow and inquired, "Trade?" and we swapped places to look at each other's tiny objects and compare notes.
In the shop was Ben Hill's series of cut-up photographs of Richmond - Maymont, trestle tracks, the skyline- divided up into neat little segments that gave a geometry to familiar subjects.
We certainly are a handsome little city, aren't we?
By the time I got home, it was time to call up Holmes and find a suitable place to meet up with him and his main squeeze.
A person's got to eat to live, especially in my case. It's what I call earning a living.
Only then did this Friday night move from youth into middle age, with plenty of bubbles and laughter to ease into it.
Let's just say the god of reason was not needed.
Or at least it was when I arrived at the VMFA for Capitol Opera Richmond's evening of "Famous Arias and Duets."
The fairly recent company is the fifth in the group of all volunteer opera companies begun in state capitols and targeting community involvement.
Given my inability to carry a tune in a bucket (according to my paternal grandmother), my involvement is attending and applause.
Seated in the atrium, our hostess said it would be a program of "art songs and selections from H.M.S. Pinafore," which Cap Op (yes, I am already abbreviating it) would be performing March 8th and 9th at Henrico Theater.
"We're going to play for you for the next hour, or two if you want to sit here that long," she informed us.
Stephanie came out in a long, green dress and sang "The Hours Creep on Apace" from H.M.S. Pinafore.
Favorite line: "Oh, god of love and god of reason, say
Which of you twain shall my poor heart obey?
Isn't that the eternal question?
Next up was Jason, dressed far more casually, and doing another H.M.S. song before he and Stephanie did a duet.
Meanwhile, the seats in the atrium were all but full, with many couples sharing a bottle of wine while they listened to opera.
It was certainly an imbibing crowd.
From the two staircases and landings leading upstairs, people paused to watch and listen from above, some lingering for only a minute and others taking up residence for the duration.
Me, I was perfectly happy in a chair not far from the guy with the bad toupee and the old hippie chick with the floor-length skirt and poncho.
Michael took the stage and announced he'd be doing "an oddball collection of songs" by Schumann and Debussy.
"I don't know how many people here are Debussy fans," he said as I watched knowing nods from a healthy number of heads.
His voice was stellar.
Fran came up to do what she called "Mozart art songs," promising a translation before each.
"The Violet" was a song of a flower trampled by a foot (an all-too frequent tragedy), two she called "Mozart being funny," one about contentment and the other beginning with, "Men are always looking for a woman to nibble."
And is there anything really wrong with that?
"The Parting Song" was as sad as you'd expect from the title.
As I was watching this parade of opera singing, it occurred to me that I'd seen very different music on this stage before.
For the museum's opening, it was one of my favorite local bands, Marionette, with guitarist Adam playing in a suit and barefoot, wailing on his guitar.
Shortly thereafter, it was Alejandro Escovedo, he of the first wave punk scene before moving on to a harder roots rock sound and playing to a packed house for the return to the Jumpin' in July series.
In other words, very different than what I was hearing tonight.
And yet I was glad I'd come. Perhaps not as deeply as the people with their eyes closed during the singing, but enjoying it nonetheless.
After opera, you almost have to move on to art because anything else would feel insubstantial.
Conveniently, it was First Friday and while many galleries had held over their December shows, some had new work.
1708 Gallery had Eric McMaster's "The Obstruction of Action," a fascinating look at what happens when our authentic self is altered by the rules and conditions placed upon us.
A scaled down hockey rink dominated the show and I wasted no time in walking inside it beside a kid in his socks sliding across the plastic ice.
Most interesting to me was that a hockey game of six on six plus a referee had played in that tiny rink and McMaster had filmed it.
It was playing on a nearby wall.
By far the most poignant piece was "The Obstruction of Action by the Absence of Other," a film of a couples skater doing a couples routine without his partner.
The artist had intended to film each of the couple skating alone and show them side by side but before he could, the woman had had a career-ending injury.
So watching the man skate the routine he'd created with his partner alone became incredibly moving to see.
It wasn't what the artist had intended, giving it more weight for its tragic element.
And 1708 was hopping with VMFA people, Anderson gallery types, and probably people looking for something different this artwalk.
Over at Quirk Gallery was Michael Birch-Pierce's "Honesty in Artifice," a show about looking further than the superficial to see into the wearer's mind.
It was clear that he had a degree in fashion design based on the elaborate articles of clothing he made and photographed on people.
There were also small scale works on the wall, complete with magnifying glasses for closer inspection.
Finishing with one of the magnifiers, the guy next to me raised an eyebrow and inquired, "Trade?" and we swapped places to look at each other's tiny objects and compare notes.
In the shop was Ben Hill's series of cut-up photographs of Richmond - Maymont, trestle tracks, the skyline- divided up into neat little segments that gave a geometry to familiar subjects.
We certainly are a handsome little city, aren't we?
By the time I got home, it was time to call up Holmes and find a suitable place to meet up with him and his main squeeze.
A person's got to eat to live, especially in my case. It's what I call earning a living.
Only then did this Friday night move from youth into middle age, with plenty of bubbles and laughter to ease into it.
Let's just say the god of reason was not needed.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
The Most Brisk and Giddy-Paced Times
Standing on a corner in Jackson Ward and the familiar faces just keep coming.
The aviator, the intrepid trekker, the DJs.
Inside, "Invisible Weight," a show by Sean Mahan displays paintings on wood of figures connecting, floating and being.
"Sewing 4," already sold when I arrive, depicts a young girl and old-fashioned sewing machine. Its purity is striking.
In the back gallery, "Moving Moments" by Erin Tobey takes a whimsical look at tables crashing through rooves and sisters transmuting into furry, winged creatures.
A friend buys a piece of a figure taking in air through a pipe to help her confront her asthma issues..
At 1708 Gallery, "Everything is Under Control," a video piece by Sara Pomerance is part of a larger video series, "Telling Tales."
The short clips of her family and friends leading their lives is melancholy and mundane, like far too many people's.
And because it is Twelfth Night, Richmond Shakespeare presents a reading of, what else, "Twelfth Night" with its themes of merriment (Jeff Clevinger's Sir Toby perfectly nailed the drunken shenanigans of an instigator) and love, always love.
"Love sought is good, but given unsought is better."
It was suggested to me that it could also be phrased as, "I want you to want me."
Daylight and champagne discovers not more."
Avalon, mobbed and with a steady influx of people, provides duck pizza, pepperoni pizza,Thurston Wolfe Family Red (at the owner's suggestion) and questions of growing old.
Moments after our server told us it was last call, I look over to see a girl applying deodorant at her booth. Fortunately, there is no one else sitting with her.
I have seen many things in bar, but never anyone addressing their pit wetness. I suppose it was her last chance to find someone tonight.
Meanwhile, my long-time companion (eight hours at this point) hilariously and half-seriously explains to me that our friendship can be traced back to Abe Lincoln.
Everything hinges on something else and a perfect storm was required to bring it to fruition.
Twelfth Night, or What You Will. That's exactly what we're figuring out.
The aviator, the intrepid trekker, the DJs.
Inside, "Invisible Weight," a show by Sean Mahan displays paintings on wood of figures connecting, floating and being.
"Sewing 4," already sold when I arrive, depicts a young girl and old-fashioned sewing machine. Its purity is striking.
In the back gallery, "Moving Moments" by Erin Tobey takes a whimsical look at tables crashing through rooves and sisters transmuting into furry, winged creatures.
A friend buys a piece of a figure taking in air through a pipe to help her confront her asthma issues..
At 1708 Gallery, "Everything is Under Control," a video piece by Sara Pomerance is part of a larger video series, "Telling Tales."
The short clips of her family and friends leading their lives is melancholy and mundane, like far too many people's.
And because it is Twelfth Night, Richmond Shakespeare presents a reading of, what else, "Twelfth Night" with its themes of merriment (Jeff Clevinger's Sir Toby perfectly nailed the drunken shenanigans of an instigator) and love, always love.
"Love sought is good, but given unsought is better."
It was suggested to me that it could also be phrased as, "I want you to want me."
Daylight and champagne discovers not more."
Avalon, mobbed and with a steady influx of people, provides duck pizza, pepperoni pizza,Thurston Wolfe Family Red (at the owner's suggestion) and questions of growing old.
Moments after our server told us it was last call, I look over to see a girl applying deodorant at her booth. Fortunately, there is no one else sitting with her.
I have seen many things in bar, but never anyone addressing their pit wetness. I suppose it was her last chance to find someone tonight.
Meanwhile, my long-time companion (eight hours at this point) hilariously and half-seriously explains to me that our friendship can be traced back to Abe Lincoln.
Everything hinges on something else and a perfect storm was required to bring it to fruition.
Twelfth Night, or What You Will. That's exactly what we're figuring out.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Artists and Monsters
Some people like a monster truck rally and some of us prefer a monster drawing rally (conveniently, there's beer at both).
As it happened, my kind of rally was happening at 1708 Gallery today, mere blocks from my house.
Sixty plus artists took up one hour shifts to create art while no-talents like me watched.
In the spirit of gallery support, each completed piece was then tacked to the wall, for sale at a mere $65.
And by the time I got there, a lot of pieces had the telltale red sticker. meaning they'd already been sold.
Smart local collectors, including some of the artists participating, were scooping up works by talents like Heide Trepanier, Jenna Chew, Amie Oliver and Kathryn Henry-Choisser.
I already own pieces by Bizhan Khodabandeh and Chris Milk Hulbert, not that I wasn't tempted by what they'd done today.
Envy set in when I saw several talented musicians sketching away. Apparently some people end up with both mad artistic and musical skills.
Ditto for the multiple talents of the beekeeper/fabric artist I recently wrote about for Belle, here, and the studio/gallery owners I'd seen just the other night at a lecture.
But envy gave way to awe because a big part of why I have adopted Richmond is because of how many talented people have also chosen to make their home here.
And there was an unusually high concentration of them at the rally today, both making art and walking around looking at what had been created.
Stealthily, I moved around them hoping no one could tell what limited talents I had.
Then it occurred to me: every artistic sort needs an audience of one kind or another.
I am your audience.
As it happened, my kind of rally was happening at 1708 Gallery today, mere blocks from my house.
Sixty plus artists took up one hour shifts to create art while no-talents like me watched.
In the spirit of gallery support, each completed piece was then tacked to the wall, for sale at a mere $65.
And by the time I got there, a lot of pieces had the telltale red sticker. meaning they'd already been sold.
Smart local collectors, including some of the artists participating, were scooping up works by talents like Heide Trepanier, Jenna Chew, Amie Oliver and Kathryn Henry-Choisser.
I already own pieces by Bizhan Khodabandeh and Chris Milk Hulbert, not that I wasn't tempted by what they'd done today.
Envy set in when I saw several talented musicians sketching away. Apparently some people end up with both mad artistic and musical skills.
Ditto for the multiple talents of the beekeeper/fabric artist I recently wrote about for Belle, here, and the studio/gallery owners I'd seen just the other night at a lecture.
But envy gave way to awe because a big part of why I have adopted Richmond is because of how many talented people have also chosen to make their home here.
And there was an unusually high concentration of them at the rally today, both making art and walking around looking at what had been created.
Stealthily, I moved around them hoping no one could tell what limited talents I had.
Then it occurred to me: every artistic sort needs an audience of one kind or another.
I am your audience.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Hope Floats
If Thursday is the new Friday, then Preview Thursday is the new First Friday.
Why battle crowds when I can enjoy the new art shows the way they used to be when the artwalk first started?
No jostling, no strollers, no inability to take in a piece of art in from across the room.
I began at Ghostprint Gallery, natch, to check out Sterling Hundley's exhibit, "Blue Collar/White Collar."
The mixed media pieces were completely captivating: multi-dimensional, smart and full of familiar faces.
With deeper pockets, I could have purchased works depicting Herbie Hancock, Torie Amos, Marat Sade, Bojangles, or my particular favorite, Shakespeare (oh, how I wish my art budget was bigger!).
Johnny Cash was not for sale.
"My Lady Richmond" was especially compelling, containing images and one person's story of how he came to VCU and was sucked in by the capital city.
It's happened to more than a few of us.
Daniel Day-Lewis had been invited to tonight's preview, but his assistant had called to say he couldn't make it.
Our loss, I'm sure.
Once a friend joined me at the preview, I had company when I went to check out some of the other galleries.
Quirk Gallery's "Sparkle 7: Organism" show was their annual jewelry show.
While I can admire the pieces for art's sake, my non-existent interest in jewelry means that a lot of it washes over me.
Ooh, sparkly things. What else you got?
Yes, I realize that this makes me a poor excuse for a female.
From there we went to 1708 Gallery for "Push, Pull, Resist," a show of inflatable sculptures using reclaimed maritime materials.
Here I actually regretted that it wasn't First Friday so more people could have been there.
Many of the pieces required human interaction to do their thing. A motion sensor inflated a piece. Blowing into a windsock made cloth-rollers inflate and turn.
With enough people, the art would be endlessly in motion. Not so tonight, but something to look forward to tomorrow evening.
Friend and I parted ways after that. I was off for a bite to eat and he was in search of a restful evening after a late night and early morning.
It reminded me of a girlfriend's statement at Ghostprint tonight. "It's not age that make you act old. It's getting up early."
My destination was Carytown Bistro to meet another friend. His boyfriend is out of town so we were meeting for dinner.
We walked into a wine tasting, and at $5.00 for six one-ounce pours, a steal of a deal.
The event had been emblazoned online as "Winos Welcome," although that probably says more about the poster than the tasting.
Except for some of the seating having changed, the place is little different from its days as Bin 22 and the menu is even simpler.
Ever since I'd snacked on a banana during the movie earlier today, my friend (who'd also been at that event), had been craving banana.
He jumped on The King panini, a grilled sandwich of peanut butter and banana.
I was fine with a BLT on an everything bagel, pleased that the "L" portion was actually mesclun and not iceberg.
We savored the tasting before, during and after our sandwiches, satisfied that there was no rushing by our server.
Another friend came in to do the tasting and brought with him a red wine-loving musician, which immediately turned all talk to music.
Which Elvis Costello songs are worth covering? What makes a musician prickly? What's a good first venue for a transplanted musician from L.A.? Which folk acts put a cocaine-addled listener to sleep despite the drugs?
I knew the answers to none of those.
And honestly, with a glass of Barbera and a Kit-Kat bar from the bowl of leftover Halloween candy on the bar, it was tough to imagine that there might really be a Ben Folds mix I could like, despite assurances to the contrary.
But as with all things, I remain ever hopeful.
Why battle crowds when I can enjoy the new art shows the way they used to be when the artwalk first started?
No jostling, no strollers, no inability to take in a piece of art in from across the room.
I began at Ghostprint Gallery, natch, to check out Sterling Hundley's exhibit, "Blue Collar/White Collar."
The mixed media pieces were completely captivating: multi-dimensional, smart and full of familiar faces.
With deeper pockets, I could have purchased works depicting Herbie Hancock, Torie Amos, Marat Sade, Bojangles, or my particular favorite, Shakespeare (oh, how I wish my art budget was bigger!).
Johnny Cash was not for sale.
"My Lady Richmond" was especially compelling, containing images and one person's story of how he came to VCU and was sucked in by the capital city.
It's happened to more than a few of us.
Daniel Day-Lewis had been invited to tonight's preview, but his assistant had called to say he couldn't make it.
Our loss, I'm sure.
Once a friend joined me at the preview, I had company when I went to check out some of the other galleries.
Quirk Gallery's "Sparkle 7: Organism" show was their annual jewelry show.
While I can admire the pieces for art's sake, my non-existent interest in jewelry means that a lot of it washes over me.
Ooh, sparkly things. What else you got?
Yes, I realize that this makes me a poor excuse for a female.
From there we went to 1708 Gallery for "Push, Pull, Resist," a show of inflatable sculptures using reclaimed maritime materials.
Here I actually regretted that it wasn't First Friday so more people could have been there.
Many of the pieces required human interaction to do their thing. A motion sensor inflated a piece. Blowing into a windsock made cloth-rollers inflate and turn.
With enough people, the art would be endlessly in motion. Not so tonight, but something to look forward to tomorrow evening.
Friend and I parted ways after that. I was off for a bite to eat and he was in search of a restful evening after a late night and early morning.
It reminded me of a girlfriend's statement at Ghostprint tonight. "It's not age that make you act old. It's getting up early."
My destination was Carytown Bistro to meet another friend. His boyfriend is out of town so we were meeting for dinner.
We walked into a wine tasting, and at $5.00 for six one-ounce pours, a steal of a deal.
The event had been emblazoned online as "Winos Welcome," although that probably says more about the poster than the tasting.
Except for some of the seating having changed, the place is little different from its days as Bin 22 and the menu is even simpler.
Ever since I'd snacked on a banana during the movie earlier today, my friend (who'd also been at that event), had been craving banana.
He jumped on The King panini, a grilled sandwich of peanut butter and banana.
I was fine with a BLT on an everything bagel, pleased that the "L" portion was actually mesclun and not iceberg.
We savored the tasting before, during and after our sandwiches, satisfied that there was no rushing by our server.
Another friend came in to do the tasting and brought with him a red wine-loving musician, which immediately turned all talk to music.
Which Elvis Costello songs are worth covering? What makes a musician prickly? What's a good first venue for a transplanted musician from L.A.? Which folk acts put a cocaine-addled listener to sleep despite the drugs?
I knew the answers to none of those.
And honestly, with a glass of Barbera and a Kit-Kat bar from the bowl of leftover Halloween candy on the bar, it was tough to imagine that there might really be a Ben Folds mix I could like, despite assurances to the contrary.
But as with all things, I remain ever hopeful.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
"You're Everywhere Good"
Noah sold out, Kate shone in feathers, and album art stole the show.
Danny unloaded, Chris' Saturn Returned and Ashley showed me how to screen print.
It may have been the first really cold First Friday art walk in a while, but what's a little chill on a night where there was so much affordable art (think gifting) to see and I ran into so many people I know?
Besides, I knew better than to wear the Vienna tights, so I'm responsible for going for compliments over warmth.
At 1708 Gallery's "Small Wonder" show, there were scaled-down works by so many familiar names: a lyrical Tom Chenoweth metal sculpture, a Grace Teeples combine, a Chuck Scalin tablet.
I wasn't the least surprised to arrive at three small skull pieces, all marked sold.
Without a moment's hesitation, I knew they must have been Noah Scalin's (and indeed they had been).
Over at ADA Gallery were four large pieces by Chris Mahonski, all suitably priced for the holidays at $1,000-$10,000.
Price tag aside, I was taken by his "Saturn Return," a walnut veneer tower stacked with every National Geographic magazine since January 1970.
I could crouch down and see the 70s magazines, but the 21st-century ones were completely lost to my vertically-challenged self.
While admiring it, a guy walked up behind me and leaned over me to say, "That would be great in your living room."
Since I turned around to see a guy who has never seen my living room, I have to assume he was flirting with me (I'll get this yet).
We began talking about the old-school value of National Geographic teaching kids about naked bodies and sex (you know, your typical conversation with a stranger) and how unfortunate it is that today's kids have to rely on Internet porn rather than glossy photographs of natives for ogling.
Peter Fowler's show "Illuminations" at Ghostprint Gallery was a series of Impressionistic pastels updated by the use of gold and silver-leaf paint.
Several of these had also been sold, too, so obviously it was a good night for an artist to be hanging in RVA.
Over at Metro Space Gallery, Kate Horne's show of animal drawings, paintings and sculptural heads was perfectly punctuated by her large dog napping in the center of the gallery floor.
Kate, ever the showman, was splendid in her native American headdress; as we stood talking, two guys walked in and one saluted her with, '"Great headdress!"
Kate only smiled demurely back.
Talking to Mark, the owner of next door's Metro Sound and Music store, I found out that he's opening a satellite location in Carytown this weekend.
Seems he's been looking for a second location for twenty years and the perfect one just opened up over in our shopping mecca.
It'll be on the same block as Guitar Works, so music lovers will have a destination for all things music now.
Mark carries so many vintage instruments that the shop will appeal to music fans as much as true musicians.
Who wouldn't want to admire 100-year old instruments, some signed by the maker? I'm already planning a field trip.
Gallery 5 was as crowded as I've ever seen it; part of the reason was the DJ collective Cherry Bomb was hosting an exhibit of album cover art.
A host of local talent, both musical and artistic, had been asked to submit a cover for sale to benefit Art 180.
Singer Julie Karr had crocheted hers, photographers PJ Sykes and Melissa Koch naturally submitted photos, and DJ Sara Gossett's was an intricate 60s-looking drawing reminiscent of one of her vintage dresses.
One DJ's submissions was an Elvis Costello cover with every date she's ever played that record notated on the front; it was part album/part journal and I loved the history it revealed.
It was DJ Talia who came over to compliment me on being everywhere, saying she and her beau know they've walked into the right place when they see me (and, believe me, they're far hipper than me).
After a much too long wait in the restroom line, I finally asked the guy in front of me if he'd checked the door to make sure someone was actually in there.
"I don't think that's a bathroom,"he explained.
"Wrong," I informed him. "I've peed in here a hundred times" and waltzed into the bathroom he'd been standing outside of for 15 minutes.
Do I have to teach these kids everything?
Leaving the madness of G5 with a Captain Slappy's bacon-wrapped dog firmly in hand (Chef Charley had three, so I didn't feel too bad), I walked to get my car and head to the other art walk on Main Street. Studio 23 was having a printmaking demonstration in addition to opening a new show by Stuart Dumois.
Although I'm a huge fan of prints, I'd never seen them made and after my recent visit to their mix tape exhibit, Ashley had suggested coming back tonight.
I watched as she screened dozens of holiday cards (you'll know if you get one from me because the Season's Greetings are growing out of the reindeer's antlers) and told me about the recent donations to the collective's impressive array of equipment.
Dumois' art was graphic and bright, whether portraiture or a scene of regurgitation.
My favorite eye-catching piece was the female figure curled up on a blue background, with the words, "Boo hoo hoo" underneath her.
Boo hoo indeed.
And then it was time to move on from visual art to performance art in the form of Crispin Hellion Glover, presented by the James River Film Society.
Waiting in vain for a friend to arrive, I saw a cross section of Richmond arriving: DJs, book sellers, researchers, parade organizers, musicians, wine reps, restaurant people, artists, filmmakers and Glover fanatics.
In other words, lots of people I knew.
With no fanfare, Glover came out and began his narrated slide show, essentially him reading bits of some of the books he's written.
But he is Crispin Glover, so his books are, shall we say, odd.
"Studies in Rat-Catching for the Use of Schools," "Backward Swing: A Lesson to be Learned," and "Round My House" were aided by his dramatic retelling and expressive hand gestures pointing to the pages and illustrations of these books.
After that portion of the show, a member of the audience yelled out, "Hey, can we get rid of those two dudes down in front?" referring to the two idiots who had clapped fanatically at the wrong moments, laughed inappropriately and just generally made a nuisance of themselves throughout the entire first half.
The guys yelled out that they were fans, but their obnoxiousness in trying to put themselves into the center of attention was wearing on much of the audience's nerves.
The two had been just behind me in line waiting to get in and as the line began to move, a nearby couple had said, "Let's sit anywhere but near those two." It was true.
Glover intended to show his second film next but by mistake showed his first, "What Is It?" instead.
Made using actors with Down's Syndrome to portray people who did not have the condition, it was made expressly for the purpose of making the audience uncomfortable.
Glover called it a "reactive piece."
Afterwards, he apologized for showing the wrong film and asked that the trailer for his second movie, "It is Fine. Everything is Fine" be shown, followed by a question and answer period, a misnomer for a protracted discussion with a man who loves words.
To be clear, a question and answer period with Crispin Hellion Glover is a long-term proposition.
He is the kind of actor/filmmaker/mind with volumes to say on almost every subject.
He spent a good amount of time on how his resentment of corporate film making led him to attempt a film that would address cultural taboos and complexities.
He railed about the dumbing down of movies and the reluctance of the Hollywood machine to feed the audiences anything but pablum.
His insistence on not condescending to his audience or dictating their interpretation took up a good part of Glover's time on stage.
Interestingly, he said he takes the most flak about the abuse of snails in the first movie, not for using actors with Down's syndrome or even including a racist KKK song in it.
Of course, audiences for this man's movies are not the typical audience by a long stretch, either.
Glover continued to take questions for hours and the audience slowly began to trickle out although the devoted remained in place, rapt.
I don't want to say it was late when I left, but NYD's dance party was winding down and Secco was dark.
But then again, how often does the Hellion show up in RVA on a Friday night?
Danny unloaded, Chris' Saturn Returned and Ashley showed me how to screen print.
It may have been the first really cold First Friday art walk in a while, but what's a little chill on a night where there was so much affordable art (think gifting) to see and I ran into so many people I know?
Besides, I knew better than to wear the Vienna tights, so I'm responsible for going for compliments over warmth.
At 1708 Gallery's "Small Wonder" show, there were scaled-down works by so many familiar names: a lyrical Tom Chenoweth metal sculpture, a Grace Teeples combine, a Chuck Scalin tablet.
I wasn't the least surprised to arrive at three small skull pieces, all marked sold.
Without a moment's hesitation, I knew they must have been Noah Scalin's (and indeed they had been).
Over at ADA Gallery were four large pieces by Chris Mahonski, all suitably priced for the holidays at $1,000-$10,000.
Price tag aside, I was taken by his "Saturn Return," a walnut veneer tower stacked with every National Geographic magazine since January 1970.
I could crouch down and see the 70s magazines, but the 21st-century ones were completely lost to my vertically-challenged self.
While admiring it, a guy walked up behind me and leaned over me to say, "That would be great in your living room."
Since I turned around to see a guy who has never seen my living room, I have to assume he was flirting with me (I'll get this yet).
We began talking about the old-school value of National Geographic teaching kids about naked bodies and sex (you know, your typical conversation with a stranger) and how unfortunate it is that today's kids have to rely on Internet porn rather than glossy photographs of natives for ogling.
Peter Fowler's show "Illuminations" at Ghostprint Gallery was a series of Impressionistic pastels updated by the use of gold and silver-leaf paint.
Several of these had also been sold, too, so obviously it was a good night for an artist to be hanging in RVA.
Over at Metro Space Gallery, Kate Horne's show of animal drawings, paintings and sculptural heads was perfectly punctuated by her large dog napping in the center of the gallery floor.
Kate, ever the showman, was splendid in her native American headdress; as we stood talking, two guys walked in and one saluted her with, '"Great headdress!"
Kate only smiled demurely back.
Talking to Mark, the owner of next door's Metro Sound and Music store, I found out that he's opening a satellite location in Carytown this weekend.
Seems he's been looking for a second location for twenty years and the perfect one just opened up over in our shopping mecca.
It'll be on the same block as Guitar Works, so music lovers will have a destination for all things music now.
Mark carries so many vintage instruments that the shop will appeal to music fans as much as true musicians.
Who wouldn't want to admire 100-year old instruments, some signed by the maker? I'm already planning a field trip.
Gallery 5 was as crowded as I've ever seen it; part of the reason was the DJ collective Cherry Bomb was hosting an exhibit of album cover art.
A host of local talent, both musical and artistic, had been asked to submit a cover for sale to benefit Art 180.
Singer Julie Karr had crocheted hers, photographers PJ Sykes and Melissa Koch naturally submitted photos, and DJ Sara Gossett's was an intricate 60s-looking drawing reminiscent of one of her vintage dresses.
One DJ's submissions was an Elvis Costello cover with every date she's ever played that record notated on the front; it was part album/part journal and I loved the history it revealed.
It was DJ Talia who came over to compliment me on being everywhere, saying she and her beau know they've walked into the right place when they see me (and, believe me, they're far hipper than me).
After a much too long wait in the restroom line, I finally asked the guy in front of me if he'd checked the door to make sure someone was actually in there.
"I don't think that's a bathroom,"he explained.
"Wrong," I informed him. "I've peed in here a hundred times" and waltzed into the bathroom he'd been standing outside of for 15 minutes.
Do I have to teach these kids everything?
Leaving the madness of G5 with a Captain Slappy's bacon-wrapped dog firmly in hand (Chef Charley had three, so I didn't feel too bad), I walked to get my car and head to the other art walk on Main Street. Studio 23 was having a printmaking demonstration in addition to opening a new show by Stuart Dumois.
Although I'm a huge fan of prints, I'd never seen them made and after my recent visit to their mix tape exhibit, Ashley had suggested coming back tonight.
I watched as she screened dozens of holiday cards (you'll know if you get one from me because the Season's Greetings are growing out of the reindeer's antlers) and told me about the recent donations to the collective's impressive array of equipment.
Dumois' art was graphic and bright, whether portraiture or a scene of regurgitation.
My favorite eye-catching piece was the female figure curled up on a blue background, with the words, "Boo hoo hoo" underneath her.
Boo hoo indeed.
And then it was time to move on from visual art to performance art in the form of Crispin Hellion Glover, presented by the James River Film Society.
Waiting in vain for a friend to arrive, I saw a cross section of Richmond arriving: DJs, book sellers, researchers, parade organizers, musicians, wine reps, restaurant people, artists, filmmakers and Glover fanatics.
In other words, lots of people I knew.
With no fanfare, Glover came out and began his narrated slide show, essentially him reading bits of some of the books he's written.
But he is Crispin Glover, so his books are, shall we say, odd.
"Studies in Rat-Catching for the Use of Schools," "Backward Swing: A Lesson to be Learned," and "Round My House" were aided by his dramatic retelling and expressive hand gestures pointing to the pages and illustrations of these books.
After that portion of the show, a member of the audience yelled out, "Hey, can we get rid of those two dudes down in front?" referring to the two idiots who had clapped fanatically at the wrong moments, laughed inappropriately and just generally made a nuisance of themselves throughout the entire first half.
The guys yelled out that they were fans, but their obnoxiousness in trying to put themselves into the center of attention was wearing on much of the audience's nerves.
The two had been just behind me in line waiting to get in and as the line began to move, a nearby couple had said, "Let's sit anywhere but near those two." It was true.
Glover intended to show his second film next but by mistake showed his first, "What Is It?" instead.
Made using actors with Down's Syndrome to portray people who did not have the condition, it was made expressly for the purpose of making the audience uncomfortable.
Glover called it a "reactive piece."
Afterwards, he apologized for showing the wrong film and asked that the trailer for his second movie, "It is Fine. Everything is Fine" be shown, followed by a question and answer period, a misnomer for a protracted discussion with a man who loves words.
To be clear, a question and answer period with Crispin Hellion Glover is a long-term proposition.
He is the kind of actor/filmmaker/mind with volumes to say on almost every subject.
He spent a good amount of time on how his resentment of corporate film making led him to attempt a film that would address cultural taboos and complexities.
He railed about the dumbing down of movies and the reluctance of the Hollywood machine to feed the audiences anything but pablum.
His insistence on not condescending to his audience or dictating their interpretation took up a good part of Glover's time on stage.
Interestingly, he said he takes the most flak about the abuse of snails in the first movie, not for using actors with Down's syndrome or even including a racist KKK song in it.
Of course, audiences for this man's movies are not the typical audience by a long stretch, either.
Glover continued to take questions for hours and the audience slowly began to trickle out although the devoted remained in place, rapt.
I don't want to say it was late when I left, but NYD's dance party was winding down and Secco was dark.
But then again, how often does the Hellion show up in RVA on a Friday night?
Thursday, June 3, 2010
A Mashup for the Masses
Part of the beauty of working the census is the random things (and people) I happen upon walking the streets for my government (envision snappy salute). So far, all my assignments have been in my home 'hood, Jackson Ward, but today I had to venture over to Monroe Ward to try to entice a stubborn type to cooperate after another enumerator had met with no success.
And, lo and behold, there on the lawn of the Linden Row Inn was something both sculptural and architectural and completely unexpected, so naturally I had to check it out. As part of the VMFA's reopening, 1708 Gallery had placed this piece in a satellite location in hopes of it being observed and admired by the masses.
"Octagonal Living Unit 2.0" by Craig Pleasants took its inspiration in part from two VMFA works, Robert Gwathmey's "Family Portrait" and Bruce Marden's "Meritatio." The structure/sculpture is a 112" x 115" x 115" styrofoam, steel and latex paint shelter meant to be experienced both inside and outside. The piece I was looking at is a smaller version of a 500 square foot housing unit inspired by the housing crises in Haiti, Chile and China.
The sculpture had eight walls and took its color scheme from Marden's abstract color field painting. The front and back walls were peaked, I assume for visual interest. I can't imagine anyone preferring a standard mobile home over this colorful and easily assembled living space (which, by the way, takes only a few hours to assemble).
Pleasants is on record as having said that he doe not rely on the power of ornamentation for power and admiring this house as I stood on Franklin Street across from the library, it was clear that ornamentation was not necessary. The Gwathmey painting from which it partly took its inspiration depicts two families in adjoining open-front shelters and I could easily imagine a small family happily occupying this space, appreciative of both the below-market cost of it and the satisfying aesthetic of it.
The artist referred to it as a visual and conceptual mashup, but it didn't take much to envision it as a person's home. Standing on the sidewalk, it struck me as an example of real world art, even as a toothless, homeless man was asking me for spare change.
In the greater sense, Pleasants is obviously part of the solution, not the problem. But don't wait to happen on this visual treat like I did or you might miss it. And that would be your loss.
And, lo and behold, there on the lawn of the Linden Row Inn was something both sculptural and architectural and completely unexpected, so naturally I had to check it out. As part of the VMFA's reopening, 1708 Gallery had placed this piece in a satellite location in hopes of it being observed and admired by the masses.
"Octagonal Living Unit 2.0" by Craig Pleasants took its inspiration in part from two VMFA works, Robert Gwathmey's "Family Portrait" and Bruce Marden's "Meritatio." The structure/sculpture is a 112" x 115" x 115" styrofoam, steel and latex paint shelter meant to be experienced both inside and outside. The piece I was looking at is a smaller version of a 500 square foot housing unit inspired by the housing crises in Haiti, Chile and China.
The sculpture had eight walls and took its color scheme from Marden's abstract color field painting. The front and back walls were peaked, I assume for visual interest. I can't imagine anyone preferring a standard mobile home over this colorful and easily assembled living space (which, by the way, takes only a few hours to assemble).
Pleasants is on record as having said that he doe not rely on the power of ornamentation for power and admiring this house as I stood on Franklin Street across from the library, it was clear that ornamentation was not necessary. The Gwathmey painting from which it partly took its inspiration depicts two families in adjoining open-front shelters and I could easily imagine a small family happily occupying this space, appreciative of both the below-market cost of it and the satisfying aesthetic of it.
The artist referred to it as a visual and conceptual mashup, but it didn't take much to envision it as a person's home. Standing on the sidewalk, it struck me as an example of real world art, even as a toothless, homeless man was asking me for spare change.
In the greater sense, Pleasants is obviously part of the solution, not the problem. But don't wait to happen on this visual treat like I did or you might miss it. And that would be your loss.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
National Feed Me Month
On the off chance you don't keep up with such things, April is National Anxiety Month, National Humor Month And National Welding Month. And if you weld together anxiety and humor, what do you get but National Poetry Month?
Fittingly, 1708 Gallery hosted a poetry reading tonight featuring three Richmond poets. The art-filled gallery was an ideal place for a reading and the exhibit, "Home is Where the Art Is: 1708 Gallery's 20th Annual Art Auction Benefit" displayed a fascinating exhibit of close to 50 artists. I may have come for poetry, but I made sure I saw the entire exhibit before actually sitting down.
The poetry began with Joshua Poteat who appropriately set the tone by saying to the audience, "Nice day to be inside, huh? Thank you for being nerds." That's a greeting that speaks to someone like me. He showed his own nerdiness when just after finishing a poem, he pointed to his book and said, "There's a missing period there that I've never noticed before," and tossed the book aside in mock-disgust (or perhaps true disgust). The imagery in his poems was beautiful; I particularly liked "Illustrating the Theory of Twilight."
Tarfia Faizullah's poetry had a distinctly outsider's viewpoint, both as a woman and as one with roots in India. She began by telling us that due to limited time, she had begun writing sonnets because, "...fourteen lines, how long could it take?" Writing her "Poetry Recitation at St. Catherine's School for Girls" caused Anglican flashbacks for her since she'd gone to a girls' school in Texas. It also caused high school remorse because, "I want a do-over. I could do it so much better now." Couldn't we all?
Daniel Coudriet teaches at UR and admitted right up front that tonight's reading was the first he'd ever attempted without contacts or glasses. After a bit of trombone playing, he found a comfortable distance from which to read by saying, "I see something that looks like the English language." He introduced "Lyric" by saying, "Just imagine it's snowing," which was no easy feat given today's weather. He warned us before reading "The Rodents" that "This is weird stuff and they get weirder." For him, the high point came when he was able to read the phrase "disembodied beard" something he never expected to say, much less write.
Since it was a walking night, I ambled down to Bistro 27 afterwards for dinner and conversation. Chef Carlos was sitting at the bar since it wasn't busy yet, so he patted the stool next to him and I took it. We had loads to catch up on since the last time I'd been in I'd had a friend with me and we hadn't been able to really talk. He had a lot to share about the hoopla at First Fridays, soliciting other restaurant owners' opinions on hot topics and the differences in red and white wine for him. He insisted I drink his wine of choice for the evening, the Tenuta San Pietro Gavi di Gavi and it was the ideal sip for a spring evening.
"Are you going to eat?" he asked me after a while, jumping up as he asked. As opposed to...what, I asked. Yes, of course I was there to eat and he told me to sit tight and he'd make me a favorite Brazilian dish, one his momma used to make for him and that he now recreates because he loves it so much. He warned me of its African influences (because of Brazil's enormous African slave population) which only made it sound more appealing.
The next thing I know he was placing a plate of Bobo de Camarae in front of me. It appeared to be shrimp and all he'd tell me is that the sauce had coconut milk, yucca and palm oil. What I register is that it's incredibly fragrant and enticing. He says that it's usually served over rice, but instead he wants me to use bread for sopping up the sauce. It does have a distinctly African flavor to it and my only regret is coming to the end of something so unique and delicious Still, I'm incredibly grateful for such a gift; I only wish it were on the menu.
Next up was the highly-recommended asparagus bisque with crab meat and fried proscuitto. Nothing could have topped the Bobo, but this soup was excellent. It had a depth of flavor that could have stood on its own without the crab and pig, but they were such lovely additions in their own right. Let's find more reasons to fry proscuitto, shall we?
There were three other regulars at the bar tonight and one was the high society type, so he regaled me with stories of foxhunts and charity balls until I was bored (and perhaps a but tired of his drunken repetition). Luckily, it was easy enough to move myself and my glass of Villa Mt. Eden Cabernet Sauvignon to a nearby table to allow for catch-up chats with certain staff members who wanted a private audience; they're a varied cast of characters with whom I have ongoing discussions on completely different subjects.
Once the bar cleared, I returned to finish out the evening talking to Carlos about being Catholic, customers who arrive tanked and changes in restaurant service. He's got a new manager whom I know well from other restaurants and he added his witty two cents to the discussion.
When it was finally time to go, neither approved of me walking home alone so offers were made. I chose the manager's proposal to be walked home (he'd biked) over being chef-driven because my intention all along had been to make it a neighborhood night and walk.
Besides, the only way to end a night that involves poetry reading and the gift of bobo de camarae is with a leisurely walk through Jackson Ward. If you haven't tried it, I highly recommend it.
Fittingly, 1708 Gallery hosted a poetry reading tonight featuring three Richmond poets. The art-filled gallery was an ideal place for a reading and the exhibit, "Home is Where the Art Is: 1708 Gallery's 20th Annual Art Auction Benefit" displayed a fascinating exhibit of close to 50 artists. I may have come for poetry, but I made sure I saw the entire exhibit before actually sitting down.
The poetry began with Joshua Poteat who appropriately set the tone by saying to the audience, "Nice day to be inside, huh? Thank you for being nerds." That's a greeting that speaks to someone like me. He showed his own nerdiness when just after finishing a poem, he pointed to his book and said, "There's a missing period there that I've never noticed before," and tossed the book aside in mock-disgust (or perhaps true disgust). The imagery in his poems was beautiful; I particularly liked "Illustrating the Theory of Twilight."
Tarfia Faizullah's poetry had a distinctly outsider's viewpoint, both as a woman and as one with roots in India. She began by telling us that due to limited time, she had begun writing sonnets because, "...fourteen lines, how long could it take?" Writing her "Poetry Recitation at St. Catherine's School for Girls" caused Anglican flashbacks for her since she'd gone to a girls' school in Texas. It also caused high school remorse because, "I want a do-over. I could do it so much better now." Couldn't we all?
Daniel Coudriet teaches at UR and admitted right up front that tonight's reading was the first he'd ever attempted without contacts or glasses. After a bit of trombone playing, he found a comfortable distance from which to read by saying, "I see something that looks like the English language." He introduced "Lyric" by saying, "Just imagine it's snowing," which was no easy feat given today's weather. He warned us before reading "The Rodents" that "This is weird stuff and they get weirder." For him, the high point came when he was able to read the phrase "disembodied beard" something he never expected to say, much less write.
Since it was a walking night, I ambled down to Bistro 27 afterwards for dinner and conversation. Chef Carlos was sitting at the bar since it wasn't busy yet, so he patted the stool next to him and I took it. We had loads to catch up on since the last time I'd been in I'd had a friend with me and we hadn't been able to really talk. He had a lot to share about the hoopla at First Fridays, soliciting other restaurant owners' opinions on hot topics and the differences in red and white wine for him. He insisted I drink his wine of choice for the evening, the Tenuta San Pietro Gavi di Gavi and it was the ideal sip for a spring evening.
"Are you going to eat?" he asked me after a while, jumping up as he asked. As opposed to...what, I asked. Yes, of course I was there to eat and he told me to sit tight and he'd make me a favorite Brazilian dish, one his momma used to make for him and that he now recreates because he loves it so much. He warned me of its African influences (because of Brazil's enormous African slave population) which only made it sound more appealing.
The next thing I know he was placing a plate of Bobo de Camarae in front of me. It appeared to be shrimp and all he'd tell me is that the sauce had coconut milk, yucca and palm oil. What I register is that it's incredibly fragrant and enticing. He says that it's usually served over rice, but instead he wants me to use bread for sopping up the sauce. It does have a distinctly African flavor to it and my only regret is coming to the end of something so unique and delicious Still, I'm incredibly grateful for such a gift; I only wish it were on the menu.
Next up was the highly-recommended asparagus bisque with crab meat and fried proscuitto. Nothing could have topped the Bobo, but this soup was excellent. It had a depth of flavor that could have stood on its own without the crab and pig, but they were such lovely additions in their own right. Let's find more reasons to fry proscuitto, shall we?
There were three other regulars at the bar tonight and one was the high society type, so he regaled me with stories of foxhunts and charity balls until I was bored (and perhaps a but tired of his drunken repetition). Luckily, it was easy enough to move myself and my glass of Villa Mt. Eden Cabernet Sauvignon to a nearby table to allow for catch-up chats with certain staff members who wanted a private audience; they're a varied cast of characters with whom I have ongoing discussions on completely different subjects.
Once the bar cleared, I returned to finish out the evening talking to Carlos about being Catholic, customers who arrive tanked and changes in restaurant service. He's got a new manager whom I know well from other restaurants and he added his witty two cents to the discussion.
When it was finally time to go, neither approved of me walking home alone so offers were made. I chose the manager's proposal to be walked home (he'd biked) over being chef-driven because my intention all along had been to make it a neighborhood night and walk.
Besides, the only way to end a night that involves poetry reading and the gift of bobo de camarae is with a leisurely walk through Jackson Ward. If you haven't tried it, I highly recommend it.
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