Schneider's dead. And that's not even the most interesting obituary I read in the paper today.
That honor would go to writer Florene King, whom I'd never heard of when I awoke, but whose work I'm now determined to explore because of this sentence from her Washington Post obituary: Miss King, who once wrote pornographic novels for fast money, was a punctilious prose stylist who became an essayist and pretense-flaying satirist along the lines of a latter-day H.L. Mencken or Dorothy Parker.
Sign me up. One quick question, though. I could be making fast money writing pornographic novels? Why am I just learning this information now?
Of lesser import but kind of fascinating was actor Pat Harrington's obit, not because I watched a lot of "One Day at a Time" (I didn't), but because I learned that the man who played the clueless chauvinistic building superintendent had a master's degree in political philosophy in real life.
Damn, that's a hella good actor.
Closer to home, I started at Reynolds Gallery where Richmond's art elite regularly gather at openings and tonight was no exception. Richard Roth's "Speed Bump," Leigh Suggs' "Double Vision" and Tara Donovan's "Slinkys" attracted an "A" list of local talent, mainly women and I happily chatted with all the ones I knew.
Suggs' intricate hand-cut pieces were a marvel to inspect at close range, at least when I could get the social set to move from in front of them so I could actually see the art. I know, I know, see and be seen.
It was a completely different scene at ADA Gallery for Tom Condon's "Haptic Fugitive" (and, yes, I learned a new word tonight- def: based on the sense of touch), a series of direct positives that resembled nothing so much as the images of a black and white kaleidoscope.
What was cool was hearing eager-beaver VCU students cornering him to pepper him with questions. How did you do these? It looks like you manipulated this part, did you? Was that done in the darkroom? When I left, he was explaining that he'd decided not to include his recent large-format digital photographs in this show because they had such a different feel than these.
From there, it was a short walk under my umbrella to Richmond Comedy Coalition for the premiere of "High There," a new weekly improvised sitcom. "You can't binge-watch this one! This is appointment-only comedy!" host Ryan warned us.
As if I binge-watch anything.
Set in a head shop Jonathan inherits from his uncle, each week's episode begins by opening the envelope with the week's premise. Tonight's was - drum roll, please - the pilot episode. Time to establish characters and scene, in other words.
After an appropriately corny theme song, we watched and laughed as Jonathan and his girlfriend Eve (who intends to be president once she's 40 and can't decide if the weed connection in her past will be a pro or a con for her run) acquaint themselves with their new property.
They're not exactly experts on weed or paraphernalia.
To help them out, they have two staffers, one of whom, Townsend, has been quietly embezzling $25,000 since Uncle's death and the other, Grace, a dizzy type, who, when told that no matter how big a number is, you can't divide it by zero, says enthusiastically with a big smile, "That doesn't mean anything to me, but I'm gonna Google it!"
Talking to Eve about her political aspirations, she wonders, "Are you, like, a liberal or a little bit cuckoo?" Because those are the choices in politics.
Laughs came courtesy of young Jonathan's travails, but also the vintage TV commercials between acts that about brought the house down. A vintage Doritos ad, one for a cheesy '70s bar called Al E. Gator's, complete with ferns and disco dancing, a pineapple burger at McDonald's "for a limited time only" (thank you, Ray Kroc) and a Pepsi commercial that focused on why Coke had changed its formula, all had the crowd in stitches with disbelief.
That's just how corny TV was in the olden days, I'm afraid. Toni Tennille haircuts were everywhere.
Naturally, weed humor abounded, such as when Jonathan mistakes a vaporizer for a "pen with a light" and employee Grace brings him up to speed, informing him it's called an "El Discreeto."
Also helping him learn the ropes is new-agey Waylon who runs a bookstore upstairs and knew Uncle. When the $25,000 shortage is discovered, Waylon says, "I'd offer to lend you the money but I run a Mom and Pop bookstore," which got a big, knowing laugh.
Luckily, Waylon has a philosophy for Jonathan's first day of business blues and it's this: Things work out, you break even and then everybody dies.
Fortunately, not anytime soon. There's seven more weeks of laughs at High There and the best part is you have to be there to find out what happens. It's the showing up that appeals to me most.
Just this morning, a friend messaged me to say he couldn't make our planned movie date next week. He excitedly tells me his consolation was finding a European streaming site that allowed him to watch the new Tarantino film last night.
Nice, but no help for me, I write him back.
You have computer and Internet, it's just not as social, he assures me. I remind him that I don't watch movies anywhere but in public places with others, the way god and MGM intended.
He points out that I sleep late and am sometimes late for appointments now, changes from ten years ago, so there may be hope for me yet. I dismiss this entirely.
I see a cell phone in your future, he audaciously writes (which is doubly funny since just two days ago I got an email from another friend wishing me a happy new year and asking, "Will you buy a cell phone in 2016? I don't think so but doesn't hurt to ask."). As if.
Then he asks what movie I'll go see without him. "Maybe I'll see if I can find that one online. Then we can discuss."
Not entirely certain, but I think he's suggesting an appointment-only movie discussion. I hope my sigh of disgust doesn't transmit through the Interwebs.
Am I an alarmist to think that this is how the world will eventually separate itself, into those willing to show up for life and those just as happy to experience it alone and on a screen?
Excuse me, I may feel the need to pen an essay or perhaps a pretense-flaying satire on the subject, but first I've got a punctilious pornographic novel to write. Pen name: El Discreeto.
Fast money, baby, to be spent out and about in the real world.
Showing posts with label ADA Gallery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ADA Gallery. Show all posts
Friday, January 8, 2016
Friday, September 4, 2015
Lost in the Night
My life is based on a true story.
No, I didn't come up with that, I saw it on some kid's t-shirt while pounding the pavement for First Fridays with a friend from the county in tow. He'd accompanied my hired mouth to dinner before we set out in search of culture.
What we also found were scads of art walkers including plenty of fresh-faced students holding forth on the art they were seeing, the friends they'd just run into or where the party later on was going to be.
They blather, therefore they are.
Our first stop was at ADA Gallery for Rachel Hayes' "Straight Tipsy," which shared a lot in common with her 2011 show I'd seen there, "Chutes and Tears," done not long after the Japanese tsunami. Both relied on fabric -especially denim - and colored acrylic for bright coloring of the geometrically-inclined collages.
Overheard: "I like the less garishly-colored ones." Apparently, florescent pink is an acquired taste in art.
Replacing the departed Ghostprint Gallery was Unkindness Art and here's where I learned something tonight. A gathering of ravens is called an unkindness, much like a group of crows is a murder.
Art is so educational.
The new gallery had taken a page from Ghostprint's book, installing a tattoo artist in the back (I saw a person in the chair and heard the whirring of the needle) and showing bird-centric art up front, including a stuffed bird in an antique cage.
We'll call it a funky addition to the arts district.
Candela Gallery was mobbed (and as cold as a meat locker) for Louvier + Vanessa's show "Resonantia," gorgeous abstract photographs over gold leaf dibond.
The hook was how they were made and even after Vanessa herself explained the process to me, I'm still not 100% sure I get it.
Sound waves are sent through water which is then photographed with different results because various notes make different patterns. Sort of like seeing something invisible. Those photos were then somehow converted to soundscapes. Resonantia means echo, if that helps.
I listened, I really tried to understand, but it was above my head and I admitted as much to Vanessa, asking her how they'd ever conceived of such a thing.
"He's a scientist," she said, pointing at Louvier. Had to be, because only a scientific mind could come up with such an artistic concept.
There were twelve panels depicting the 12 basal notes of music (another teachable moment for me) as well as other images made from the sounds produced by, oh, hell, I don't know. Just go see and hear the striking gold and black images (yes, they also made an album of the sounds of the photographs and no, I can't explain that either) and then come explain it to me.
My partner in art and I briefly slid into the vintage consignment shop Souleil when we heard a voice singing but we were at the back of the store, so we could barely even see the guy with the gorgeous voice and eventually we gave up and left.
And if we thought that place was crowded, we found out what crowded really was at Gallery 5 where NYC artists Johnston Foster and Jimmy Joe Roche's show "Dirty Work Dirt Dogs" made for one big sweat fest as people moved between Roche's videos being shown on monitors and Foster's sculptures made using the detritus of a consumer culture.
His "Catch and Release" lay sprawled on the floor, a sculpture of a bloody shark split open with baby sharks spilling from its body. My favorites were "Pony Up," two horse heads made from such things as telephone cables, vinyl flooring and garden hose mounted to the wall facing opposite directions.
As many times as I've been upstairs at G5, this was the first time that the windows were gone, hidden behind a wall from which hung a large monitor showing Roche's "Homelands" video.
With all the people, I lost track of my companion while running into other people I knew and dodging roving bands of art students oblivious to anyone but their posse. Back downstairs, I talked to the dulcitar player, the former coworker (who'd also seen Cornel West yesterday) and the apron-clad dessert chef before going outside in search of my disappearing date.
He's not a small person, so I couldn't imagine how I'd lost him.
Eventually, the heat sent me outside for air where a line was beginning to form to get into the gallery, but I waited around, sure he'd come out any moment.
Going back in was problematic because of the line, so after 15 minutes, I crossed the street to Atlas to see "Performing Statistics," only realizing once I was there that I'd already seen the show - really more of an activist statement about stopping the school to prison pipeline - at 1708 Gallery back in June.
When I got back to G5, the line was even longer, so I staked out my territory as I listened to Dave Watkins begin playing inside. After years of watching him play, it wasn't hard to imagine the dumbfounded looks on first timers' faces watching as he built up layers of sound, playing and looping until he sounded like much more than one musician.
Still, my friend was nowhere to be found.
A group of young women (would it be wrong for me to think of them as an unkindness?) stood near me, trying to decide what to do next. They knew of no parties, but they wanted to have some fun. "I was too drunk to be in there with all those people," one whined. "I was just, like, I gotta go."
One of her friends said they needed to go elsewhere, so I watched as they began unlocking their bikes to leave. Maybe it was time for me to give up on finding my friend, too.
Walking down Marshall Street, I heard the girls coming up behind me on their bikes and I resisted an impulse to shout at them, "It's a sidewalk not a sideride!" because then I might as well tell them to get off my grass and do I really want to be that person? No.
As they turned onto Madison Street and hit the cobblestones, one of the girls wobbled precariously and another shouted gaily, "Embrace the cobbles!" without even looking back.
It was the most profound thing I'd heard anyone say all night.
Embrace the Cobbles: the perfect title for the true story of my life.
No, I didn't come up with that, I saw it on some kid's t-shirt while pounding the pavement for First Fridays with a friend from the county in tow. He'd accompanied my hired mouth to dinner before we set out in search of culture.
What we also found were scads of art walkers including plenty of fresh-faced students holding forth on the art they were seeing, the friends they'd just run into or where the party later on was going to be.
They blather, therefore they are.
Our first stop was at ADA Gallery for Rachel Hayes' "Straight Tipsy," which shared a lot in common with her 2011 show I'd seen there, "Chutes and Tears," done not long after the Japanese tsunami. Both relied on fabric -especially denim - and colored acrylic for bright coloring of the geometrically-inclined collages.
Overheard: "I like the less garishly-colored ones." Apparently, florescent pink is an acquired taste in art.
Replacing the departed Ghostprint Gallery was Unkindness Art and here's where I learned something tonight. A gathering of ravens is called an unkindness, much like a group of crows is a murder.
Art is so educational.
The new gallery had taken a page from Ghostprint's book, installing a tattoo artist in the back (I saw a person in the chair and heard the whirring of the needle) and showing bird-centric art up front, including a stuffed bird in an antique cage.
We'll call it a funky addition to the arts district.
Candela Gallery was mobbed (and as cold as a meat locker) for Louvier + Vanessa's show "Resonantia," gorgeous abstract photographs over gold leaf dibond.
The hook was how they were made and even after Vanessa herself explained the process to me, I'm still not 100% sure I get it.
Sound waves are sent through water which is then photographed with different results because various notes make different patterns. Sort of like seeing something invisible. Those photos were then somehow converted to soundscapes. Resonantia means echo, if that helps.
I listened, I really tried to understand, but it was above my head and I admitted as much to Vanessa, asking her how they'd ever conceived of such a thing.
"He's a scientist," she said, pointing at Louvier. Had to be, because only a scientific mind could come up with such an artistic concept.
There were twelve panels depicting the 12 basal notes of music (another teachable moment for me) as well as other images made from the sounds produced by, oh, hell, I don't know. Just go see and hear the striking gold and black images (yes, they also made an album of the sounds of the photographs and no, I can't explain that either) and then come explain it to me.
My partner in art and I briefly slid into the vintage consignment shop Souleil when we heard a voice singing but we were at the back of the store, so we could barely even see the guy with the gorgeous voice and eventually we gave up and left.
And if we thought that place was crowded, we found out what crowded really was at Gallery 5 where NYC artists Johnston Foster and Jimmy Joe Roche's show "Dirty Work Dirt Dogs" made for one big sweat fest as people moved between Roche's videos being shown on monitors and Foster's sculptures made using the detritus of a consumer culture.
His "Catch and Release" lay sprawled on the floor, a sculpture of a bloody shark split open with baby sharks spilling from its body. My favorites were "Pony Up," two horse heads made from such things as telephone cables, vinyl flooring and garden hose mounted to the wall facing opposite directions.
As many times as I've been upstairs at G5, this was the first time that the windows were gone, hidden behind a wall from which hung a large monitor showing Roche's "Homelands" video.
With all the people, I lost track of my companion while running into other people I knew and dodging roving bands of art students oblivious to anyone but their posse. Back downstairs, I talked to the dulcitar player, the former coworker (who'd also seen Cornel West yesterday) and the apron-clad dessert chef before going outside in search of my disappearing date.
He's not a small person, so I couldn't imagine how I'd lost him.
Eventually, the heat sent me outside for air where a line was beginning to form to get into the gallery, but I waited around, sure he'd come out any moment.
Going back in was problematic because of the line, so after 15 minutes, I crossed the street to Atlas to see "Performing Statistics," only realizing once I was there that I'd already seen the show - really more of an activist statement about stopping the school to prison pipeline - at 1708 Gallery back in June.
When I got back to G5, the line was even longer, so I staked out my territory as I listened to Dave Watkins begin playing inside. After years of watching him play, it wasn't hard to imagine the dumbfounded looks on first timers' faces watching as he built up layers of sound, playing and looping until he sounded like much more than one musician.
Still, my friend was nowhere to be found.
A group of young women (would it be wrong for me to think of them as an unkindness?) stood near me, trying to decide what to do next. They knew of no parties, but they wanted to have some fun. "I was too drunk to be in there with all those people," one whined. "I was just, like, I gotta go."
One of her friends said they needed to go elsewhere, so I watched as they began unlocking their bikes to leave. Maybe it was time for me to give up on finding my friend, too.
Walking down Marshall Street, I heard the girls coming up behind me on their bikes and I resisted an impulse to shout at them, "It's a sidewalk not a sideride!" because then I might as well tell them to get off my grass and do I really want to be that person? No.
As they turned onto Madison Street and hit the cobblestones, one of the girls wobbled precariously and another shouted gaily, "Embrace the cobbles!" without even looking back.
It was the most profound thing I'd heard anyone say all night.
Embrace the Cobbles: the perfect title for the true story of my life.
Saturday, August 8, 2015
You Look Like a Rock Star
Top five reasons why it's not unusual to find me out on a First Friday (besides hearing Evan Nasteff pretend to sing "It's Not Unusual"):
1. "The Electric Football Game Art Show at ADA Gallery, where every other guy walking in said some version of, "I used to play that." If they are to believed, we have finally reached male geek critical mass, not that that's a bad thing.
Highlight: Art Monk #81 and the cheerleaders. The guy making the bowel-shaking noises sending tiny electric men across the actual electric football game table was icing on the cake.
2. Drummer Nate Rappole aka Gull curating the "Drum Baby" show at Gallery 5. From Haleh Pedram's "Chair Drum" (the chair had a skin stretched over the frame's seat and people were playing it) to Bonnie Mango's "Gift to Nathaniel Rappole" (a dashiki with holes cut in it wherein she sewed tiny metal gongs) to Adam Juresko's "Married with Children" (a collage in two parts of a drummer with birds in place of a head), it was all about the drum imagery.
Unexpected bonus: a smaller photography show in the back room of Richmond parks a century ago, Monroe Park looking toward Franklin Street with a farmhouse and trees where the dowager Prestwold now sits.
3. Band labeling. After walking my companion back to his car, I headed back to G5 for music, hoping to catch Antiphons' set because they describe their music as "sad farm rock," possibly the best music genre ever.
There, I find friends - the brilliant musician doing the light show, the bearded man who makes clothing, the complimentary neighbor, the scientific-minded neighbor and the community builder/musician who tells me that my blog posts about his shows touch him ("It always takes me to that happy place you are") - but I have just missed Antiphons's set.
When I spot the handsome drummer I haven't seen in eons, I tell him about my futile quest to hear sad farm rock. He's as impressed with the descriptor as I am, vowing to come up with something as pithy for his band. When I hear that he's not seen Dumb Waiter, the band setting up now, I insist he come up with something to describe them after their set.
Given their genre-blending style, sometimes spacey, sometimes mathy-y, often funky, it won't be easy, yet he nails it. "Ornette Cole-metal," he announces. It's brilliant.
Reason to need a smoke afterwards: With guitar, bass, sax and drums, Dumb Waiter manages to get the crowd locked into a groove and eventually all riled up, only to suddenly change tempo and mood, leaving us hanging on for the next section, not sure when they're going to come back and finish us off.
It's exquisite musical torture.
4. Pop music hamming. Lip Sync RVA, three colors of Jello shots and the casts of the last two plays I've seen: "The Altruists" and "Psycho Beach Party" (wearing leis, it should be noted).
Vegetable duels, a Disney tune with blue sock puppet back-up singers, Dan Cimo playing the strict mother for "Girls Just Want to Have Fun," pearl earrings swinging in his lobes, and REM's "It's the End of the World" with singer Evan Nasteff wearing a sandwich board sign (Front: This is the end. Back: This is the other end) as he emotes.
Drop dead gorgeous Jessi Johnson doesn't even have to know the words because her hips and hands say as much as mouthing words. Perky Brent Gallahan in coral lipstick and pumps also fudges and no one cares due to the adorable factor.
Best sugar rush: During a thigh-straddling rendition of "Call Me Maybe," I recognize Chandler Hubbard, not just from "The Altruists" but because earlier he'd offered the bartender a cookie from the box his Mom meant to send for opening night but forgot. The bartender says no, so I ask for it instead. Cookies and Jello shots, that's a thing, right?
5. Late night J-Ward strolling. On my way home, I manage to run into not only the neighborhood's cutest middle-aged beagle and his majestic owner out for a post-work walk, but also the soft-spoken master of the kitchen, arriving home to his dog and girlfriend, coincidentally a friend of mine.
It's the end of this night as I know it, and I feel fine.
1. "The Electric Football Game Art Show at ADA Gallery, where every other guy walking in said some version of, "I used to play that." If they are to believed, we have finally reached male geek critical mass, not that that's a bad thing.
Highlight: Art Monk #81 and the cheerleaders. The guy making the bowel-shaking noises sending tiny electric men across the actual electric football game table was icing on the cake.
2. Drummer Nate Rappole aka Gull curating the "Drum Baby" show at Gallery 5. From Haleh Pedram's "Chair Drum" (the chair had a skin stretched over the frame's seat and people were playing it) to Bonnie Mango's "Gift to Nathaniel Rappole" (a dashiki with holes cut in it wherein she sewed tiny metal gongs) to Adam Juresko's "Married with Children" (a collage in two parts of a drummer with birds in place of a head), it was all about the drum imagery.
Unexpected bonus: a smaller photography show in the back room of Richmond parks a century ago, Monroe Park looking toward Franklin Street with a farmhouse and trees where the dowager Prestwold now sits.
3. Band labeling. After walking my companion back to his car, I headed back to G5 for music, hoping to catch Antiphons' set because they describe their music as "sad farm rock," possibly the best music genre ever.
There, I find friends - the brilliant musician doing the light show, the bearded man who makes clothing, the complimentary neighbor, the scientific-minded neighbor and the community builder/musician who tells me that my blog posts about his shows touch him ("It always takes me to that happy place you are") - but I have just missed Antiphons's set.
When I spot the handsome drummer I haven't seen in eons, I tell him about my futile quest to hear sad farm rock. He's as impressed with the descriptor as I am, vowing to come up with something as pithy for his band. When I hear that he's not seen Dumb Waiter, the band setting up now, I insist he come up with something to describe them after their set.
Given their genre-blending style, sometimes spacey, sometimes mathy-y, often funky, it won't be easy, yet he nails it. "Ornette Cole-metal," he announces. It's brilliant.
Reason to need a smoke afterwards: With guitar, bass, sax and drums, Dumb Waiter manages to get the crowd locked into a groove and eventually all riled up, only to suddenly change tempo and mood, leaving us hanging on for the next section, not sure when they're going to come back and finish us off.
It's exquisite musical torture.
4. Pop music hamming. Lip Sync RVA, three colors of Jello shots and the casts of the last two plays I've seen: "The Altruists" and "Psycho Beach Party" (wearing leis, it should be noted).
Vegetable duels, a Disney tune with blue sock puppet back-up singers, Dan Cimo playing the strict mother for "Girls Just Want to Have Fun," pearl earrings swinging in his lobes, and REM's "It's the End of the World" with singer Evan Nasteff wearing a sandwich board sign (Front: This is the end. Back: This is the other end) as he emotes.
Drop dead gorgeous Jessi Johnson doesn't even have to know the words because her hips and hands say as much as mouthing words. Perky Brent Gallahan in coral lipstick and pumps also fudges and no one cares due to the adorable factor.
Best sugar rush: During a thigh-straddling rendition of "Call Me Maybe," I recognize Chandler Hubbard, not just from "The Altruists" but because earlier he'd offered the bartender a cookie from the box his Mom meant to send for opening night but forgot. The bartender says no, so I ask for it instead. Cookies and Jello shots, that's a thing, right?
5. Late night J-Ward strolling. On my way home, I manage to run into not only the neighborhood's cutest middle-aged beagle and his majestic owner out for a post-work walk, but also the soft-spoken master of the kitchen, arriving home to his dog and girlfriend, coincidentally a friend of mine.
It's the end of this night as I know it, and I feel fine.
Saturday, May 2, 2015
Do You Appreciate My Company?
Sometimes having a fabulous night is purely circumstantial.
The only thing set in stone was an early dinner. My date wanted sushi and I wanted to try the new Akida, recently moved from its long-time Robinson Street location to the Devil's Triangle.
Early as we were, every table was taken so we took up residence at the sushi bar and were soon joined by other stragglers. After both ordering Combo #4, our server brought miso soup within seconds, but the surprise was when one of the sushi chefs handed us each a salad, saying it was with his compliments.
Akida's food never disappoints and tonight's cucumber roll, avocado roll and four chef-selected pieces of sushi - yellowtail, salmon, tuna and mackerel - all tasted amazingly fresh. And who doesn't appreciate a good sinus cavity-cleansing when you take in just a tad too much wasabi?
Much as we wanted to linger over wine, a line had formed at the door for seats and we felt too guilty to camp out. Pity.
Back in Jackson Ward, I made tracks for First Friday.
First stop: ADA gallery for Bruce Wilhelm's "Paintings/Props/Intermediaries," 60 colorful mixed media paintings hanging on a huge wall, related sort of, and not.
Next door at Ghostprint Gallery was "Signes and Symboles," with ethereal work by two female artists I'd seen before, Catherine Brooks and Tifenn Python. The news there was about Ghostprint's upcoming pop-up at the Cookie Factory. I'm looking forward to art on that side of town for a change.
At Candela Gallery's new show, I couldn't get over the sheer number of people (okay, students probably) on their phones rather than looking at Daniel Leivick's striking photographic exhibit, "Heliopolis."
On the couch at the front of the gallery, a couple sat, arms and thighs touching, both staring fixated at their cell phones and exchanging zero conversation. What's the point?
Fortunately, once I made my way to the back gallery, there were plenty of intense-looking student/photographer types peering intently at the satellite photos over which Leivick has inserted images of complex civilizations.
"Ooh, that thing that looks like an ant is a car!" one co-ed squealed after studying a photo from two inches away.
Circumstance delivered me a surprise upon leaving when I heard the most incredible voice coming out of Souleil, a vintage boutique I'd never even noticed before.
Standing against a deep orange partition, a woman was playing guitar and singing, pulling in almost everyone who heard her from the street. Listening, I perused the racks of clothing only to find so many styles and fabrics I remember from the '70s. Granny dress complete with lace? Check. India print tops and dresses? Yup. Maxi skirts? Oh, yea.
At one point, the singer motioned to a guy who'd come in, saying, "You wannna freestyle for the people?" and sure enough, he stepped up and began rapping while she filled in with background song. I stayed through it all.
Heading to Gallery 5, I passed Comfort, where a drummer friend was taking someone's order at a table in the front window and waved at me in recognition. Poor thing, working First Fridays is no fun, I know.
Showing at G5 was "Communication Arts Senior Exhibit," which meant scads of people (even some parents) and a wide-ranging show. Honestly, what surprised me most was that several students had done botanical illustrations for their senior projects. They were exquisite, but who knew kids today were even into that?
Downstairs, I caught part of Manatree's set, enjoying their youthful energy and as always, impressed with their musicianship, obvious pleasure at playing and short, fast songs. Because I've seen them plenty of times, I had no guilt about not staying for their whole set and, besides, I had a new gallery to check out.
30/60/90 had intrigued me from the first time I saw those numbers painted on the door because it gave no clue to what it was. Only after talking to someone did I learn it was a gallery and then I was impressed because it's off the beaten gallery path.
Walking in, the overhead music was loud, the art was eclectic and it reminded me of some of the more DIY galleries that inhabited Brook Road 7 or 8 years ago such as Transmission Gallery.
There was a large sculpture made of lampshade frames with orange yarn and fabric woven over the edges. A pipe in the gallery had been yarn-bombed. A line of ceramic snails made its way along the staircase ledge.
Busy taking in such varied art, I didn't even hear the group arrive, but all of a sudden, a cadre of activists gathered at the front of the gallery holdings signs saying, "#blacklivesmatter" and sequentially began reading a treatise about Baltimore's situation.
Everyone in the room listened and applauded. After they concluded, they disappeared as silently as they'd come.
I'd decided to make a pit stop at GWAR Bar since it was practically next door and I figured the odds were low that it would be inundated with suburban art walkers since they rarely like loud metal offending their delicate eardrums.
It was busier than I expected, but not so much so I didn't find a stool and order Espolon easily.
The guy in the next stool said hello and dramatically laid his hand palm down on the bar next to me. Unsure if this an international symbol for something with which I was not familiar, I did the same. What's up with that, mister?
"Just checking your marital status," he explained, grinning widely. "So you're not married?" So you're not blind?
Conversation revealed that he'd been there already for hours, having come from work, but he also lives in the neighborhood, so he considers GWAR Bar his hangout bar. That seems to be true of most of the men I've met there.
Maybe it was all that after-work drinking, but it took him no time at all to begin steering the conversation to men and women, the pitfalls of dating, the importance of not waiting too long to have sex in a relationship and a dozen other topics he needed to get off his chest.
When he asked me, apropos of nothing, if I liked wine, I naturally said yes, not seeing the landmine I was stepping in. I deflected his invitation by explaining that I was going to a show shortly and he departed soon after.
That left me to sip my Espolon and watch the movie playing on the screen over the bar. I had no idea what it was, so when a guy took the stool next to me, I asked.
He looked at me incredulously, saying, "It's 'Dawn Till Dusk,' a Quentin Tarantino movie. It's really old." Of course I had to ask what he considered really old. "Mid-nineties. I was in, like fifth grade and I'm in my mid 30s now. Look how young George Clooney is," he said.
Oh, I'd already picked up on that (35 can be a really attractive age for men).
My new friend introduced himself as Jay and after shaking my hand, turned to the bartender. "She's never seen 'Dawn Till Dusk," he marveled. Minutes later, as a bloodbath erupted on the screen, he leaned in and warned me that we were coming up on the ending.
It was a good thing because I was tired of seeing people explode.
Naturally he had to ask why I hadn't seen it (I don't know, better movies to see in 1996?), amazed that I don't watch movies on TV. Knowing I could top that, I said I didn't have a cell phone and his jaw dropped.
That was a ten-minute conversation, but it finished satisfyingly, with him acknowledging, "I get it, you want to be in control of being bothered." Bingo.
He, too, said GWAR Bar is his bar, so when I left for the show, we shook hands, knowing we may very well see each other there again.
Back at Gallery 5, I caught the last five songs of Claire Morgan's set, wedging myself through the huge crowd to enjoy their well-crafted songs. I swear, they get better every time I see them.
Next up was Brooklyn's Ava Luna and while they set up, I scanned the crowd, always a source of entertainment.
One guy had on a t-shirt with the last two lines of Keats' "Ode to a Grecian Urn" on it.
Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all
Ye know on earth and all ye need to know
One guy had on a red satin KTVO jacket. Another guy had on a hoodie, the back reading, "Start jumping out of planes," with a drawing of bodies splattered on the ground.
I spotted the VCU professor I shared a few dates with 13 years ago. I recall introducing him to tequila and him not handling it very well. I waved hello and found a spot across the room.
Ava Luna (two girls, three guys) came out looking like your usual indie rock outfit with two guitars, bass, keys and drums. Right off the bat, they got major points for having three vocalists and the slinkiest of grooves.
It was soon apparent that Ava Luna's sound was heavily soul-influenced and the crowd responded by grooving in place almost constantly. Really, it was impossible not to.
Behind me, I overheard a guy observe, "It's like dirty hippie prom music," but he looked to be about 28, so I'm not sure he knew from dirty hippies.
What I heard was more Prince-influenced with front man Carlos invoking the master with his falsetto and smooth delivery while a distinctive bass line carried him along. But just when I thought I had them pegged as neo-soul, they threw me for a loop.
Melding post-punk, almost jazz-like elements, terrific harmonies, high drama and abrupt tempo changes, this was a band that was constantly surprising the crowd, who loved it. The way this quintet played off each other screamed talent and practice.
One thing that occurred to me was that no one in Richmond sounds anything like these guys. Which is a shame, because I was crazy about what I was hearing.
Late in the set, I spotted a drummer friend and his wife, who looked to be enjoying Ava Luna as much as I was. Joining them, we marveled that this was a free show.
They said that this was their second time seeing the band and they'd been blown away the first time just like me. They were just so good at what they were doing.
Ah, but my friend had intel about that. Seems that Carlos' Dad had been a soul DJ back in the '70s, so he'd grown up with this music.That explained a lot.
When the band said it was their last song and then they'd be at the merch table, my friend said, "Uh-uh, this won't be your last song." It was clear that the audience wouldn't accept that.
Sure enough, they left the stage, the canned music came up and the crowd yelled "one more song" until they returned, already halfway to the table by the time they realized.
"Usually when the house music come on, people just disperse," Carlos said from the stage. "Not Richmond."
Indeed. They played us one more song that ended with chanting and dissonance but still felt soulful before heading to the merch table and effectively ending the night.
I headed in the same direction, intent on buying a CD, only to find a line already formed. A guy came up to Carlos, telling him he couldn't find the band's van outside. "Never mind, I'll deal with that later." Looking at me, he said, "I'm a little overwhelmed at the moment."
I bet. After I bought my CD, I raved about their sound and asked about his Dad.
"Yea, he was a soul DJ." he said smiling and shrugging his shoulders. "So my music's circumstantial."
No more so than that it was at the ninth place I wound up tonight that I got lost in some of the finest grooves I've heard in ages. I call that hella good circumstances.
The only thing set in stone was an early dinner. My date wanted sushi and I wanted to try the new Akida, recently moved from its long-time Robinson Street location to the Devil's Triangle.
Early as we were, every table was taken so we took up residence at the sushi bar and were soon joined by other stragglers. After both ordering Combo #4, our server brought miso soup within seconds, but the surprise was when one of the sushi chefs handed us each a salad, saying it was with his compliments.
Akida's food never disappoints and tonight's cucumber roll, avocado roll and four chef-selected pieces of sushi - yellowtail, salmon, tuna and mackerel - all tasted amazingly fresh. And who doesn't appreciate a good sinus cavity-cleansing when you take in just a tad too much wasabi?
Much as we wanted to linger over wine, a line had formed at the door for seats and we felt too guilty to camp out. Pity.
Back in Jackson Ward, I made tracks for First Friday.
First stop: ADA gallery for Bruce Wilhelm's "Paintings/Props/Intermediaries," 60 colorful mixed media paintings hanging on a huge wall, related sort of, and not.
Next door at Ghostprint Gallery was "Signes and Symboles," with ethereal work by two female artists I'd seen before, Catherine Brooks and Tifenn Python. The news there was about Ghostprint's upcoming pop-up at the Cookie Factory. I'm looking forward to art on that side of town for a change.
At Candela Gallery's new show, I couldn't get over the sheer number of people (okay, students probably) on their phones rather than looking at Daniel Leivick's striking photographic exhibit, "Heliopolis."
On the couch at the front of the gallery, a couple sat, arms and thighs touching, both staring fixated at their cell phones and exchanging zero conversation. What's the point?
Fortunately, once I made my way to the back gallery, there were plenty of intense-looking student/photographer types peering intently at the satellite photos over which Leivick has inserted images of complex civilizations.
"Ooh, that thing that looks like an ant is a car!" one co-ed squealed after studying a photo from two inches away.
Circumstance delivered me a surprise upon leaving when I heard the most incredible voice coming out of Souleil, a vintage boutique I'd never even noticed before.
Standing against a deep orange partition, a woman was playing guitar and singing, pulling in almost everyone who heard her from the street. Listening, I perused the racks of clothing only to find so many styles and fabrics I remember from the '70s. Granny dress complete with lace? Check. India print tops and dresses? Yup. Maxi skirts? Oh, yea.
At one point, the singer motioned to a guy who'd come in, saying, "You wannna freestyle for the people?" and sure enough, he stepped up and began rapping while she filled in with background song. I stayed through it all.
Heading to Gallery 5, I passed Comfort, where a drummer friend was taking someone's order at a table in the front window and waved at me in recognition. Poor thing, working First Fridays is no fun, I know.
Showing at G5 was "Communication Arts Senior Exhibit," which meant scads of people (even some parents) and a wide-ranging show. Honestly, what surprised me most was that several students had done botanical illustrations for their senior projects. They were exquisite, but who knew kids today were even into that?
Downstairs, I caught part of Manatree's set, enjoying their youthful energy and as always, impressed with their musicianship, obvious pleasure at playing and short, fast songs. Because I've seen them plenty of times, I had no guilt about not staying for their whole set and, besides, I had a new gallery to check out.
30/60/90 had intrigued me from the first time I saw those numbers painted on the door because it gave no clue to what it was. Only after talking to someone did I learn it was a gallery and then I was impressed because it's off the beaten gallery path.
Walking in, the overhead music was loud, the art was eclectic and it reminded me of some of the more DIY galleries that inhabited Brook Road 7 or 8 years ago such as Transmission Gallery.
There was a large sculpture made of lampshade frames with orange yarn and fabric woven over the edges. A pipe in the gallery had been yarn-bombed. A line of ceramic snails made its way along the staircase ledge.
Busy taking in such varied art, I didn't even hear the group arrive, but all of a sudden, a cadre of activists gathered at the front of the gallery holdings signs saying, "#blacklivesmatter" and sequentially began reading a treatise about Baltimore's situation.
Everyone in the room listened and applauded. After they concluded, they disappeared as silently as they'd come.
I'd decided to make a pit stop at GWAR Bar since it was practically next door and I figured the odds were low that it would be inundated with suburban art walkers since they rarely like loud metal offending their delicate eardrums.
It was busier than I expected, but not so much so I didn't find a stool and order Espolon easily.
The guy in the next stool said hello and dramatically laid his hand palm down on the bar next to me. Unsure if this an international symbol for something with which I was not familiar, I did the same. What's up with that, mister?
"Just checking your marital status," he explained, grinning widely. "So you're not married?" So you're not blind?
Conversation revealed that he'd been there already for hours, having come from work, but he also lives in the neighborhood, so he considers GWAR Bar his hangout bar. That seems to be true of most of the men I've met there.
Maybe it was all that after-work drinking, but it took him no time at all to begin steering the conversation to men and women, the pitfalls of dating, the importance of not waiting too long to have sex in a relationship and a dozen other topics he needed to get off his chest.
When he asked me, apropos of nothing, if I liked wine, I naturally said yes, not seeing the landmine I was stepping in. I deflected his invitation by explaining that I was going to a show shortly and he departed soon after.
That left me to sip my Espolon and watch the movie playing on the screen over the bar. I had no idea what it was, so when a guy took the stool next to me, I asked.
He looked at me incredulously, saying, "It's 'Dawn Till Dusk,' a Quentin Tarantino movie. It's really old." Of course I had to ask what he considered really old. "Mid-nineties. I was in, like fifth grade and I'm in my mid 30s now. Look how young George Clooney is," he said.
Oh, I'd already picked up on that (35 can be a really attractive age for men).
My new friend introduced himself as Jay and after shaking my hand, turned to the bartender. "She's never seen 'Dawn Till Dusk," he marveled. Minutes later, as a bloodbath erupted on the screen, he leaned in and warned me that we were coming up on the ending.
It was a good thing because I was tired of seeing people explode.
Naturally he had to ask why I hadn't seen it (I don't know, better movies to see in 1996?), amazed that I don't watch movies on TV. Knowing I could top that, I said I didn't have a cell phone and his jaw dropped.
That was a ten-minute conversation, but it finished satisfyingly, with him acknowledging, "I get it, you want to be in control of being bothered." Bingo.
He, too, said GWAR Bar is his bar, so when I left for the show, we shook hands, knowing we may very well see each other there again.
Back at Gallery 5, I caught the last five songs of Claire Morgan's set, wedging myself through the huge crowd to enjoy their well-crafted songs. I swear, they get better every time I see them.
Next up was Brooklyn's Ava Luna and while they set up, I scanned the crowd, always a source of entertainment.
One guy had on a t-shirt with the last two lines of Keats' "Ode to a Grecian Urn" on it.
Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all
Ye know on earth and all ye need to know
One guy had on a red satin KTVO jacket. Another guy had on a hoodie, the back reading, "Start jumping out of planes," with a drawing of bodies splattered on the ground.
I spotted the VCU professor I shared a few dates with 13 years ago. I recall introducing him to tequila and him not handling it very well. I waved hello and found a spot across the room.
Ava Luna (two girls, three guys) came out looking like your usual indie rock outfit with two guitars, bass, keys and drums. Right off the bat, they got major points for having three vocalists and the slinkiest of grooves.
It was soon apparent that Ava Luna's sound was heavily soul-influenced and the crowd responded by grooving in place almost constantly. Really, it was impossible not to.
Behind me, I overheard a guy observe, "It's like dirty hippie prom music," but he looked to be about 28, so I'm not sure he knew from dirty hippies.
What I heard was more Prince-influenced with front man Carlos invoking the master with his falsetto and smooth delivery while a distinctive bass line carried him along. But just when I thought I had them pegged as neo-soul, they threw me for a loop.
Melding post-punk, almost jazz-like elements, terrific harmonies, high drama and abrupt tempo changes, this was a band that was constantly surprising the crowd, who loved it. The way this quintet played off each other screamed talent and practice.
One thing that occurred to me was that no one in Richmond sounds anything like these guys. Which is a shame, because I was crazy about what I was hearing.
Late in the set, I spotted a drummer friend and his wife, who looked to be enjoying Ava Luna as much as I was. Joining them, we marveled that this was a free show.
They said that this was their second time seeing the band and they'd been blown away the first time just like me. They were just so good at what they were doing.
Ah, but my friend had intel about that. Seems that Carlos' Dad had been a soul DJ back in the '70s, so he'd grown up with this music.That explained a lot.
When the band said it was their last song and then they'd be at the merch table, my friend said, "Uh-uh, this won't be your last song." It was clear that the audience wouldn't accept that.
Sure enough, they left the stage, the canned music came up and the crowd yelled "one more song" until they returned, already halfway to the table by the time they realized.
"Usually when the house music come on, people just disperse," Carlos said from the stage. "Not Richmond."
Indeed. They played us one more song that ended with chanting and dissonance but still felt soulful before heading to the merch table and effectively ending the night.
I headed in the same direction, intent on buying a CD, only to find a line already formed. A guy came up to Carlos, telling him he couldn't find the band's van outside. "Never mind, I'll deal with that later." Looking at me, he said, "I'm a little overwhelmed at the moment."
I bet. After I bought my CD, I raved about their sound and asked about his Dad.
"Yea, he was a soul DJ." he said smiling and shrugging his shoulders. "So my music's circumstantial."
No more so than that it was at the ninth place I wound up tonight that I got lost in some of the finest grooves I've heard in ages. I call that hella good circumstances.
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, May 3, 2014
Friday, May 3, 2013
Balancing Two Worlds
There's no telling where an evening's going to end up when I start out at a brewery.
Even with no interest in beer whatsoever, I got to see a favorite actor working the bar and ran into at least half a dozen friends.
Who knew all my friends were beer drinkers?
It's gotten so that if it's the day before First Fridays, it's a great art night.
Exhibit A: Candela Gallery's new show, "Louviere + Vanessa: Counterfeit," a mixed media show of unique beauty.
And highly unique materials: inkjet on Kozo paper, gold leaf, paint and resin on dibond (essentially a sandwich of thin aluminum sheets).
You know, just your usual run-of-the-mill art supplies.
The New Orleans duo's "photographs" were based on copies of world currency, much enlarged and made incredibly painterly with gold leaf, paint and resin.
It was striking texturally in places where you could see the overlay of the sheets of gold leaf or where it had been shaped into curves in a decorative manner.
Add to that hand-crafted frames that were almost as stunning as the works and I was in full art lust mode.
"Not Even a Princess Can Balance Two Worlds" had the image of a maiden, one hand on her hip and one holding a bucket on her head.
You couldn't miss "Until the Sky Around the Comet Tore Through Him" because of its odd frame- its victorious image of a knight on his horse, fist raised overhead, required the frame to be bumped out in an extension along the top of the frame.
I thought of Monet's "Reflections on the Thames" when I saw "With So Many Doorsteps Ruined, the Orphan Fled," a shimmering study of a building in blues and silvers.
The classic profile of "The Fog of Youth was Thicker than He Remembered" (probably the best title in show and that's saying a lot considering the quirky and poetic choices) was a striking one.
Come to think of it, that's as apt a description of the whole show as any: quirky and poetic, truly a feast for the eyes.
Exhibit B: Next door at Ghostprint Gallery was Andy Espinoza's "Another Life," with most pieces depictions of the figure and, as a bonus, I was handed a glass of French Rose on arrival.
Making my way around the room, I admired a large charcoal, "Alone in the Garden," thinking what a remarkable lushness it had.
Unsurprisingly, it had already been sold.
There were several oil nudes that recalled the Impressionists, like "Climbing into Bed" and "Morning," both of which showed female nudes from the back.
Faces didn't matter, curves did.
But the one that captured me and wouldn't let me go was "Blue and Yellow Blanket," an oil on panel of a figure reclining on the afore-mentioned blanket.
There was also a "Blue and Yellow Blanket 2" but somehow it didn't resonate the same with me.
Something about the body's shadow or the line where she met the blanket was absolutely stunning to me.
Now if only some generous friend would pay the artist $500, that painting could be mine.
I looked around for takers and, finding none, moved on to ADA Gallery for Mogan Herrin's "Ology."
Ever since I stumbled on the mythological-looking Herrin sculpture purchased by Lance Armstrong (back before he was disgraced) being loaded onto a U-Haul on Grove Avenue back in 2008, I have been a fan.
Tonight's mini-show reminded of the artist's deft touch with wood, in a skeletal figure taller than me and in a helmeted bust of the smoothest wood and the most intricate grains.
Good eye, Lance.
Tonight's music at Balliceaux was touted as "Bringing Iberia to the Fan" and featured a couple of ensembles that easily qualified as world music.
There was already a crowd in the back room when we arrived, but we asked two guys at a front table if we could join them and they welcomed us in.
One soon got up and left because, it turned out, he was the drummer for upcoming sextet Suenos Gitanos.
The guy remaining introduced himself as George and I asked why he'd come.
Used to work with the drummer, knew the guitarist as a high school friend, the usual musical incestuous nature of Richmond.
He brought up seven degrees of separation and how in Richmond it's more like two or three.
Explaining that we'd seen Fado Nosso play at Globehopper and had heard good things about Suenos Gitanos, I began pointing out band members I knew.
"See? We've only got two degrees of separation, too!" he said, slurring a bit.
Suenos Gitanos played flamenco-inspired Spanish music with congas, drums, bass, two classical guitars and trumpet.
And may I just say that the trumpet player had on the cutest espadrilles with the ribbons tied around her ankles.
Both guitarists looked pretty in long skirts, with one wearing a long white cotton skirt with a black tube top, the epitome of summer fashion circa 1077.
Adorable.
Unexpectedly, George looked a little green and said goodnight, clearing the way for two more music-lovers to join our ringside table.
Soon, a friend at the next table came over to say hello, asking me if S.G.'s lineup and sound didn't remind me a bit of Bio Ritmo.
Lots of talented musicians playing Latin-based music? Yep.
Their smooth rhythms soon had my friend and his date dancing while I enjoyed watching the conga player beat on things and the trumpet player blow.
Depending on the angle of her horn, at times the colored ceiling lights cast a shadow of her trumpet on her floral-patterned dress.
Their set was brief before Fado Nosso came up.
I'd seen them at Globehopper for their CD release party, so I knew to expect Portuguese blues, songs of yearning and love for the men who'd gone to sea.
Sadly, most of the audience couldn't have cared less.
While Bernadette sang songs of intrigue and love, saudade (longing), sadness and the one who got away, most of the room talked or shouted over her emotive voice.
It was a shame and made me glad I'd heard them in a listening room environment already or I'd never have been able to understand what I was hearing.
Honestly, I'll never understand why people are willing to pay $5 to get into the back room only to talk over the music when they could stay in the front room, not pay any money and talk and shout up there.
I'd be curious to know the answer.
To their credit, they soldiered on through one evocative Fado song after another, some traditional and some newer stuff, as if everyone was paying attention.
When their set ended, bass player Brian came over to chat.
"I was looking out at the crowd, wondering if there was anyone who wasn't talking and I looked around and saw you and thought, Karen's listening."
As a music fan, that's about the best compliment I could hope for.
It almost made up for my makeshift title of tonight's performance: The Fog of Drunken Chatter was Thicker than She Would have Liked.
If you want to appreciate longing, you've got to shut up and listen.
Or go have a beer in the front room.
Even with no interest in beer whatsoever, I got to see a favorite actor working the bar and ran into at least half a dozen friends.
Who knew all my friends were beer drinkers?
It's gotten so that if it's the day before First Fridays, it's a great art night.
Exhibit A: Candela Gallery's new show, "Louviere + Vanessa: Counterfeit," a mixed media show of unique beauty.
And highly unique materials: inkjet on Kozo paper, gold leaf, paint and resin on dibond (essentially a sandwich of thin aluminum sheets).
You know, just your usual run-of-the-mill art supplies.
The New Orleans duo's "photographs" were based on copies of world currency, much enlarged and made incredibly painterly with gold leaf, paint and resin.
It was striking texturally in places where you could see the overlay of the sheets of gold leaf or where it had been shaped into curves in a decorative manner.
Add to that hand-crafted frames that were almost as stunning as the works and I was in full art lust mode.
"Not Even a Princess Can Balance Two Worlds" had the image of a maiden, one hand on her hip and one holding a bucket on her head.
You couldn't miss "Until the Sky Around the Comet Tore Through Him" because of its odd frame- its victorious image of a knight on his horse, fist raised overhead, required the frame to be bumped out in an extension along the top of the frame.
I thought of Monet's "Reflections on the Thames" when I saw "With So Many Doorsteps Ruined, the Orphan Fled," a shimmering study of a building in blues and silvers.
The classic profile of "The Fog of Youth was Thicker than He Remembered" (probably the best title in show and that's saying a lot considering the quirky and poetic choices) was a striking one.
Come to think of it, that's as apt a description of the whole show as any: quirky and poetic, truly a feast for the eyes.
Exhibit B: Next door at Ghostprint Gallery was Andy Espinoza's "Another Life," with most pieces depictions of the figure and, as a bonus, I was handed a glass of French Rose on arrival.
Making my way around the room, I admired a large charcoal, "Alone in the Garden," thinking what a remarkable lushness it had.
Unsurprisingly, it had already been sold.
There were several oil nudes that recalled the Impressionists, like "Climbing into Bed" and "Morning," both of which showed female nudes from the back.
Faces didn't matter, curves did.
But the one that captured me and wouldn't let me go was "Blue and Yellow Blanket," an oil on panel of a figure reclining on the afore-mentioned blanket.
There was also a "Blue and Yellow Blanket 2" but somehow it didn't resonate the same with me.
Something about the body's shadow or the line where she met the blanket was absolutely stunning to me.
Now if only some generous friend would pay the artist $500, that painting could be mine.
I looked around for takers and, finding none, moved on to ADA Gallery for Mogan Herrin's "Ology."
Ever since I stumbled on the mythological-looking Herrin sculpture purchased by Lance Armstrong (back before he was disgraced) being loaded onto a U-Haul on Grove Avenue back in 2008, I have been a fan.
Tonight's mini-show reminded of the artist's deft touch with wood, in a skeletal figure taller than me and in a helmeted bust of the smoothest wood and the most intricate grains.
Good eye, Lance.
Tonight's music at Balliceaux was touted as "Bringing Iberia to the Fan" and featured a couple of ensembles that easily qualified as world music.
There was already a crowd in the back room when we arrived, but we asked two guys at a front table if we could join them and they welcomed us in.
One soon got up and left because, it turned out, he was the drummer for upcoming sextet Suenos Gitanos.
The guy remaining introduced himself as George and I asked why he'd come.
Used to work with the drummer, knew the guitarist as a high school friend, the usual musical incestuous nature of Richmond.
He brought up seven degrees of separation and how in Richmond it's more like two or three.
Explaining that we'd seen Fado Nosso play at Globehopper and had heard good things about Suenos Gitanos, I began pointing out band members I knew.
"See? We've only got two degrees of separation, too!" he said, slurring a bit.
Suenos Gitanos played flamenco-inspired Spanish music with congas, drums, bass, two classical guitars and trumpet.
And may I just say that the trumpet player had on the cutest espadrilles with the ribbons tied around her ankles.
Both guitarists looked pretty in long skirts, with one wearing a long white cotton skirt with a black tube top, the epitome of summer fashion circa 1077.
Adorable.
Unexpectedly, George looked a little green and said goodnight, clearing the way for two more music-lovers to join our ringside table.
Soon, a friend at the next table came over to say hello, asking me if S.G.'s lineup and sound didn't remind me a bit of Bio Ritmo.
Lots of talented musicians playing Latin-based music? Yep.
Their smooth rhythms soon had my friend and his date dancing while I enjoyed watching the conga player beat on things and the trumpet player blow.
Depending on the angle of her horn, at times the colored ceiling lights cast a shadow of her trumpet on her floral-patterned dress.
Their set was brief before Fado Nosso came up.
I'd seen them at Globehopper for their CD release party, so I knew to expect Portuguese blues, songs of yearning and love for the men who'd gone to sea.
Sadly, most of the audience couldn't have cared less.
While Bernadette sang songs of intrigue and love, saudade (longing), sadness and the one who got away, most of the room talked or shouted over her emotive voice.
It was a shame and made me glad I'd heard them in a listening room environment already or I'd never have been able to understand what I was hearing.
Honestly, I'll never understand why people are willing to pay $5 to get into the back room only to talk over the music when they could stay in the front room, not pay any money and talk and shout up there.
I'd be curious to know the answer.
To their credit, they soldiered on through one evocative Fado song after another, some traditional and some newer stuff, as if everyone was paying attention.
When their set ended, bass player Brian came over to chat.
"I was looking out at the crowd, wondering if there was anyone who wasn't talking and I looked around and saw you and thought, Karen's listening."
As a music fan, that's about the best compliment I could hope for.
It almost made up for my makeshift title of tonight's performance: The Fog of Drunken Chatter was Thicker than She Would have Liked.
If you want to appreciate longing, you've got to shut up and listen.
Or go have a beer in the front room.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
I Love You But You're Dead
First Fridays was vibrating at a lower pitch tonight.
Which was a shame considering the art and music that was out there for the taking.
A four block walk in a light rain got me to Ghostprint Gallery for Peter Fowler's wildly-colored impressionistic "Aqua Illuminations."
"Venetian" was immediately recognizable as Venice despite the hot pink and orange colors, but "Silver Industry" was the one I kept coming back to.
Alas, I didn't have a spare thousand dollars for it.
ADA Gallery was showing James Trotter's eclectic work, a pastiche of comic book characters, advertising, cartoons and random scribbles.
Barney Rubble, Alfred E. Neuman, Donald Duck, Bert (sans Ernie) and the Stax logo all made appearances.
Candela Gallery's "Greta Pratt: Taking Liberties" delivered large-format photographs and a sly look at popular culture.
One series was of Lincoln impersonators (one had a log cabin RV). Another series was of Liberty Tax workers dressed in their cheesy, green Lady Liberty costumes (green nail polish, R.I.P. tattoo, red glasses). Another was of young women dressed as southern belles (modern faces did not match period costumes).
The final destination was Gallery 5 for Adam Juresko's "Self Abuse" exhibit of paper collages.
Maybe it's me, but I'm fascinated by Juresko's work (I own two) and tonight's new work had plenty of contenders I could have taken home.
But we can't always get what we want.
What I could get was music and all I had to do was walk downstairs to get it.
Four bands were playing tonight, including one who'd been called the "America's best living lyricist" and the show was free.
Free, as in come hear terrific music on us.
I didn't have to be told twice.
Opening was local Josh Small, in his usual overalls, starting with "My Confession," moving through an Emmylous Harris cover and finishing with "Knife in My Belly."
A photographer friend summed it up best. "We can see him all the time, so we forget, but if we saw Josh play in another city, we'd be blown away."
In an unexpected turn of events that left some people disappointed, headliner Mark Eitzel played second.
Apparently, he'd wanted to so Gallery 5 had said he could. But some people didn't get the memo and missed him.
Luckily, I was not one of them.
Eitzel (yes, he of American Music Club) came onstage wearing a hat and began singing in the direction of, not us, but his keyboard player.
I wasn't sure if he was uncomfortable with the audience or just getting in a groove, although he did make a point to tell us that he was only going to play briefly.
Whatever he was doing, his voice was a thing of beauty.
A singer friend called it immediately. "Great pipes!"
A musician friend was more specific, putting Eitzel's talent at the level of a Tom Waits.
Me, I was just reveling in being in the same room with this man's gift.
His voice was so strong, so assured, that half the time he held the mic at waist level and still belted very note across the room.
He introduced a song as, "About a beautiful woman named Gena Rowlands," a reference I doubt most of the 20-somethings in the room got.
It was an American Music Club song, "What Holds the World Together," with the exquisite lyric, "Through the window the warm summer air does a two-step, I wish there was some way I could keep it."
I have wished the same thing many times.
From his new album "Don't Be a Stranger," he did "I Love You But You're Dead," a song he said was about going to a rock concert and asking the star to sign his poster.
The superb song got cheering along with applause, prompting the quixotic Eitzel to promise, "Don't worry, it won't be long."
Oh, Mark, honey, we wish it could go on all night. Please be long.
"I wrote this song about a nightclub, the kind where everyone's mean. Not like here."
Mean? We were enthralled.
He introduced "Windows on the World" by saying, "Everything that happens in this song is true. I went to a party at the top of the World Trade Center."
What I remember is the evocative lyric, "We were so downtown," before the song began to wind down and Eitzel announced that the next song was his last.
He left us with a song about a male stripper named Spanky and only a world-class lyricist could cover the topics he covered in that song and make them sound so memorable.
During the break, I discussed what we'd just seen with friend after friend and everyone admitted to having been blown away by the man's talent. His voice. His songs.
And we saw him for free. Mark Eitzel for free.
The room should have been packed, but as a local DJ pointed out, the show had gotten no press.
How the hell that happened, no one could fathom.
Up next was Modern Drugs, a trio of guys who looked impossibly young and played the shortest of songs, all youthful energy and broken strings.
After playing several songs, the lead singer said, "We have several additional songs to sing."
My friend and I guessed that he was new to stage banter.
When the guitarist noticed the dangling string, a voice from the audience called out, "What were you supposed to bring?"
It was his girlfriend apparently and he sheepishly looked at her, cradling the string, admitting, "An extra guitar."
Always listen to your girlfriend, son, because she knows best.
When their exuberant set finished, the guitarist said earnestly, "I'm sorry for everything."
He needn't have apologized; turns out this was their very first show.
"A" for effort, boys. And a little tip from a pro: don't ever say you're sorry.
Low Branches closed out the show and after Modern Drugs' noise-fest, I was a little surprised at how hushed the room got all at once.
But then, Christina's voice and Matt and Josh's restrained playing sort of demands that you shut up and listen.
Still, it doesn't always happen, but tonight it did.
As a stranger said to me afterwards, "Whoa, that was some really different bands, but I liked it!"
I liked it, too.
And seeing Mark Eitzel in a room not even half full was out of this world.
Maybe I didn't get what I wanted art-wise, but I sure got what I needed musically.
Through the gallery the mild winter air did a two step
I wish there was some way I could keep that man's voice with me.
I wish.
Which was a shame considering the art and music that was out there for the taking.
A four block walk in a light rain got me to Ghostprint Gallery for Peter Fowler's wildly-colored impressionistic "Aqua Illuminations."
"Venetian" was immediately recognizable as Venice despite the hot pink and orange colors, but "Silver Industry" was the one I kept coming back to.
Alas, I didn't have a spare thousand dollars for it.
ADA Gallery was showing James Trotter's eclectic work, a pastiche of comic book characters, advertising, cartoons and random scribbles.
Barney Rubble, Alfred E. Neuman, Donald Duck, Bert (sans Ernie) and the Stax logo all made appearances.
Candela Gallery's "Greta Pratt: Taking Liberties" delivered large-format photographs and a sly look at popular culture.
One series was of Lincoln impersonators (one had a log cabin RV). Another series was of Liberty Tax workers dressed in their cheesy, green Lady Liberty costumes (green nail polish, R.I.P. tattoo, red glasses). Another was of young women dressed as southern belles (modern faces did not match period costumes).
The final destination was Gallery 5 for Adam Juresko's "Self Abuse" exhibit of paper collages.
Maybe it's me, but I'm fascinated by Juresko's work (I own two) and tonight's new work had plenty of contenders I could have taken home.
But we can't always get what we want.
What I could get was music and all I had to do was walk downstairs to get it.
Four bands were playing tonight, including one who'd been called the "America's best living lyricist" and the show was free.
Free, as in come hear terrific music on us.
I didn't have to be told twice.
Opening was local Josh Small, in his usual overalls, starting with "My Confession," moving through an Emmylous Harris cover and finishing with "Knife in My Belly."
A photographer friend summed it up best. "We can see him all the time, so we forget, but if we saw Josh play in another city, we'd be blown away."
In an unexpected turn of events that left some people disappointed, headliner Mark Eitzel played second.
Apparently, he'd wanted to so Gallery 5 had said he could. But some people didn't get the memo and missed him.
Luckily, I was not one of them.
Eitzel (yes, he of American Music Club) came onstage wearing a hat and began singing in the direction of, not us, but his keyboard player.
I wasn't sure if he was uncomfortable with the audience or just getting in a groove, although he did make a point to tell us that he was only going to play briefly.
Whatever he was doing, his voice was a thing of beauty.
A singer friend called it immediately. "Great pipes!"
A musician friend was more specific, putting Eitzel's talent at the level of a Tom Waits.
Me, I was just reveling in being in the same room with this man's gift.
His voice was so strong, so assured, that half the time he held the mic at waist level and still belted very note across the room.
He introduced a song as, "About a beautiful woman named Gena Rowlands," a reference I doubt most of the 20-somethings in the room got.
It was an American Music Club song, "What Holds the World Together," with the exquisite lyric, "Through the window the warm summer air does a two-step, I wish there was some way I could keep it."
I have wished the same thing many times.
From his new album "Don't Be a Stranger," he did "I Love You But You're Dead," a song he said was about going to a rock concert and asking the star to sign his poster.
The superb song got cheering along with applause, prompting the quixotic Eitzel to promise, "Don't worry, it won't be long."
Oh, Mark, honey, we wish it could go on all night. Please be long.
"I wrote this song about a nightclub, the kind where everyone's mean. Not like here."
Mean? We were enthralled.
He introduced "Windows on the World" by saying, "Everything that happens in this song is true. I went to a party at the top of the World Trade Center."
What I remember is the evocative lyric, "We were so downtown," before the song began to wind down and Eitzel announced that the next song was his last.
He left us with a song about a male stripper named Spanky and only a world-class lyricist could cover the topics he covered in that song and make them sound so memorable.
During the break, I discussed what we'd just seen with friend after friend and everyone admitted to having been blown away by the man's talent. His voice. His songs.
And we saw him for free. Mark Eitzel for free.
The room should have been packed, but as a local DJ pointed out, the show had gotten no press.
How the hell that happened, no one could fathom.
Up next was Modern Drugs, a trio of guys who looked impossibly young and played the shortest of songs, all youthful energy and broken strings.
After playing several songs, the lead singer said, "We have several additional songs to sing."
My friend and I guessed that he was new to stage banter.
When the guitarist noticed the dangling string, a voice from the audience called out, "What were you supposed to bring?"
It was his girlfriend apparently and he sheepishly looked at her, cradling the string, admitting, "An extra guitar."
Always listen to your girlfriend, son, because she knows best.
When their exuberant set finished, the guitarist said earnestly, "I'm sorry for everything."
He needn't have apologized; turns out this was their very first show.
"A" for effort, boys. And a little tip from a pro: don't ever say you're sorry.
Low Branches closed out the show and after Modern Drugs' noise-fest, I was a little surprised at how hushed the room got all at once.
But then, Christina's voice and Matt and Josh's restrained playing sort of demands that you shut up and listen.
Still, it doesn't always happen, but tonight it did.
As a stranger said to me afterwards, "Whoa, that was some really different bands, but I liked it!"
I liked it, too.
And seeing Mark Eitzel in a room not even half full was out of this world.
Maybe I didn't get what I wanted art-wise, but I sure got what I needed musically.
Through the gallery the mild winter air did a two step
I wish there was some way I could keep that man's voice with me.
I wish.
Friday, December 2, 2011
RVA in the '10s
It must be First Friday artwalk because Gull was playing outside of Lift.
After having missed last month's event because I was out of town for the weekend, I was glad to see that all was calm and bright on Broad Street tonight.
The crowds may have been slightly smaller but probably many chose the Grand Illumination over mere art.
I'm not here to judge.
Walking into ADA Gallery, I almost tripped over a former bartender I knew sitting by the front door. When I asked what he was doing, he replied laconically, "Security."
For the time being, his job was pretty easy since I was the only person in the gallery for Jenny Kendler's show, "Archipelago."
The intricate drawings necessitated a closer look for the intriguing details hidden throughout, but my favorite piece was a twig installation resembling a cave and decorated in small round mirrors and crystals.
At Ghostprint Gallery I met the artist, Yussef Agbo-Ola, and marveled at his large-format crystallized photographs mounted on steel.
For a guy who's only been doing photography for a year, his eye for composition and subject was extraordinary.
"King of Golden Souls," a life-sized photo of a man holding one hand over one eye was positively mesmerizing.
I ran into some friends and found myself in a discussion of where in the arc of "becoming" Richmond is these days.
Will people look back in twenty years and wish they were part of the scene that changed RVA from what it was to what it could be?
Is this our Paris in the '20s or NYC in the '50s period? Gamble or go, that is the question we bandied about.
Of course we didn't resolve anything, but I so enjoy talking to others who believe in what this place can be.
Next door at the new Candela Gallery, Shelby Lee Adams' photographs of the people of Appalachia, "Salt and Truth," were an unsettling glimpse into another world.
Disturbingly skinny children gazed out but so did curiously fat ones, making for a commentary on the effects of poverty.
A man sat in a chair surrounded by unbelievable amounts of stuff; in another world, a caption would have labeled him a hoarder. The curtains at his window had Bambi on them.
The new space is a superb addition to Jackson Ward, making for our first photography gallery and a dedicated space for one of my very favorite art forms.
Meanwhile, back at the artwalk, I passed a gaggle of a dozen policemen as I made my way across the street.
A cop cluster, so to speak.
Having interviewed the artists showing at Metro Space Gallery for Style Weekly, here, I was eager to see the Bruner clan's group show.
Mother Vicki grabbed me with her "Bad Habits" series featuring nuns in various states of toplessness; one had a target where a fig leaf goes. Another had a pope hat.
Son Barry's screenprints contained some famous faces like Obama, Reagan and Gorbachev, but my favorite was "Business Lunch," showing a man from the mouth down, so busy talking that he hadn't noticed he'd cut off his fingers on his lunch plate.
Daughter Jordan had an entire wall devoted to her work with the centerpiece being "Leaf Woman," a full-size female figure with outstretched arms and jutting legs made of leaf shapes and other small pieces connected by toothpicks.
The overall effect was colorful, delicate and visually compelling. If I had a wall big enough for it (I don't) and a spare $1800 (ditto), I'd have bought it on the spot.
Gallery 5 had a lot to offer tonight including last month's show, "Disarmingly Modern," which I had missed, their Holiday Market and Lobo Marino playing live.
Ned Fry's sculptures, all of which used the Venus de Milo as a starting point, were interesting interpretations, but the one of the statue sliced and constantly shifting shape was downright mesmerizing.
It was upstairs there that a friend walked up to me and without saying a word, leaned down and sniffed my hair.
"Smells good," he pronounced, referring to my post about how awful it smelled after last night's foray to the Republic.
I was glad I had washed it so he hadn't had to make an observation about how rank it still was.
In fact, that's a perfect example of why mothers tell you always to wear clean underwear in case you end up in a car accident.
You just never know.
Walking back toward my house after all the fun was over, I saw a guy walking toward me on the next block.
"I'd know that walk anywhere!" he called out, apparently to me since not another soul was around.
When we passed each other, I looked at him and said, "Really?"
"Oh, yes," he said with the certainty of someone who had seen me walk many times before.
I have absolutely no idea who he was.
I do know that Gull played on outside of Lift.
After having missed last month's event because I was out of town for the weekend, I was glad to see that all was calm and bright on Broad Street tonight.
The crowds may have been slightly smaller but probably many chose the Grand Illumination over mere art.
I'm not here to judge.
Walking into ADA Gallery, I almost tripped over a former bartender I knew sitting by the front door. When I asked what he was doing, he replied laconically, "Security."
For the time being, his job was pretty easy since I was the only person in the gallery for Jenny Kendler's show, "Archipelago."
The intricate drawings necessitated a closer look for the intriguing details hidden throughout, but my favorite piece was a twig installation resembling a cave and decorated in small round mirrors and crystals.
At Ghostprint Gallery I met the artist, Yussef Agbo-Ola, and marveled at his large-format crystallized photographs mounted on steel.
For a guy who's only been doing photography for a year, his eye for composition and subject was extraordinary.
"King of Golden Souls," a life-sized photo of a man holding one hand over one eye was positively mesmerizing.
I ran into some friends and found myself in a discussion of where in the arc of "becoming" Richmond is these days.
Will people look back in twenty years and wish they were part of the scene that changed RVA from what it was to what it could be?
Is this our Paris in the '20s or NYC in the '50s period? Gamble or go, that is the question we bandied about.
Of course we didn't resolve anything, but I so enjoy talking to others who believe in what this place can be.
Next door at the new Candela Gallery, Shelby Lee Adams' photographs of the people of Appalachia, "Salt and Truth," were an unsettling glimpse into another world.
Disturbingly skinny children gazed out but so did curiously fat ones, making for a commentary on the effects of poverty.
A man sat in a chair surrounded by unbelievable amounts of stuff; in another world, a caption would have labeled him a hoarder. The curtains at his window had Bambi on them.
The new space is a superb addition to Jackson Ward, making for our first photography gallery and a dedicated space for one of my very favorite art forms.
Meanwhile, back at the artwalk, I passed a gaggle of a dozen policemen as I made my way across the street.
A cop cluster, so to speak.
Having interviewed the artists showing at Metro Space Gallery for Style Weekly, here, I was eager to see the Bruner clan's group show.
Mother Vicki grabbed me with her "Bad Habits" series featuring nuns in various states of toplessness; one had a target where a fig leaf goes. Another had a pope hat.
Son Barry's screenprints contained some famous faces like Obama, Reagan and Gorbachev, but my favorite was "Business Lunch," showing a man from the mouth down, so busy talking that he hadn't noticed he'd cut off his fingers on his lunch plate.
Daughter Jordan had an entire wall devoted to her work with the centerpiece being "Leaf Woman," a full-size female figure with outstretched arms and jutting legs made of leaf shapes and other small pieces connected by toothpicks.
The overall effect was colorful, delicate and visually compelling. If I had a wall big enough for it (I don't) and a spare $1800 (ditto), I'd have bought it on the spot.
Gallery 5 had a lot to offer tonight including last month's show, "Disarmingly Modern," which I had missed, their Holiday Market and Lobo Marino playing live.
Ned Fry's sculptures, all of which used the Venus de Milo as a starting point, were interesting interpretations, but the one of the statue sliced and constantly shifting shape was downright mesmerizing.
It was upstairs there that a friend walked up to me and without saying a word, leaned down and sniffed my hair.
"Smells good," he pronounced, referring to my post about how awful it smelled after last night's foray to the Republic.
I was glad I had washed it so he hadn't had to make an observation about how rank it still was.
In fact, that's a perfect example of why mothers tell you always to wear clean underwear in case you end up in a car accident.
You just never know.
Walking back toward my house after all the fun was over, I saw a guy walking toward me on the next block.
"I'd know that walk anywhere!" he called out, apparently to me since not another soul was around.
When we passed each other, I looked at him and said, "Really?"
"Oh, yes," he said with the certainty of someone who had seen me walk many times before.
I have absolutely no idea who he was.
I do know that Gull played on outside of Lift.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
If You Build It, They Will Come
For everyone thrilled about the fall-like weather, don't look to me for reinforcement.
I'm frickin' cold.
Just to walk the four blocks to ADA Gallery tonight, I needed to put on a blazer.
Three nights ago, I wore a sundress to a wine tasting. I'm so not ready for this.
But walk I did to see the opening of "Our Yasu," a joint show by Rachel Hayes and Jiha Moon at ADA.
Hayes' large-scale installation "Chutes and Tears" was part paper, part fabric, part acrylic and lots of denim.
When it had originally been installed in NYC, it had been in a window, making it more of a caged presentation.
At the time, the Japanese tsunami had just happened and many viewers interpreted the piece as representing a make-shift shelter.
To many people, the strips of denim represented people, jean-clad people.
But tonight's installation, with the ability to walk through and around it, felt more like a glorious canopy, brightly colored and whimsical.
It's all about the moment in time.
In the next gallery, Moon's collage-like pieces hung as individual units on the wall.
Unlike Western art with traditional rectangular canvases, hers were irregularly shaped pastiches of fabric, paper, paint, vinyl, and, yes, lots of denim.
Moon said she liked denim for its ability to change from almost white to the deepest blue.
She saw the stonewashed pieces as evocative of the 70s and 80s, a time before she was born.
I loved how lyrical her pieces were with the most beautiful combinations of off-colors, delicate painting, swatches and pockets of denim and calligraphy.
ADA Gallery was packed with art lovers eager to spend a Saturday evening seeing fresh work, including the Man-About-Town with whom I happily discussed "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" since he'd seen it, too.
Then he was off to a party and I to Selba to meet a friend.
I was charmed walking in to hear a guy playing piano, especially since the last time I'd been in the instrument had been no more than an empty glass receptacle.
The live music didn't mitigate the buzz-kill effect of the two TVs at the bar (nothing could) but I knew about them going in.
Unfortunately, the pianist stopped playing within moments of me walking in. Was it something I said?
There were only a few people at the long bar so I took a middle stool to wait for my friend with a glass of Vinho Verde.
Once she arrived, chiding me for always choosing poorly marked restaurants, we got down to the amuse bouche, a chilled melon soup with roasted cherry tomato.
She started with the wild mushroom tart (oyster, shitake and white mushies with puff pastry and sherry caramel), her only complaint being the scarcity of puff pastry.
I was more than satisfied with the richness of the mushroom saute.
I couldn't resist the Tri-tip steak, seared rare with red wine caper vinaigrette, Stilton cheese and chopped hard boiled egg over butter lettuce.
It turned out to be a generous amount of thinly sliced tri-tip, a cut you rarely see on restaurant menus.
Our server told us that many people see the word "tip" and expect beef tips, so he has to warn them of what they'll get to avoid surprise or disappointment.
I was neither and quite enjoyed the flavorful slices with the Stilton.
When the piano player stood up, I asked if he was going to play again, which he was.
Tonight was a new gig for him after losing one at Maggiano's. As he said, you take whatever jobs you can find.
We fell into conversation about eking out a living, whether by playing music or writing and then he was off to play.
Next my friend and I had the vegetarian spring rolls, which I remembered as the best thing I'd had on my first visit to Selba.
Mid-roll, we were unexpectedly joined by a man who walked up and said to me, "My son says you're the blogger."
As I explained to him, his article was all wrong. While I am a blogger, I am hardly the blogger.
He gave me enough of a running start for me to recall exactly when and where I'd met his son who, by some weird coincidence, was also having dinner at Selba tonight.
But not with his father.
At least he came over to say hello, expressing as much surprise that I remembered him as I had that he remembered me.
I was flattered to learn that they're both regular readers, a huge compliment since I'd only met the son once and the father never.
Turns out the father not only reads me, but takes dining suggestions from a stranger.
He's discovered Ettamae's because of my posts, which gave us an excuse to verbally drool about the corned beef hash and stellar ever-changing dinner menu.
He reads me well enough to ask, "Where exactly is the Camel? And why do you go there?"
And naturally he asked me why I blog.
And I answered truthfully, but I might well have asked him a question myself.
Why do you read me?
I'm frickin' cold.
Just to walk the four blocks to ADA Gallery tonight, I needed to put on a blazer.
Three nights ago, I wore a sundress to a wine tasting. I'm so not ready for this.
But walk I did to see the opening of "Our Yasu," a joint show by Rachel Hayes and Jiha Moon at ADA.
Hayes' large-scale installation "Chutes and Tears" was part paper, part fabric, part acrylic and lots of denim.
When it had originally been installed in NYC, it had been in a window, making it more of a caged presentation.
At the time, the Japanese tsunami had just happened and many viewers interpreted the piece as representing a make-shift shelter.
To many people, the strips of denim represented people, jean-clad people.
But tonight's installation, with the ability to walk through and around it, felt more like a glorious canopy, brightly colored and whimsical.
It's all about the moment in time.
In the next gallery, Moon's collage-like pieces hung as individual units on the wall.
Unlike Western art with traditional rectangular canvases, hers were irregularly shaped pastiches of fabric, paper, paint, vinyl, and, yes, lots of denim.
Moon said she liked denim for its ability to change from almost white to the deepest blue.
She saw the stonewashed pieces as evocative of the 70s and 80s, a time before she was born.
I loved how lyrical her pieces were with the most beautiful combinations of off-colors, delicate painting, swatches and pockets of denim and calligraphy.
ADA Gallery was packed with art lovers eager to spend a Saturday evening seeing fresh work, including the Man-About-Town with whom I happily discussed "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" since he'd seen it, too.
Then he was off to a party and I to Selba to meet a friend.
I was charmed walking in to hear a guy playing piano, especially since the last time I'd been in the instrument had been no more than an empty glass receptacle.
The live music didn't mitigate the buzz-kill effect of the two TVs at the bar (nothing could) but I knew about them going in.
Unfortunately, the pianist stopped playing within moments of me walking in. Was it something I said?
There were only a few people at the long bar so I took a middle stool to wait for my friend with a glass of Vinho Verde.
Once she arrived, chiding me for always choosing poorly marked restaurants, we got down to the amuse bouche, a chilled melon soup with roasted cherry tomato.
She started with the wild mushroom tart (oyster, shitake and white mushies with puff pastry and sherry caramel), her only complaint being the scarcity of puff pastry.
I was more than satisfied with the richness of the mushroom saute.
I couldn't resist the Tri-tip steak, seared rare with red wine caper vinaigrette, Stilton cheese and chopped hard boiled egg over butter lettuce.
It turned out to be a generous amount of thinly sliced tri-tip, a cut you rarely see on restaurant menus.
Our server told us that many people see the word "tip" and expect beef tips, so he has to warn them of what they'll get to avoid surprise or disappointment.
I was neither and quite enjoyed the flavorful slices with the Stilton.
When the piano player stood up, I asked if he was going to play again, which he was.
Tonight was a new gig for him after losing one at Maggiano's. As he said, you take whatever jobs you can find.
We fell into conversation about eking out a living, whether by playing music or writing and then he was off to play.
Next my friend and I had the vegetarian spring rolls, which I remembered as the best thing I'd had on my first visit to Selba.
Mid-roll, we were unexpectedly joined by a man who walked up and said to me, "My son says you're the blogger."
As I explained to him, his article was all wrong. While I am a blogger, I am hardly the blogger.
He gave me enough of a running start for me to recall exactly when and where I'd met his son who, by some weird coincidence, was also having dinner at Selba tonight.
But not with his father.
At least he came over to say hello, expressing as much surprise that I remembered him as I had that he remembered me.
I was flattered to learn that they're both regular readers, a huge compliment since I'd only met the son once and the father never.
Turns out the father not only reads me, but takes dining suggestions from a stranger.
He's discovered Ettamae's because of my posts, which gave us an excuse to verbally drool about the corned beef hash and stellar ever-changing dinner menu.
He reads me well enough to ask, "Where exactly is the Camel? And why do you go there?"
And naturally he asked me why I blog.
And I answered truthfully, but I might well have asked him a question myself.
Why do you read me?
Saturday, July 2, 2011
The Truth About Cover Bands
We found the perfect happy hour spot.
There was a couch for the two of us to sit on. We paid retail not restaurant prices for the wine and cheese.
And the music was a mix of vintage '80s and '90s classics that never let up, a foreshadowing of what was to come later in the evening.
My girlfriend and I met at Olio, where we kicked off happy hour as the first customers of the evening.
Choosing the Bodegas Montecillo Verdemar Albarion was a no-brainer. Its fruity nose was exceeded only by its big, beautifully rounded mouthfeel.
Deciding on cheese was more challenging, so we narrowed it down to a few in the stinky family.
The chef then asked how much we wanted to spend (we kept it economical) and assured us she'd make a cheese plate from that.
What arrived at our table was a cheese feast.
The Taleggio, French Pierre Robert with creme fraiche (as obscenely rich as good butter), English cheddar and French raw milk Fourme D'Ambert (a creamy bleu) with country pate, cornichons, various sizes of olives and grilled bread slices was truly impressive.
It was as comfortable as being at one of our homes, but with a far better variety of food and wine to choose from.
We girltalked and ate for two hours and still never finished all the food on that plate.
"We're coming back here," she said as we prepared to leave with full bellies.
Great ambiance, a view of the Main Street passersby (like the guy who walked by with an unzipped fly, only to return to the window to zip it up) and well-priced vino and victuals make for an unbeatable combination.
Afterwards, I took my car home so I could begin the artwalk on the night with the most daylight of all the First Fridays.
The crowds were a tad lighter than usual, but bands were performing on the street and vendors were set up everywhere.
Quirk's new show "Supper" featured table settings by Chris Milk, Christopher Jagmin, Tina Frey and Melody Gulik, each distinctive in its own way.
Jagmin's lunch setting was all about numbers on the dishes with office supplies (rubber bands, pencil shavings, push pins) as "food."
Gulik's table and the TV in front of it were covered in moss and plant matter for beautiful, if unusable, furniture.
In the front gallery, local artist Kenneth Chase's "Shop Show" featured collages on wood blocks, some of them painted, too. I felt myself begin to covet one of the very reasonably priced pieces, always a dangerous thing.
After a stop at ADA Gallery's show "Bovasso! Bovasso! Bovasso!" with whimsical and colorful new work by Nina Bovasso, I headed to Gallery 5 for the "Under the Covers" show.
No original material tonight.
I walked in just moments before the Pretend Pretenders began playing. Onstage, star guitarist Paul Ivey spotted me buying my ticket and said, "Karen's here" as if anyone cared.
Lead singer Allison Apperson repeated, "Karen's here" and from there they went into "Brass in Pocket" and took us through" "Kid," "Stop Your Sobbing," and "Back on the Chain Gang."
They did a superb job with the material (I love seeing a bass player slap a bass) and the crowd was wildly appreciative, dancing and singing along. Great songs, great voice, great playing.
The Green Hearts played next, doing "badass power pop" according to the show poster. What that meant was a lot of hard and fast old songs like "Starry Eyes" and "Rock and Roll Girl."
Lead singer Paul Ginder, with his magnificent new chops, did a great job carrying the energy of the songs.
Then Zepp Repplica (two P's, both words) took the stage in their impossibly tight pants and look-alike wigs to rock the faces off of the sweaty crowd.
Having seen them before, I knew how eerily similar they sound to the real thing, but most of the people I knew, as well as strangers, had never witnessed the veracity of their performance.
These twenty-somethings have seriously studied their Led Zeppelin history. Songs are note-perfect, vocals reach Plant-like pitch and mannerisms are nailed.
More than one person asked me afterwards why these guys aren't doing this professionally. Maybe they will. Likewise, several acknowledged how hard it was going to be to follow them onstage.
The Sweater band, a Weezer tribute, had that privilege. And while I can appreciate Weezer, I'm far from an aficionado of the band.
In fact, earlier in the evening, I'd asked musician Prabir why 30-somethings consider Weezer so god-like.
What followed was a 30-something's dissertation about the brilliance of the song writing and the technical skill of the guitar playing.
I recall something about the breadth of sounds Rivers Cuomo is able to coax from his electric guitar and that's about it. Frankly, I think it's because it was high school music for thirty-somethings.
But the Sweater Band fed into those people and soon there was rabid dancing and shouts of "WEE-ZER!" after every song.
I feared for my sandal-clad feet because of the large drunk guy dancing so boisterously right in front of me.
The band was smart, though, and began taking requests directly from the fanatics. It's a great way to shut people up.
And while I knew some material like "Buddy Holly" and of course "The Sweater Song," I couldn't commit like the diehards did.
Near the end of their set, I said my goodnights to nearby friends, including the one who was about as big a fan as me ("I traded my first Weezer album for Prodigy," he admitted sheepishly) and walked outside to say more goodnights there.
For all the cover band haters out there, you guys missed a seriously entertaining evening. They may not have been the real thing, but they were close.
Sometimes close counts in more than just hand grenades and horseshoes. Sometimes it's just good fun.
There was a couch for the two of us to sit on. We paid retail not restaurant prices for the wine and cheese.
And the music was a mix of vintage '80s and '90s classics that never let up, a foreshadowing of what was to come later in the evening.
My girlfriend and I met at Olio, where we kicked off happy hour as the first customers of the evening.
Choosing the Bodegas Montecillo Verdemar Albarion was a no-brainer. Its fruity nose was exceeded only by its big, beautifully rounded mouthfeel.
Deciding on cheese was more challenging, so we narrowed it down to a few in the stinky family.
The chef then asked how much we wanted to spend (we kept it economical) and assured us she'd make a cheese plate from that.
What arrived at our table was a cheese feast.
The Taleggio, French Pierre Robert with creme fraiche (as obscenely rich as good butter), English cheddar and French raw milk Fourme D'Ambert (a creamy bleu) with country pate, cornichons, various sizes of olives and grilled bread slices was truly impressive.
It was as comfortable as being at one of our homes, but with a far better variety of food and wine to choose from.
We girltalked and ate for two hours and still never finished all the food on that plate.
"We're coming back here," she said as we prepared to leave with full bellies.
Great ambiance, a view of the Main Street passersby (like the guy who walked by with an unzipped fly, only to return to the window to zip it up) and well-priced vino and victuals make for an unbeatable combination.
Afterwards, I took my car home so I could begin the artwalk on the night with the most daylight of all the First Fridays.
The crowds were a tad lighter than usual, but bands were performing on the street and vendors were set up everywhere.
Quirk's new show "Supper" featured table settings by Chris Milk, Christopher Jagmin, Tina Frey and Melody Gulik, each distinctive in its own way.
Jagmin's lunch setting was all about numbers on the dishes with office supplies (rubber bands, pencil shavings, push pins) as "food."
Gulik's table and the TV in front of it were covered in moss and plant matter for beautiful, if unusable, furniture.
In the front gallery, local artist Kenneth Chase's "Shop Show" featured collages on wood blocks, some of them painted, too. I felt myself begin to covet one of the very reasonably priced pieces, always a dangerous thing.
After a stop at ADA Gallery's show "Bovasso! Bovasso! Bovasso!" with whimsical and colorful new work by Nina Bovasso, I headed to Gallery 5 for the "Under the Covers" show.
No original material tonight.
I walked in just moments before the Pretend Pretenders began playing. Onstage, star guitarist Paul Ivey spotted me buying my ticket and said, "Karen's here" as if anyone cared.
Lead singer Allison Apperson repeated, "Karen's here" and from there they went into "Brass in Pocket" and took us through" "Kid," "Stop Your Sobbing," and "Back on the Chain Gang."
They did a superb job with the material (I love seeing a bass player slap a bass) and the crowd was wildly appreciative, dancing and singing along. Great songs, great voice, great playing.
The Green Hearts played next, doing "badass power pop" according to the show poster. What that meant was a lot of hard and fast old songs like "Starry Eyes" and "Rock and Roll Girl."
Lead singer Paul Ginder, with his magnificent new chops, did a great job carrying the energy of the songs.
Then Zepp Repplica (two P's, both words) took the stage in their impossibly tight pants and look-alike wigs to rock the faces off of the sweaty crowd.
Having seen them before, I knew how eerily similar they sound to the real thing, but most of the people I knew, as well as strangers, had never witnessed the veracity of their performance.
These twenty-somethings have seriously studied their Led Zeppelin history. Songs are note-perfect, vocals reach Plant-like pitch and mannerisms are nailed.
More than one person asked me afterwards why these guys aren't doing this professionally. Maybe they will. Likewise, several acknowledged how hard it was going to be to follow them onstage.
The Sweater band, a Weezer tribute, had that privilege. And while I can appreciate Weezer, I'm far from an aficionado of the band.
In fact, earlier in the evening, I'd asked musician Prabir why 30-somethings consider Weezer so god-like.
What followed was a 30-something's dissertation about the brilliance of the song writing and the technical skill of the guitar playing.
I recall something about the breadth of sounds Rivers Cuomo is able to coax from his electric guitar and that's about it. Frankly, I think it's because it was high school music for thirty-somethings.
But the Sweater Band fed into those people and soon there was rabid dancing and shouts of "WEE-ZER!" after every song.
I feared for my sandal-clad feet because of the large drunk guy dancing so boisterously right in front of me.
The band was smart, though, and began taking requests directly from the fanatics. It's a great way to shut people up.
And while I knew some material like "Buddy Holly" and of course "The Sweater Song," I couldn't commit like the diehards did.
Near the end of their set, I said my goodnights to nearby friends, including the one who was about as big a fan as me ("I traded my first Weezer album for Prodigy," he admitted sheepishly) and walked outside to say more goodnights there.
For all the cover band haters out there, you guys missed a seriously entertaining evening. They may not have been the real thing, but they were close.
Sometimes close counts in more than just hand grenades and horseshoes. Sometimes it's just good fun.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Sail Me to Wales and Bring Cheeks
To-Do List/ Friday:
1. Pre-artwalk party at Emrick Flats
I'd been eager to see the inside of these condos since they'd opened and I finally got the chance when music friends invited me to a party in their sensationally art-decorated home. I met J-Ward neighbors, music lovers and three people who recognized me although I couldn't reciprocate. Coolest elements of the building: the old elevator that would move the cars from floor to floor when it was a showroom and the rooftop deck, perfect for watching fireworks from both the Diamond and RIR. The view is stunning; who knew how many rooftop gardens there were in Jackson Ward? My friends have even slept up there. I aspire to sleep on a roof with someone I love.
2. Gallery 5 opening
Upon walking in, a G5 stalwart comes up with a guy in tow and introduces me saying, "And here's a woman who looks as good from the back as she does from the front." The stranger introduces himself as a solo transAtlantic sailor ("I did it twice. Both ways!"). He also tells me he was the first white guy in Carver and my friend informs me that he's an incredibly talented furniture maker. "Wanna come over now and see my etchings and I'll make you dinner?" he asks. I am tickled to hear that chestnut of a line. When I politely decline he tells me that I'm missing the chance of a lifetime. Damn! Again?
3. Metro Gallery and ADA Gallery openings
The group show at Metro contains a drawing with my favorite title of the evening: "When We Get There, I Will Love You More" by Carly Troncale. Over at ADA, Kate Woodliffe's fabric collages convey a sense of unsewn whimsy in cloth, but I realize her hands must have become gnarled and cramped from so much precise cutting. I see various guests from the party earlier, receive a compliment on my bangs and get invited to a house show in Monroe Ward. I chalk it up to Tinkerbelle hovering over me from a collage above.
4. Reynolds Gallery opening (late addition)
One of the paintings in my friends' apartment at the Emrick Flats had been by a student of artist Heide Trepanier, and after admiring the follower, I couldn't resist going to see the teacher's opening. As is always the case at Reynolds, local art luminaries were in attendance (Richard Roth, Joe Seipel) and and the place was crowded with artsy types having earnest conversations. Trepanier's large-scale works were fluid, detailed and defined by color. A woman says to me, "Who would have thought those colors go together?' about a piece with pinkish red, aqua blue and pine green shapes. Heide Trepanier, that's who.
5. Dinner
Restaurants on Broad Street and Main Street were out because of their respective artwalks, so I drove down to the Slip to Bistro Bobette. When I'd seen Chef Francis yesterday, he'd told me that pork cheeks were in the house, but wouldn't last long (fallling off the fork-tender, served cassoulet-style with carrots, potatoes, celery, pearl onions no doubt had something to do with that); I ordered almost as soon as I sat down. Bartender Olivier immediately introduced me to a Welsh-born chap who moved to RVA from L.A. yesterday. Full of presumptions, I asked him if he wanted company. He did. Cotes de Ventoux Les Blaques, a rhubarb/vanilla rum cocktail and blood orange wine came next. If I am to be believed, scintillating conversation, extensive laughter and loads of innuendo also followed. His version would be, "They had a chat and he buggered off," but not before acknowledging that men give women their power (thus proving that he has a clue). Note: he did not bugger off; I left him sitting at the bar with lipstick kisses on both cheeks, European-style. He'd already stated how much he wanted that. Welcome to Richmond.
To-do list done.
1. Pre-artwalk party at Emrick Flats
I'd been eager to see the inside of these condos since they'd opened and I finally got the chance when music friends invited me to a party in their sensationally art-decorated home. I met J-Ward neighbors, music lovers and three people who recognized me although I couldn't reciprocate. Coolest elements of the building: the old elevator that would move the cars from floor to floor when it was a showroom and the rooftop deck, perfect for watching fireworks from both the Diamond and RIR. The view is stunning; who knew how many rooftop gardens there were in Jackson Ward? My friends have even slept up there. I aspire to sleep on a roof with someone I love.
2. Gallery 5 opening
Upon walking in, a G5 stalwart comes up with a guy in tow and introduces me saying, "And here's a woman who looks as good from the back as she does from the front." The stranger introduces himself as a solo transAtlantic sailor ("I did it twice. Both ways!"). He also tells me he was the first white guy in Carver and my friend informs me that he's an incredibly talented furniture maker. "Wanna come over now and see my etchings and I'll make you dinner?" he asks. I am tickled to hear that chestnut of a line. When I politely decline he tells me that I'm missing the chance of a lifetime. Damn! Again?
3. Metro Gallery and ADA Gallery openings
The group show at Metro contains a drawing with my favorite title of the evening: "When We Get There, I Will Love You More" by Carly Troncale. Over at ADA, Kate Woodliffe's fabric collages convey a sense of unsewn whimsy in cloth, but I realize her hands must have become gnarled and cramped from so much precise cutting. I see various guests from the party earlier, receive a compliment on my bangs and get invited to a house show in Monroe Ward. I chalk it up to Tinkerbelle hovering over me from a collage above.
4. Reynolds Gallery opening (late addition)
One of the paintings in my friends' apartment at the Emrick Flats had been by a student of artist Heide Trepanier, and after admiring the follower, I couldn't resist going to see the teacher's opening. As is always the case at Reynolds, local art luminaries were in attendance (Richard Roth, Joe Seipel) and and the place was crowded with artsy types having earnest conversations. Trepanier's large-scale works were fluid, detailed and defined by color. A woman says to me, "Who would have thought those colors go together?' about a piece with pinkish red, aqua blue and pine green shapes. Heide Trepanier, that's who.
5. Dinner
Restaurants on Broad Street and Main Street were out because of their respective artwalks, so I drove down to the Slip to Bistro Bobette. When I'd seen Chef Francis yesterday, he'd told me that pork cheeks were in the house, but wouldn't last long (fallling off the fork-tender, served cassoulet-style with carrots, potatoes, celery, pearl onions no doubt had something to do with that); I ordered almost as soon as I sat down. Bartender Olivier immediately introduced me to a Welsh-born chap who moved to RVA from L.A. yesterday. Full of presumptions, I asked him if he wanted company. He did. Cotes de Ventoux Les Blaques, a rhubarb/vanilla rum cocktail and blood orange wine came next. If I am to be believed, scintillating conversation, extensive laughter and loads of innuendo also followed. His version would be, "They had a chat and he buggered off," but not before acknowledging that men give women their power (thus proving that he has a clue). Note: he did not bugger off; I left him sitting at the bar with lipstick kisses on both cheeks, European-style. He'd already stated how much he wanted that. Welcome to Richmond.
To-do list done.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Pocahontas Was Not a Jesus Freak
The snowfall was an especially nice touch, as was the knight, but I could have done without the maggots.
For me, the first First Friday of 2011 began at the VMFA as they kicked off documentary month for their Friday Film series. Tonight's screening was Little White Feather and the Hunter, about the legend of Pocahontas, certainly a topic near and dear to the history of Virginia.
While the film's images of the estuary landscape of the Chesapeake Bay and Essex, England were striking, the voice overs seemed scattered; they ranged from ancestors of Pocahontas' tribe to anthropologists and archaeologists, all explaining their take on the Indian princess who moved to England and converted to Christianity ("She was looking for Jesus," one said. No, she wasn't, you wacko).
Call me a wimp, but I wasn't the only one who had a tough time seeing an image of a bloody, recently-killed deer strung up from a tree and drawn-out shots of oyster shucking seemed irrelevant after a while.
Mainly the film served to show the wide range of perceptions and misconceptions people still have about Pocahontas, both here and in England.
My innate nerdiness showed itself because I left feeling vaguely dissatisfied with having learned absolutely nothing new; the film was pretty but vapid and that's coming from a documentary dork.
Back in the Ward, I began my gallery tour at ADA Gallery for the Morgan Herrin piece, "Untitled." The 7' wooden sculpture of a knight who seems to have stalactites hanging downwards from his body like icicles, was the undisputed highlight of the evening.
I still remember my sheer awe at encountering his untitled female nude (the one bought by Lance Armstrong) on a Sunday morning on Floyd Avenue a few years ago; this piece has the same monumentality, classicism and skill with wood that stopped me in my tracks that day.
As I stood there gaping at the beauty of the work and wishing I could run my hand over it, a guy behind me said, "Now I just need to get my love life in order and life will be great." He said it so nonchalantly that I wanted to turn around and ask, "Yea, me, too. Exactly how do you do that?"
Over at Gallery 5, the Papier-Machete exhibit of paper works was packed, and with good reason. The large scale cut-out works were beautiful, full of energy and so intricate and detailed that the first thing I'd ask the artists is how long it took her (and what happened to her social life in the meantime).
I found the papier- mache road kill pieces especially clever; recreations of actual road kill were made and filled with wildflower seeds.
After the show, the pieces will be returned to the streets where their predecessors were first found and eventually the wildflowers will begin to sprout from their artistic shells. Naturally, photos will document the growth.
These pieces led to a discussion with a couple of (male) gallery-goers about finding dead animals (possums, armadillos and such) only to discover upon picking them up (something I would never do) that they were dead and full of maggots.
Descriptions of slime and decay followed and I made my escape, finding a couple of friends nearby with whom I could discuss more pleasant things.
On the way out I saw a box of faux cupcakes in GallowLily's "Sweet Home" exhibit and pretended to take a swipe of icing to make my friend Andrew laugh (I'm an icing licker from way back and he knows this. Hell, he's videotaped it).
Except that my gloved finger came up unexpectedly full of frosting. Oops. He backed away, saying, "I didn't see a thing," as I snagged the cupcake to remove the evidence of my folly, eating it as we made our way out.
The gloves had to come off, though; cupcakes lose a good part of their pleasure when finger-licking isn't possible. Lesson learned.
We decided to make our way to 1708 Gallery on the basis of another friend's endorsement of the Mathew Friday show there, based on the state of Texas banning mention of Thomas Jefferson in its history books. In Texas, though; really is anyone surprised?
"The Liberty of Empire" was structured almost like a workshop, exploring some of Thomas Jefferson's less-publicized passions (like his interest in anarchist Utopian communities, his budding interest in ecology and disdain for capitalism) and how they relate to our country today.
As the friend who had recommended the exhibit had told me, "Go see it once through tonight and then go back to really take it all in."
Since he's one of RVA's preeminent history buffs, I knew as soon as we got there that he was right. It was provocative, but tough to appreciate amongst the crowds; I will go back and explore what a raving lunatic TJ must have been to dream so big.
We walked into Quirk for a quick peek at the pottery show featuring a lot of large-sale jugs and vessels beautifully decorated, but the surprise came when we exited the gallery to find it seriously snowing. We are becoming a place where it snows regularly and no one's quite used to it.
It was beautiful and people around me were getting excited about it, although as a high school teacher I randomly spoke to told me, it was a waste. "What good does Friday snow do me?" Um, save you snow make-up days come June perhaps?
My friends were headed to the Slip/Bottom for a "bar hop" ("Do you mean pub crawl?" another friend humorously corrected) beginning at Sine' (again, her comment, "God, why there?"), but I was more in the mood for some wine, a view of the falling snow and a long chat with an old friend.
Got it all...without hopping or crawling.
For me, the first First Friday of 2011 began at the VMFA as they kicked off documentary month for their Friday Film series. Tonight's screening was Little White Feather and the Hunter, about the legend of Pocahontas, certainly a topic near and dear to the history of Virginia.
While the film's images of the estuary landscape of the Chesapeake Bay and Essex, England were striking, the voice overs seemed scattered; they ranged from ancestors of Pocahontas' tribe to anthropologists and archaeologists, all explaining their take on the Indian princess who moved to England and converted to Christianity ("She was looking for Jesus," one said. No, she wasn't, you wacko).
Call me a wimp, but I wasn't the only one who had a tough time seeing an image of a bloody, recently-killed deer strung up from a tree and drawn-out shots of oyster shucking seemed irrelevant after a while.
Mainly the film served to show the wide range of perceptions and misconceptions people still have about Pocahontas, both here and in England.
My innate nerdiness showed itself because I left feeling vaguely dissatisfied with having learned absolutely nothing new; the film was pretty but vapid and that's coming from a documentary dork.
Back in the Ward, I began my gallery tour at ADA Gallery for the Morgan Herrin piece, "Untitled." The 7' wooden sculpture of a knight who seems to have stalactites hanging downwards from his body like icicles, was the undisputed highlight of the evening.
I still remember my sheer awe at encountering his untitled female nude (the one bought by Lance Armstrong) on a Sunday morning on Floyd Avenue a few years ago; this piece has the same monumentality, classicism and skill with wood that stopped me in my tracks that day.
As I stood there gaping at the beauty of the work and wishing I could run my hand over it, a guy behind me said, "Now I just need to get my love life in order and life will be great." He said it so nonchalantly that I wanted to turn around and ask, "Yea, me, too. Exactly how do you do that?"
Over at Gallery 5, the Papier-Machete exhibit of paper works was packed, and with good reason. The large scale cut-out works were beautiful, full of energy and so intricate and detailed that the first thing I'd ask the artists is how long it took her (and what happened to her social life in the meantime).
I found the papier- mache road kill pieces especially clever; recreations of actual road kill were made and filled with wildflower seeds.
After the show, the pieces will be returned to the streets where their predecessors were first found and eventually the wildflowers will begin to sprout from their artistic shells. Naturally, photos will document the growth.
These pieces led to a discussion with a couple of (male) gallery-goers about finding dead animals (possums, armadillos and such) only to discover upon picking them up (something I would never do) that they were dead and full of maggots.
Descriptions of slime and decay followed and I made my escape, finding a couple of friends nearby with whom I could discuss more pleasant things.
On the way out I saw a box of faux cupcakes in GallowLily's "Sweet Home" exhibit and pretended to take a swipe of icing to make my friend Andrew laugh (I'm an icing licker from way back and he knows this. Hell, he's videotaped it).
Except that my gloved finger came up unexpectedly full of frosting. Oops. He backed away, saying, "I didn't see a thing," as I snagged the cupcake to remove the evidence of my folly, eating it as we made our way out.
The gloves had to come off, though; cupcakes lose a good part of their pleasure when finger-licking isn't possible. Lesson learned.
We decided to make our way to 1708 Gallery on the basis of another friend's endorsement of the Mathew Friday show there, based on the state of Texas banning mention of Thomas Jefferson in its history books. In Texas, though; really is anyone surprised?
"The Liberty of Empire" was structured almost like a workshop, exploring some of Thomas Jefferson's less-publicized passions (like his interest in anarchist Utopian communities, his budding interest in ecology and disdain for capitalism) and how they relate to our country today.
As the friend who had recommended the exhibit had told me, "Go see it once through tonight and then go back to really take it all in."
Since he's one of RVA's preeminent history buffs, I knew as soon as we got there that he was right. It was provocative, but tough to appreciate amongst the crowds; I will go back and explore what a raving lunatic TJ must have been to dream so big.
We walked into Quirk for a quick peek at the pottery show featuring a lot of large-sale jugs and vessels beautifully decorated, but the surprise came when we exited the gallery to find it seriously snowing. We are becoming a place where it snows regularly and no one's quite used to it.
It was beautiful and people around me were getting excited about it, although as a high school teacher I randomly spoke to told me, it was a waste. "What good does Friday snow do me?" Um, save you snow make-up days come June perhaps?
My friends were headed to the Slip/Bottom for a "bar hop" ("Do you mean pub crawl?" another friend humorously corrected) beginning at Sine' (again, her comment, "God, why there?"), but I was more in the mood for some wine, a view of the falling snow and a long chat with an old friend.
Got it all...without hopping or crawling.
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?
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