You know how you go away for a few days and then you come back and it feels like life is hurtling at you in repayment?
Yea, so that.
At Swift Creek Mill Theatre yesterday waiting to see "The Little Lion," a woman behind me asks her companion, "Shall I wake you when it's over?" The man gets indignant, replying, "I don't go to sleep until it starts!"
I think he was kidding because I never heard any obvious snoring and besides, how do you fall asleep when a revving motorbike is part of the 22-person cast? Or for that matter, when a tragic story of Lithuanian Jews being beaten, killed and herded into ghettos is unfolding in front of you?
Arriving a few minutes late for the latest Public Arts meeting, I found a seat at a table where I recognized two of the people - an architect and a dancer - and promptly introduced myself to the other two. One, like me, had already attended one of these meetings.
Five minutes into the presentation, we both realized that it was exactly the same as last time. Leaning in to whisper, I asked if we should leave and got a big smile and a nod, so we quietly exited while the rest of the room stayed.
What do you do with a stranger but go have a drink and talk for a couple of hours? Turns out we'd both assumed that tonight's event was going to be the next stage of public input, not a repeat. We consoled ourselves with our shared misconceptions.
How dumb could we be if we both thought the same thing? How unexpectedly enjoyable to spend time getting to know someone new when we thought we'd be diligently working toward the greater good?
Today was all about catching up on deadlines and setting up interviews for upcoming stories. Midway through the day, I got a non-work-related lunch invitation for next week and immediately sent off my enthusiastic acceptance.
My day was made with the response. "I'm not going to insult you by asking if you need a parking pass." Thank you for that.
I managed a 5 1/2 mile walk before returning to the grindstone and hurriedly showering and primping to go out. Despite temperatures of 28 that feel like 20, I rebelled against the past few days of sensible legwear and opted for magenta lace tights, well aware of what excellent conversation-starters they are.
First up was the Branch Museum of Architecture and Design's soiree, an introductory event for their new director Craig Reynolds, who also delivered a lecture on his pet subject, "Setting the Presidential Model: Thomas Jefferson and Architecture and Design."
Besides the fact that he couldn't have even been alive when the Smiths formed, his was a compelling talk about how important it was to TJ to establish an American artistic model for successive generations to follow.
In other words, don't leave it to the rabble to figure that out, leave them a blueprint.
A golden opportunity presented itself when West Point commissioned painter Thomas Sully (who greatly admired TJ's state capital design, but then who didn't?) to do a portrait of the 78-year old to hang with one of George Washington in their esteemed halls.
I was interested to hear that TJ had his own portrait collection, including the faces of Lafayette, Sir Isaac Newton, John Locke, Cortez, Columbus, Magellan, Ben Franklin and, natch, George. The Americans, he dubbed "worthies" and, yep, he included a portrait of himself.
He was a proponent of what he called "natural aristocracy," based on virtue and talent as opposed to traditional aristocracy based on wealth and birth. That's our boy, so American.
Ditto his choice of ensemble for the portrait, which involved a fur-lined coat (American rustic) over a three-piece black suit (I'm a simple man) and - this was key to TJ - shoes that laced not buckled. Buckles are unnecessary and showy, kind of like the English, whose architecture he deemed "the most wretched style I ever saw."
The colonial capital Williamsburg he called "tasteless and barbarous" and William and Mary's campus was no more than "rude and misshapen piles." Is it any wonder we love this man?
All in all, the young Dr. Reynolds' lecture was stellar, full of fascinating quotes and nerdy art history factoids that I hadn't heard before. He'll do just fine as director even if "This Charming Man" means nothing to him.
I call that an auspicious start to my evening.
At Ghostprint Gallery, I found a crowded room and widespread appreciation of my distinctive tights. One guy liked them so much he pulled over three friends, one by one, to admire them. I broke it to them gently that they were likely just leg men so their attention was about more than what was covering them.
I should know better than to open that kind of door, except that it resulted in a delightful exchange with a guy about having an EKG with a hairy chest and the problems inherent in that. Have first or get a faulty reading?
How better to learn such things than straight from the horse's mouth?
A flicking of the lights signaled the main event, "Totems," a live music and dance collaboration inspired by the colorful costumes created by artist Carol Meese, whose abstract paintings of the Outer Banks adorn the gallery's walls.
But for tonight, it was these incredible costumes and headdresses she'd created that were the focus. With original music by Regan Nunnally Sprenkle and a chorus of seven plus a drummer, we witnessed eight dancers choreographed by Isabel Layton come out individually and perform in the center of the room.
Carol had explained that the colorful, multi-textural outfits ("totems," as gallerist Gerladine Duskin had dubbed them) had been inspired partly by artifacts she'd seen in the VMFA's African collection and partly during a trip to Morocco.
That alone was compelling enough, but a closer look revealed many details exhibiting nods to American consumerism.
Silverware, kitchen utensils and even red and yellow plastic ketchup and mustard bottles hung from one dancer's hips. Anther's headdress tinkled with the sound of dozens of bottle caps jangling against each other. Shells, coins, animal figures and all kinds of other objects adorned the multi-layered costumes.
The dancing had a similar multi-culturalism, combining elements of African, Native American and Middle Eastern movement by the women, all veiled to hide their faces and with black gloves over their hands.
Despite the roomful of spectators, the performance unfolded organically with people on three sides of it, quiet and agog at the beauty of the trifecta of clothing, music and dance. As a friend put it, "I felt like I was in New York again!"
I recognized faces throughout the room as the kind of people who attend a lot of the more unusual goings-on in Richmond, but all of them agreed afterwards that this was an extraordinary marriage of performance and visual arts. Part of TJ's American artistic legacy, I'm thinking.
With apologies to Morrissey, heaven knows I'm happy to be back in the thick of things now.
Showing posts with label Ghostprint Gallery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ghostprint Gallery. Show all posts
Friday, February 12, 2016
Friday, January 15, 2016
Making a Woman Fan Out of Me
If I couldn't actually be at the edge of the sea, at least I could witness the funk.
Ghostprint Gallery's opening for Carol Meese's "Edge of the Sea" exhibition offered a vaguely abstract look at a landscape I know very well. The artist, one of those fortunate people who have a house on the Outer Banks, created works evoking but not technically representing the beach and water I've been visiting annually since I was two.
The pieces are incredibly atmospheric, whether it's a view of the beach walking South, like "Orange and Gray" or one from the non-ocean side, such as "Salvo Sound." Birds, sea foam, grasses, everything is suggested rather than clearly defined with Meese's loose brushstrokes and painterly style.
If you're like me, the show will make you wish it were warmer weather and you were there. That, or it'll make you wish you had a fatter wallet. As a girlfriend I ran into put it, "I aspire to be able to buy art." The works in the show were actually very well-priced, just out of the range of freelance writers.
I convened an ad hoc film discussion when I ran into a couple of fellow film buffs, briefly abandoning art. UR's International Film series is about to crank up again and a friend made me laugh when she described it as, "A wonderful foreign film series, but all the movies, even the comedies, are depressing." She exaggerates, but only a tad.
A pragmatist would say they're just more realistic than Hollywood versions.
Tonight's main event was a show at the National which began with only about 40 people present for opener Rome Fortune, a hip hop artist from Atlanta dressed all in white. No, hip hop isn't usually my thing, but if I only went to see musicians who were my "thing," I'd be a pretty stale person, now wouldn't I?
I prefer to think that I'm not.
We gave the guy credit, though, because despite the insufficient crowd, he danced and rapped his heart out with solid beats and engaging arrangements, gradually enticing people to, as he put it, "move those asses,' even calling out a guy for not dancing with the lovely lady beside him.
Personally, I think men should be called out for that sin more often.
In the bathroom after his set, I heard a girl tell her friend, "I'm a fan of tall, well-dressed dudes but right now, I don't wanna walk that slanted floor in these heels." I have no clue what good-looking hunk of man meat she was passing on for the sake of cute shoes.
As a woman of a certain age, I have a policy on that matter, learned through experience. Never wear shoes you can't walk in to do whatever it is you might want to do, honey.
Walking back to my position in front of the sound booth, I was amazed at how many more people of all ages had shown up, including a guy behind me who leaned in and asked, "Do they sell pot here?"
Well, I don't know about that, but there definitely was a lot of pot smoking going on in the crowd once Lettuce took the stage and, for that matter, there was also crowd-surfing and light saber-waving. It was a colorful crowd, all around.
I'd discovered Lettuce a few months ago when I'd first heard "He Made a Woman Out of Me" and been smitten, intrigued by the sound of a six-piece funk band inspired by Tower of Power and Earth, Wind and Fire who'd formed at Berklee College 24 years ago.
As long as I've been around and as much as I like a good funk band, that's a long time not to have heard of them.
Needless to say, after a quarter of a century together the group - trumpet, sax, guitar, bass, keys, drums - was impressively tight, nailing stops, starts and tempo changes as easily as batting their eyes. The horns were especially swoon-worthy, put through all kinds of effects and sometimes following the lead guitar's role in moving the music along. The drummer killed it and every kind of percussion was trotted out to fuel the funk.
A sticker on the sound guy's laptop proclaimed the band's intent: "May the funk be with you."
Best of all, the dude-heavy crowd - described by my companion as old, young, hippies, music geeks and festival kids - started dancing from the first notes and never stopped (except between songs) for two sets. Fact is, you can still dance, even when you're passing a joint or waving a light saber. But then, the point of funk is to shake your ass.
As the keyboard player soulfully sang, "You gotta do your thing." You know I did.
Ghostprint Gallery's opening for Carol Meese's "Edge of the Sea" exhibition offered a vaguely abstract look at a landscape I know very well. The artist, one of those fortunate people who have a house on the Outer Banks, created works evoking but not technically representing the beach and water I've been visiting annually since I was two.
The pieces are incredibly atmospheric, whether it's a view of the beach walking South, like "Orange and Gray" or one from the non-ocean side, such as "Salvo Sound." Birds, sea foam, grasses, everything is suggested rather than clearly defined with Meese's loose brushstrokes and painterly style.
If you're like me, the show will make you wish it were warmer weather and you were there. That, or it'll make you wish you had a fatter wallet. As a girlfriend I ran into put it, "I aspire to be able to buy art." The works in the show were actually very well-priced, just out of the range of freelance writers.
I convened an ad hoc film discussion when I ran into a couple of fellow film buffs, briefly abandoning art. UR's International Film series is about to crank up again and a friend made me laugh when she described it as, "A wonderful foreign film series, but all the movies, even the comedies, are depressing." She exaggerates, but only a tad.
A pragmatist would say they're just more realistic than Hollywood versions.
Tonight's main event was a show at the National which began with only about 40 people present for opener Rome Fortune, a hip hop artist from Atlanta dressed all in white. No, hip hop isn't usually my thing, but if I only went to see musicians who were my "thing," I'd be a pretty stale person, now wouldn't I?
I prefer to think that I'm not.
We gave the guy credit, though, because despite the insufficient crowd, he danced and rapped his heart out with solid beats and engaging arrangements, gradually enticing people to, as he put it, "move those asses,' even calling out a guy for not dancing with the lovely lady beside him.
Personally, I think men should be called out for that sin more often.
In the bathroom after his set, I heard a girl tell her friend, "I'm a fan of tall, well-dressed dudes but right now, I don't wanna walk that slanted floor in these heels." I have no clue what good-looking hunk of man meat she was passing on for the sake of cute shoes.
As a woman of a certain age, I have a policy on that matter, learned through experience. Never wear shoes you can't walk in to do whatever it is you might want to do, honey.
Walking back to my position in front of the sound booth, I was amazed at how many more people of all ages had shown up, including a guy behind me who leaned in and asked, "Do they sell pot here?"
Well, I don't know about that, but there definitely was a lot of pot smoking going on in the crowd once Lettuce took the stage and, for that matter, there was also crowd-surfing and light saber-waving. It was a colorful crowd, all around.
I'd discovered Lettuce a few months ago when I'd first heard "He Made a Woman Out of Me" and been smitten, intrigued by the sound of a six-piece funk band inspired by Tower of Power and Earth, Wind and Fire who'd formed at Berklee College 24 years ago.
As long as I've been around and as much as I like a good funk band, that's a long time not to have heard of them.
Needless to say, after a quarter of a century together the group - trumpet, sax, guitar, bass, keys, drums - was impressively tight, nailing stops, starts and tempo changes as easily as batting their eyes. The horns were especially swoon-worthy, put through all kinds of effects and sometimes following the lead guitar's role in moving the music along. The drummer killed it and every kind of percussion was trotted out to fuel the funk.
A sticker on the sound guy's laptop proclaimed the band's intent: "May the funk be with you."
Best of all, the dude-heavy crowd - described by my companion as old, young, hippies, music geeks and festival kids - started dancing from the first notes and never stopped (except between songs) for two sets. Fact is, you can still dance, even when you're passing a joint or waving a light saber. But then, the point of funk is to shake your ass.
As the keyboard player soulfully sang, "You gotta do your thing." You know I did.
Friday, October 16, 2015
Excitement is Not Always Clean
When planning a culturally full evening, it's wise to save the depravity for last. Start with it and the rest of the night will seem mighty dull in comparison.
I like to think I'm too smart for a rookie mistake like that.
Moving outward by degrees over the course of the evening, my first stop was at nearby UR Downtown for Take 30, a quickie talk about the current exhibition, "All Our Sorrows Heal: Restoring Richmond's East End Cemetery."
Photographs of unearthed gravestones and the volunteer work being done at East End Cemetery made up the exhibition about the 16-acre property founded in 1897 where 13,000 blacks were buried. Because no arrangements had ever been put in place for perpetual care, the place had gone completely to ruin.
Enter professors Brian and Erin Holloway Palmer who were seeking a place where black history was being reclaimed by people using their hands. Setting set out to document all this, a massive project was born.
They were Take 30's featured speakers and Brian emphasized how every uncovered grave marker was a story connected to black history in Richmond at its height. Erin's job was then to research the names on the stones found and discover their story.
Part of their mission was to ignite interest in the ongoing effort (two of sixteen acres are cleared so far) and recruit volunteers to help with the weekly effort. Brian assured the room that once you uncover your first headstone, you become addicted to the process.
The goal, as he put it, is to achieve a balance of stories by reclaiming these Richmonders' stories to consider alongside those of more documented white Richmond residents. I have to admit, it makes me want to go out and see what's been accomplished so far.
Next came Afrikana Film Festival's Noir Cinema series at the new Ghostprint Gallery, tonight showing Zakee Kuduro's short film, "Rosemarie."
I'm that nerd who got there on time and as I was sitting there reading today's Washington Post, they were showing photos taken at past events. When my face came up on one of them, the photographer came over and pointed at it, saying, "Look, I got your good side!"
A matter of opinion, but I'll take your word for it.
Not long after, a guy came up and asked me if I was at Laney and Jameson's show last night, which I was. Chatting, I learned that he was a conservator who used to restore old houses (he was impressed with Ghostprint's new digs) but since the housing crash, now focuses on filmmaking and acting.
Sounds like more fun anyway.
The house was nearly full when "Rosemarie" began and we were immediately plunged into a very strange but visually fascinating world involving three characters who never spoke and a classical-sounding score written by the director, to the audience's great surprise ("I thought it was Bartok," one woman said).
Just before the film ended, the conservator got up to leave, handing me his card before he walked out. Should I assume I looked like I needed conserving? Nah.
When the lights came up, the first person to speak summed it up for all of us. "I got questions."
Everyone did. Who was the mysterious man who added articles of clothing gathered at each landing of a building's staircase? Why a bull mask and spurs on the boots? Why a mime's mask? Was that dancing or some sort of ritual?
Director Zakee Kuduro, a non-linear visual maker, explained a lot, but not the meaning behind his film. A Brazilian who said he registered to people as a black man, he'd gotten two scientific degrees before doing work for Gnarls Barley, Lilly Allen and M.I.A.
His was a refreshingly honest take on creating art. "I didn't come to art to be broke," he explained. "Why would I be sleeping on someone's couch because I love my art? Art doesn't love me that much."
He railed against the dearth of talented black directors, saying Spike Lee and John Singleton weren't doing anything anymore, so people like him needed to step up.
A big part of the appeal of Noir Cinema - besides seeing work that would never show in Richmond otherwise - is immediately getting to hear the director's thoughts and opinions without a filter.
But sometimes you want it even raunchier than filter-less and that's when you go to Bandito's. And speaking of filters, when it's your first time at a dive like Bandito's you don't go in knowing that it's one of those places people still smoke.
Cough, choke, sputter, my hair and clothes now reek of smoke. Thanks, Bandito's.
Such was the price I had to pay to see John Waters' "Female Trouble," a 1974 dark comedy starring Divine that I'm pretty sure I'd never seen before. Or maybe I just blocked it out.
It was showing on the bazillion screens around the room while a noisy, drunk crowd mostly ignored it except when genitalia flashed on screen or Divine was bouncing on a trampoline. I found a safe haven out of the fray to watch the seamy underbelly of Maryland circa 1974, a period in which I was also a resident of the state.
It's always hard to choose the least tasteless part of a John Waters' film, but it's so much fun to try.
Was it mother Dawn's abominable treatment of her daughter, Taffy ("She's getting tied to her bed for a week for this!") whom she eventually strangles to death?
Watching Taffy's drunk father try to convince his daughter to sexually service him?
Or was it multiple references to mass murderers ("Oh, Richard Speck, get me through this night!"), including one saying that she'd given him oral sex?
Oh, John Waters! You give us as many options as a Whitman's Sampler, except they're all disgusting ones.
But his dialog can be laugh out loud hysterical commentary ("The world of a heterosexual is a sick and boring life"), dated dialog ("You are not my Daddy, you disgusting hippie pig!") or just plain funny ("I'm going upstairs to soak in a hot beauty bath and try to forget the stink of a five-year marriage!").
Tonight's double feature was the kickoff to John Waters' visit to Richmond tomorrow night and while I'd have liked to have stayed to see "Pink Flamingos" after "Female Trouble," I'd had about all the Bandito's I could stand.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to soak in a hot beauty bath and try to forget the stink of 90 minutes in a smoking chamber for the sake of classic trash.
Make that for the sake of art.
I like to think I'm too smart for a rookie mistake like that.
Moving outward by degrees over the course of the evening, my first stop was at nearby UR Downtown for Take 30, a quickie talk about the current exhibition, "All Our Sorrows Heal: Restoring Richmond's East End Cemetery."
Photographs of unearthed gravestones and the volunteer work being done at East End Cemetery made up the exhibition about the 16-acre property founded in 1897 where 13,000 blacks were buried. Because no arrangements had ever been put in place for perpetual care, the place had gone completely to ruin.
Enter professors Brian and Erin Holloway Palmer who were seeking a place where black history was being reclaimed by people using their hands. Setting set out to document all this, a massive project was born.
They were Take 30's featured speakers and Brian emphasized how every uncovered grave marker was a story connected to black history in Richmond at its height. Erin's job was then to research the names on the stones found and discover their story.
Part of their mission was to ignite interest in the ongoing effort (two of sixteen acres are cleared so far) and recruit volunteers to help with the weekly effort. Brian assured the room that once you uncover your first headstone, you become addicted to the process.
The goal, as he put it, is to achieve a balance of stories by reclaiming these Richmonders' stories to consider alongside those of more documented white Richmond residents. I have to admit, it makes me want to go out and see what's been accomplished so far.
Next came Afrikana Film Festival's Noir Cinema series at the new Ghostprint Gallery, tonight showing Zakee Kuduro's short film, "Rosemarie."
I'm that nerd who got there on time and as I was sitting there reading today's Washington Post, they were showing photos taken at past events. When my face came up on one of them, the photographer came over and pointed at it, saying, "Look, I got your good side!"
A matter of opinion, but I'll take your word for it.
Not long after, a guy came up and asked me if I was at Laney and Jameson's show last night, which I was. Chatting, I learned that he was a conservator who used to restore old houses (he was impressed with Ghostprint's new digs) but since the housing crash, now focuses on filmmaking and acting.
Sounds like more fun anyway.
The house was nearly full when "Rosemarie" began and we were immediately plunged into a very strange but visually fascinating world involving three characters who never spoke and a classical-sounding score written by the director, to the audience's great surprise ("I thought it was Bartok," one woman said).
Just before the film ended, the conservator got up to leave, handing me his card before he walked out. Should I assume I looked like I needed conserving? Nah.
When the lights came up, the first person to speak summed it up for all of us. "I got questions."
Everyone did. Who was the mysterious man who added articles of clothing gathered at each landing of a building's staircase? Why a bull mask and spurs on the boots? Why a mime's mask? Was that dancing or some sort of ritual?
Director Zakee Kuduro, a non-linear visual maker, explained a lot, but not the meaning behind his film. A Brazilian who said he registered to people as a black man, he'd gotten two scientific degrees before doing work for Gnarls Barley, Lilly Allen and M.I.A.
His was a refreshingly honest take on creating art. "I didn't come to art to be broke," he explained. "Why would I be sleeping on someone's couch because I love my art? Art doesn't love me that much."
He railed against the dearth of talented black directors, saying Spike Lee and John Singleton weren't doing anything anymore, so people like him needed to step up.
A big part of the appeal of Noir Cinema - besides seeing work that would never show in Richmond otherwise - is immediately getting to hear the director's thoughts and opinions without a filter.
But sometimes you want it even raunchier than filter-less and that's when you go to Bandito's. And speaking of filters, when it's your first time at a dive like Bandito's you don't go in knowing that it's one of those places people still smoke.
Cough, choke, sputter, my hair and clothes now reek of smoke. Thanks, Bandito's.
Such was the price I had to pay to see John Waters' "Female Trouble," a 1974 dark comedy starring Divine that I'm pretty sure I'd never seen before. Or maybe I just blocked it out.
It was showing on the bazillion screens around the room while a noisy, drunk crowd mostly ignored it except when genitalia flashed on screen or Divine was bouncing on a trampoline. I found a safe haven out of the fray to watch the seamy underbelly of Maryland circa 1974, a period in which I was also a resident of the state.
It's always hard to choose the least tasteless part of a John Waters' film, but it's so much fun to try.
Was it mother Dawn's abominable treatment of her daughter, Taffy ("She's getting tied to her bed for a week for this!") whom she eventually strangles to death?
Watching Taffy's drunk father try to convince his daughter to sexually service him?
Or was it multiple references to mass murderers ("Oh, Richard Speck, get me through this night!"), including one saying that she'd given him oral sex?
Oh, John Waters! You give us as many options as a Whitman's Sampler, except they're all disgusting ones.
But his dialog can be laugh out loud hysterical commentary ("The world of a heterosexual is a sick and boring life"), dated dialog ("You are not my Daddy, you disgusting hippie pig!") or just plain funny ("I'm going upstairs to soak in a hot beauty bath and try to forget the stink of a five-year marriage!").
Tonight's double feature was the kickoff to John Waters' visit to Richmond tomorrow night and while I'd have liked to have stayed to see "Pink Flamingos" after "Female Trouble," I'd had about all the Bandito's I could stand.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to soak in a hot beauty bath and try to forget the stink of 90 minutes in a smoking chamber for the sake of classic trash.
Make that for the sake of art.
Friday, September 11, 2015
Just the Night in My Veins
It's my legs and mouth that give me away every time.
My evening began with a drive to Williamsburg (going way back for David Gray's "White Ladder" and the Pretenders' "Last of the Independents") that required navigating through three major thunderstorms and trying to stay out of the way of maniacs going 70 mph when visibility was so bad that I couldn't see the cars' lights in front of me.
Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer to slow down when I'm driving blind.
My destination was a cocktail party at one of those fake town center kind of places (didn't even know Williamsburg had one, to be honest), not that I knew that when I set out. I'd been invited by the magazine I write for down there, meaning I'd know exactly one person: the publisher.
Fortunately, she was good enough to introduce me around as her "favorite writer," which made me feel a bit like a show pony being trotted out, but what do I care as long as she gives me interesting assignments and pays me well?
Among the more interesting local business owners I met were a European chef, a woman who owns an independent feed and seed store ("Tractor Supply is my enemy") and a guy who gives flying lessons and air tours.
There was also a woman who'd adopted a Pekingese-poodle mix from the SPCA at 5:00 and had to immediately park the mutt with her son so she could come to the party. The guilt was killing her as she downed ham biscuits and Sauvignon Blanc.
The one kind of person I hadn't expected to meet was someone looking for freelance writers to write for her Tidewater magazine, but then maybe this is what they call networking. It felt more like stumbling into a lucky break.
When a couple of businesswomen found out I lived in Richmond, they were thrilled. Would I be willing to accompany them on a night out on their dime so I could show them some of my favorite places? Well, sure, I might be able to fit that in.
I waited for a break in the black sky and pouring rain to say my goodbyes so I could hopefully make it back in time to be part of the inaugural Second Thursday in Scott's Addition, or at the very least, catch the opening of Juan Perdiguero's show at Ghostprint Gallery's new location on the Boulevard.
Ghostprint was hopping when I arrived and everyone was raving about the new space. What was striking for me was that I'd last seen it in May when owner Geraldine had first taken the gritty space, so I'd yet to see her renovation of the former motorcycle business.
It's such a tremendous space - incredibly high ceilings, enormous windows fronting the Boulevard, brick walls painted a clean shade of white - and one ideally suited to Perdiguero's large-scale black and white paintings of eagles caught in mid-flight.
Exquisitely rendered with detailing of the contrasting dark and light of the birds and their movement, the technically flat surfaces gave a sense of birds flying around the outside of the room.
The first familiar face was the philosophy professor and former neighbor who'd been named-checked at the Cornel West talk last week and I paused to give him props on being recognized. He tried to act like it was no big deal but since he'd written a book about West, I knew perfectly well it must have been a huge deal.
It was satisfying making him admit that. No shame there, my friend.
"What are you doing here?" said a deep voice from behind me and it was the music promoter with the ubiquitous toothpick in his mouth and perpetually-raised eyebrow. We quickly got off on a discussion of art, editors and vision when I heard a second voice.
"I'd know those legs from across any room," said the blue-eyed politician and former neighbor (what was this, a Floyd Avenue reunion tonight?), hugging me and joining the discussion, which soon morphed from art to bad city fiscal policy (the mayor had "checked out" despite having a year left on his term), how to keep the creative class in the city (hint: improve the schools) and the folly of the Redskins training facility (the city pays $500,000 per year?).
Somehow that led us to a sports round table and, yes, I was able to keep up. I knew about duckpin bowling - a teenage favorite of the promoter - because my Dad used to be a duckpin champ (although I didn't know Richmond had had lanes), although I had to admit I'd never heard of candlepin bowling. I'm happy to say I'm now up to speed on the sport.
Talking about how it would be no skin off the city's nose if the Redskins abandoned Richmond (much the way they once did Frostburg, Maryland) led to talk of the Baltimore Colts sneaking out of town in the middle of the night back in 1984 since all three of us remembered it happening. Johnny U, you're breaking people's hearts here.
Oh, the tangled tangents we wove while the art opening swirled around us.
By the time we broke camp, the opening was winding down and the rain had let up a bit, so it was a good time to take my hugs and slide on out into the night.
Only problem was, I had no other plans. I'd eaten at the party, seen the art I'd come to see, and now what? Second Thursdays was over. I wasn't in the mood for a drink, I was in the mood for ice cream, which I didn't really need.
Or so I thought until I got home to a message from a friend saying he was in the neighborhood.
I'm home. Can we get ice cream? I quickly messaged back. "I have to stop at the drug store and get Lactaid first," he responded. "Leaving now."
This is what happens when you have old people for friends. Okay, he's actually younger than me, but he looks older, moves slower and has a host of things wrong with him that I don't, so he may as well be older.
But now I had a partner in ice cream, so I was happy. I grabbed my umbrella and went outside. It was 74 degrees with a light but steady rain falling, making for just the kind of night to wait outside for a friend and enjoy the weather.
Once he finally arrived, I directed him to Castanea where I'd had a stellar lobster roll followed by gelato for lunch the other day. The new spot is part restaurant, part gelateria and all good.
Once there, we oohed and ahhed over the flavor choices and my friend asked what paw paw was. "It's like mango fornicated with papaya," the server said, offering him a taste. Now there's a description for the ages.
When he asked what I wanted, I explained that I was trying to will myself to have something other than what I'd had the other day: chocolate double with coconut sorbet.
"Well, that's a new batch of chocolate double and it's got 45% more cocoa than last week's batch," he said, pretty much sealing my fate. "Have you tried it with the coconut sorbet? It's like a Mounds." Tried it? I thought I'd invented it.
That's right, same order, different week. I can be so predictable sometimes. My friend did chocolate double with hazelnut, pronouncing it fabulous as we ate at a front table.
Nearing the end, I warned him I was going to lick my bowl in public and he laughed, saying he'd recently come across the picture of me he'd taken a few years back of me attacking a cream puff at Aziza, a close-up shot of mostly my mouth and the chocolate-covered puff.
In other words, he's seen it all before.
All except for the fruits fornicating, I don't think he's ever seen that. Another night, old man.
My evening began with a drive to Williamsburg (going way back for David Gray's "White Ladder" and the Pretenders' "Last of the Independents") that required navigating through three major thunderstorms and trying to stay out of the way of maniacs going 70 mph when visibility was so bad that I couldn't see the cars' lights in front of me.
Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer to slow down when I'm driving blind.
My destination was a cocktail party at one of those fake town center kind of places (didn't even know Williamsburg had one, to be honest), not that I knew that when I set out. I'd been invited by the magazine I write for down there, meaning I'd know exactly one person: the publisher.
Fortunately, she was good enough to introduce me around as her "favorite writer," which made me feel a bit like a show pony being trotted out, but what do I care as long as she gives me interesting assignments and pays me well?
Among the more interesting local business owners I met were a European chef, a woman who owns an independent feed and seed store ("Tractor Supply is my enemy") and a guy who gives flying lessons and air tours.
There was also a woman who'd adopted a Pekingese-poodle mix from the SPCA at 5:00 and had to immediately park the mutt with her son so she could come to the party. The guilt was killing her as she downed ham biscuits and Sauvignon Blanc.
The one kind of person I hadn't expected to meet was someone looking for freelance writers to write for her Tidewater magazine, but then maybe this is what they call networking. It felt more like stumbling into a lucky break.
When a couple of businesswomen found out I lived in Richmond, they were thrilled. Would I be willing to accompany them on a night out on their dime so I could show them some of my favorite places? Well, sure, I might be able to fit that in.
I waited for a break in the black sky and pouring rain to say my goodbyes so I could hopefully make it back in time to be part of the inaugural Second Thursday in Scott's Addition, or at the very least, catch the opening of Juan Perdiguero's show at Ghostprint Gallery's new location on the Boulevard.
Ghostprint was hopping when I arrived and everyone was raving about the new space. What was striking for me was that I'd last seen it in May when owner Geraldine had first taken the gritty space, so I'd yet to see her renovation of the former motorcycle business.
It's such a tremendous space - incredibly high ceilings, enormous windows fronting the Boulevard, brick walls painted a clean shade of white - and one ideally suited to Perdiguero's large-scale black and white paintings of eagles caught in mid-flight.
Exquisitely rendered with detailing of the contrasting dark and light of the birds and their movement, the technically flat surfaces gave a sense of birds flying around the outside of the room.
The first familiar face was the philosophy professor and former neighbor who'd been named-checked at the Cornel West talk last week and I paused to give him props on being recognized. He tried to act like it was no big deal but since he'd written a book about West, I knew perfectly well it must have been a huge deal.
It was satisfying making him admit that. No shame there, my friend.
"What are you doing here?" said a deep voice from behind me and it was the music promoter with the ubiquitous toothpick in his mouth and perpetually-raised eyebrow. We quickly got off on a discussion of art, editors and vision when I heard a second voice.
"I'd know those legs from across any room," said the blue-eyed politician and former neighbor (what was this, a Floyd Avenue reunion tonight?), hugging me and joining the discussion, which soon morphed from art to bad city fiscal policy (the mayor had "checked out" despite having a year left on his term), how to keep the creative class in the city (hint: improve the schools) and the folly of the Redskins training facility (the city pays $500,000 per year?).
Somehow that led us to a sports round table and, yes, I was able to keep up. I knew about duckpin bowling - a teenage favorite of the promoter - because my Dad used to be a duckpin champ (although I didn't know Richmond had had lanes), although I had to admit I'd never heard of candlepin bowling. I'm happy to say I'm now up to speed on the sport.
Talking about how it would be no skin off the city's nose if the Redskins abandoned Richmond (much the way they once did Frostburg, Maryland) led to talk of the Baltimore Colts sneaking out of town in the middle of the night back in 1984 since all three of us remembered it happening. Johnny U, you're breaking people's hearts here.
Oh, the tangled tangents we wove while the art opening swirled around us.
By the time we broke camp, the opening was winding down and the rain had let up a bit, so it was a good time to take my hugs and slide on out into the night.
Only problem was, I had no other plans. I'd eaten at the party, seen the art I'd come to see, and now what? Second Thursdays was over. I wasn't in the mood for a drink, I was in the mood for ice cream, which I didn't really need.
Or so I thought until I got home to a message from a friend saying he was in the neighborhood.
I'm home. Can we get ice cream? I quickly messaged back. "I have to stop at the drug store and get Lactaid first," he responded. "Leaving now."
This is what happens when you have old people for friends. Okay, he's actually younger than me, but he looks older, moves slower and has a host of things wrong with him that I don't, so he may as well be older.
But now I had a partner in ice cream, so I was happy. I grabbed my umbrella and went outside. It was 74 degrees with a light but steady rain falling, making for just the kind of night to wait outside for a friend and enjoy the weather.
Once he finally arrived, I directed him to Castanea where I'd had a stellar lobster roll followed by gelato for lunch the other day. The new spot is part restaurant, part gelateria and all good.
Once there, we oohed and ahhed over the flavor choices and my friend asked what paw paw was. "It's like mango fornicated with papaya," the server said, offering him a taste. Now there's a description for the ages.
When he asked what I wanted, I explained that I was trying to will myself to have something other than what I'd had the other day: chocolate double with coconut sorbet.
"Well, that's a new batch of chocolate double and it's got 45% more cocoa than last week's batch," he said, pretty much sealing my fate. "Have you tried it with the coconut sorbet? It's like a Mounds." Tried it? I thought I'd invented it.
That's right, same order, different week. I can be so predictable sometimes. My friend did chocolate double with hazelnut, pronouncing it fabulous as we ate at a front table.
Nearing the end, I warned him I was going to lick my bowl in public and he laughed, saying he'd recently come across the picture of me he'd taken a few years back of me attacking a cream puff at Aziza, a close-up shot of mostly my mouth and the chocolate-covered puff.
In other words, he's seen it all before.
All except for the fruits fornicating, I don't think he's ever seen that. Another night, old man.
Friday, March 20, 2015
Prove It All Night
Never believe a man who tells you his fish is this big. Unless, of course, he shows you a picture to prove it.
I saw not one but three funeral processions on my walk this morning. I spent all afternoon inside my head and on the computer first making story pitches to my editor and then writing a snappy piece about a tenth anniversary. Enough already.
By early evening, I was more than ready to go on a date with myself. First stop, the Magpie since it had been a while.
The bar was all mine and as far as the two tables of young couples were concerned, I was invisible drinking Tenuta di Tavignano Verdicchio, spooning up my potato, cauliflower and Manchego soup and reading my Washington Post. Fine by me.
The sweetest story I read concerned a documentary about Lady Bird Johnson's beautification efforts (which I'm sure we'll never see in Richmond).
When Congress was stalling on LBJ's highway beautification bill, he's shown telling his Cabinet, "You know that I love that woman. And she wants that highway beautification bill and by god, we're going to get it for her!"
I don't know about you, but I have only admiration for a man who not only has beagles but is up front about telling his coworkers on camera he loves his wife. Very nicely done, LBJ.
With the radio set to the Old 97s, the bartender and I discussed the ordering of music genres at a restaurant. He was telling me that this station would soon be replaced by something louder and more raucous, say T Rex or Bowie, as the evening progressed. He was impressed that I'd seen the Old 97s while he'd just recently been unable to get off work to catch them at the Jefferson.
I ordered a special of beef tri-tip carpaccio topped by white bean and onion salad, housemade Bloody Mary mix and olive oil, enjoying the savory salad almost as much as the tri-tip. What I wasn't enjoying was an article about Meerkat, the breakout app at SXSW.
Tell me we don't really need a live streaming app that lets iPhone users share real-time video directly to their Twitter feed. People talk about how tangible it feels, as if they were really there. The awful part, as the article points out, is that we're redefining "experience" from something you actually do to something you witness digitally.
I don't know that I want to be part of a world where seeing something on a tiny screen replaces experiencing it in real life, but I fear that ship has already sailed.
Setting the paper aside, I decided to focus on my reality and indulge in another of the evening's specials. The chef had been showing off a photograph of the four-foot rockfish he'd gotten in today, a truly impressive specimen, its head as long as his chef's knife.
What spoke to me was rockfish collar, also on special tonight. First rule of fish eating: never pass up a chance for collar.
Basted in lime, honey and tequila before being pan fried and served with pistachios and peppers, it looked as fabulous as it tasted. Flipping it over to get at the hunks of white meat, I was soon eating with my fingers as if it were a whole fish.
All I can say is, no live stream could possibly convey the succulence of this rockfish collar.
When I looked up from my fish feast, I realized the two young couples had been replaced by four middle-aged couples. The times they were a -changin' and if the grown-ups had arrived, it was time for me to leave.
I'd taken so long digging out every morsel of collar that I was almost late to the Noir Cinema series, this month at Ghostprint Gallery. After finding a seat, a handsome man with braids sat down in my row only to check his phone and look at me sadly. "VCU just lost in overtime," he informed me in his deep voice.
What a shame. Let's talk.
Tonight's film was "Jump" by filmmaker Anthony Harper who'd made it as his senior thesis at Howard University. The short film was set in rural Virginia and focused on a disabled mother and her college-bound son.
I saw it as a power struggle between generations as a parent refuses to let go of a child, a universal theme told in a succinct and beautifully-filmed way. During the Q & A, I was fascinated as people brought up points I hadn't even noticed.
One person was impressed that the main character, a high school student, had been shown as part of an intact black family. Another was struck by how matter of factly it was presented that all the black high school kids shown had college plans.
All I could think was how the media must constantly rely on black cultural stereotypes in mass media for things like these to stand out to people. They hadn't even occurred to me, perhaps because I'm not black.
That's one of the reasons I enjoy the Noir Cinema series so much. Getting to hear how others interpret black-made films about black characters is reliably a reality check on the state of our supposedly post-race society.
When the evening ended, I wandered up to Bistro 27 for dessert. Walking in, a smiling woman asked me if I was a nurse. Do I look capable enough to be a nurse?
She asked because there was an event for nurses happening, but I sidled by them and made my way to the bar for dessert. Chocolate pate with fresh whipped cream and blackberries may not have been what I needed, but it definitely qualified for what I wanted.
As luck would have it, a friend showed up and we wiled away a little time chatting about upcoming trips, the best place for a quick breakfast and sliced versus chunks of pastrami on a sandwich (I'll take either).
Before we knew it, a light rain was starting and since I'd walked over, it seemed like a good time to begin heading home.
Which means I got a little wet because I wasn't watching a live stream of a woman walking in the rain after eating rockfish collar and discussing race, I was actually walking in the rain.
And by god, that's the way I want it.
I saw not one but three funeral processions on my walk this morning. I spent all afternoon inside my head and on the computer first making story pitches to my editor and then writing a snappy piece about a tenth anniversary. Enough already.
By early evening, I was more than ready to go on a date with myself. First stop, the Magpie since it had been a while.
The bar was all mine and as far as the two tables of young couples were concerned, I was invisible drinking Tenuta di Tavignano Verdicchio, spooning up my potato, cauliflower and Manchego soup and reading my Washington Post. Fine by me.
The sweetest story I read concerned a documentary about Lady Bird Johnson's beautification efforts (which I'm sure we'll never see in Richmond).
When Congress was stalling on LBJ's highway beautification bill, he's shown telling his Cabinet, "You know that I love that woman. And she wants that highway beautification bill and by god, we're going to get it for her!"
I don't know about you, but I have only admiration for a man who not only has beagles but is up front about telling his coworkers on camera he loves his wife. Very nicely done, LBJ.
With the radio set to the Old 97s, the bartender and I discussed the ordering of music genres at a restaurant. He was telling me that this station would soon be replaced by something louder and more raucous, say T Rex or Bowie, as the evening progressed. He was impressed that I'd seen the Old 97s while he'd just recently been unable to get off work to catch them at the Jefferson.
I ordered a special of beef tri-tip carpaccio topped by white bean and onion salad, housemade Bloody Mary mix and olive oil, enjoying the savory salad almost as much as the tri-tip. What I wasn't enjoying was an article about Meerkat, the breakout app at SXSW.
Tell me we don't really need a live streaming app that lets iPhone users share real-time video directly to their Twitter feed. People talk about how tangible it feels, as if they were really there. The awful part, as the article points out, is that we're redefining "experience" from something you actually do to something you witness digitally.
I don't know that I want to be part of a world where seeing something on a tiny screen replaces experiencing it in real life, but I fear that ship has already sailed.
Setting the paper aside, I decided to focus on my reality and indulge in another of the evening's specials. The chef had been showing off a photograph of the four-foot rockfish he'd gotten in today, a truly impressive specimen, its head as long as his chef's knife.
What spoke to me was rockfish collar, also on special tonight. First rule of fish eating: never pass up a chance for collar.
Basted in lime, honey and tequila before being pan fried and served with pistachios and peppers, it looked as fabulous as it tasted. Flipping it over to get at the hunks of white meat, I was soon eating with my fingers as if it were a whole fish.
All I can say is, no live stream could possibly convey the succulence of this rockfish collar.
When I looked up from my fish feast, I realized the two young couples had been replaced by four middle-aged couples. The times they were a -changin' and if the grown-ups had arrived, it was time for me to leave.
I'd taken so long digging out every morsel of collar that I was almost late to the Noir Cinema series, this month at Ghostprint Gallery. After finding a seat, a handsome man with braids sat down in my row only to check his phone and look at me sadly. "VCU just lost in overtime," he informed me in his deep voice.
What a shame. Let's talk.
Tonight's film was "Jump" by filmmaker Anthony Harper who'd made it as his senior thesis at Howard University. The short film was set in rural Virginia and focused on a disabled mother and her college-bound son.
I saw it as a power struggle between generations as a parent refuses to let go of a child, a universal theme told in a succinct and beautifully-filmed way. During the Q & A, I was fascinated as people brought up points I hadn't even noticed.
One person was impressed that the main character, a high school student, had been shown as part of an intact black family. Another was struck by how matter of factly it was presented that all the black high school kids shown had college plans.
All I could think was how the media must constantly rely on black cultural stereotypes in mass media for things like these to stand out to people. They hadn't even occurred to me, perhaps because I'm not black.
That's one of the reasons I enjoy the Noir Cinema series so much. Getting to hear how others interpret black-made films about black characters is reliably a reality check on the state of our supposedly post-race society.
When the evening ended, I wandered up to Bistro 27 for dessert. Walking in, a smiling woman asked me if I was a nurse. Do I look capable enough to be a nurse?
She asked because there was an event for nurses happening, but I sidled by them and made my way to the bar for dessert. Chocolate pate with fresh whipped cream and blackberries may not have been what I needed, but it definitely qualified for what I wanted.
As luck would have it, a friend showed up and we wiled away a little time chatting about upcoming trips, the best place for a quick breakfast and sliced versus chunks of pastrami on a sandwich (I'll take either).
Before we knew it, a light rain was starting and since I'd walked over, it seemed like a good time to begin heading home.
Which means I got a little wet because I wasn't watching a live stream of a woman walking in the rain after eating rockfish collar and discussing race, I was actually walking in the rain.
And by god, that's the way I want it.
Friday, November 7, 2014
Do What You Wanna Do
Happy birthday, Mr. Sax! I didn't know you, but I love your horn.
Despite pouring rain and soggy feet, I made Ghostprint Gallery my first stop for the opening of "Out of Sight," a show of paintings and ceramics. Walking into the gallery, I knew instinctively that the work had been the product of a woman solely based on the color palette.
Some of Jeanie Keys' pieces were representational while others required some deciphering; my favorites involved figures layered over each other. Depth of field gave way to areas of color chosen purely for their complementary nature with other aspects of the work.
Best of all, every single one had the same name: "Untitled."
The guitar player and I kept dinner in the neighborhood, roosting at Saison Market when Saison itself looked to be full up. Even the market's tables were filling up fast, like the crew of movie-makers avidly discussing a project next to us.
I was bummed to learn that I'd missed an opportunity to see "2001: A Space Odyssey" at the IMAX recently. Tomorrow night I'll be missing "The Big Lebowski" at the Byrd. Curses on the music-scheduling gods for planning screenings on nights when I'm unavailable.
Besides Vino Verde, my choice on this damp evening was lambs and clams, a satisfying bowl of the aforementioned in a clam trotter broth with fennel and Billy bread for sopping. That broth had a depth of flavor and subtle heat that had me sopping up every bit with my bread and wishing for more.
Meanwhile the guitarist told me about his writing group, recent band practices and the upcoming cultural road trips (Washington and Annapolis, both for lectures) he's eagerly anticipating while working down Saison's magnificent burger under a blanket of Manchego and bacon. He generously shared a couple bites with me.
Even the fries were textbook-perfect, twice-cooked, seriously crispy and with just enough salt to be addictive (not that they were technically mine to eat). One fell on the floor and I didn't even pretend to observe the five second rule, taking it directly from the floor to my waiting gob.
We camped out for a good long while after eating, talking about everything and nothing and watching the rain come and go. Since no one was waiting for our seats, we felt no guilt at all.
After parting company, my next stop was Balliceaux, because what's art and good food without a little music to close out the night?
The usual musician suspects were milling about when I got to the back room and only one of two sax players knew that it was Mr. Sax's birthday ("You know, Adolphe," the wise one said to the clueless one) when I mentioned it. He must not get the NPR feed because that's the only way this non-musician found out about it.
Since a good part of tonight's band, the Hi Steps, are jazz musicians, there was no chance the show was going to start on time, so I used the lull to make the rounds and chat.
From the bartender I heard about Alton Brown's fantastical food show last night (lots of people brought him gifts of food and drink). The bandleader and I discussed the Japanese James Brown cover band I'd seen last week ("You need to tell people when something like that is happening!") that he'd missed. The organizer told me she couldn't start dancing until she had more to drink. The stranger asked me if I came here often (seriously, men really say that?). The photographer moved her camera to the side to give me a big hug.
Finally all nine members of the band had drinks and took the stage to begin the show. Master guitarist and vocalist Elliot got the ball rolling by saying, "We're the Hi Steps. Thanks so much for coming out. Blah, blah, blah." Best band opening schtick ever.
From the first time I saw the Hi Steps two years ago, I was struck by how well chosen their soul set list is. Sure, they play some obvious hits - "Chain of Fools," "It's Your Thing" and "Ain't Too Proud to Beg" - but also lesser known gems (at least to me) such as "Can't Stop the Rain," "Give It Up" and "Tell Mama." Good stuff.
They've also got three incredibly soulful people who can sing - Elliot, keyboard player Bryce (tonight stylishly dressed right down to his cream-colored shoes) and the lovely Butterfly who dances just as good as she sings.
Tonight she got tired of the empty dance floor, saying, "We're up here sweating and you all should be up here sweating, too." Of course she was right, the music is meant for dancing, but the crowd was slow to shake it tonight and not a soul got up there during their first set.
For a change, this fan had an early morning wake-up call and couldn't hang around for the second set, but I'd like to think that that thumping bass line or relentless percussion and drums eventually did the trick.
I mean, on the birthday of the man who invented the saxophone, you'd hope maybe that kickass horn section would be what finally lured people out into the dance floor.
No bets on whether Adolphe would have been proud, but at least it would have been fitting. Blah, blah, blah.
Despite pouring rain and soggy feet, I made Ghostprint Gallery my first stop for the opening of "Out of Sight," a show of paintings and ceramics. Walking into the gallery, I knew instinctively that the work had been the product of a woman solely based on the color palette.
Some of Jeanie Keys' pieces were representational while others required some deciphering; my favorites involved figures layered over each other. Depth of field gave way to areas of color chosen purely for their complementary nature with other aspects of the work.
Best of all, every single one had the same name: "Untitled."
The guitar player and I kept dinner in the neighborhood, roosting at Saison Market when Saison itself looked to be full up. Even the market's tables were filling up fast, like the crew of movie-makers avidly discussing a project next to us.
I was bummed to learn that I'd missed an opportunity to see "2001: A Space Odyssey" at the IMAX recently. Tomorrow night I'll be missing "The Big Lebowski" at the Byrd. Curses on the music-scheduling gods for planning screenings on nights when I'm unavailable.
Besides Vino Verde, my choice on this damp evening was lambs and clams, a satisfying bowl of the aforementioned in a clam trotter broth with fennel and Billy bread for sopping. That broth had a depth of flavor and subtle heat that had me sopping up every bit with my bread and wishing for more.
Meanwhile the guitarist told me about his writing group, recent band practices and the upcoming cultural road trips (Washington and Annapolis, both for lectures) he's eagerly anticipating while working down Saison's magnificent burger under a blanket of Manchego and bacon. He generously shared a couple bites with me.
Even the fries were textbook-perfect, twice-cooked, seriously crispy and with just enough salt to be addictive (not that they were technically mine to eat). One fell on the floor and I didn't even pretend to observe the five second rule, taking it directly from the floor to my waiting gob.
We camped out for a good long while after eating, talking about everything and nothing and watching the rain come and go. Since no one was waiting for our seats, we felt no guilt at all.
After parting company, my next stop was Balliceaux, because what's art and good food without a little music to close out the night?
The usual musician suspects were milling about when I got to the back room and only one of two sax players knew that it was Mr. Sax's birthday ("You know, Adolphe," the wise one said to the clueless one) when I mentioned it. He must not get the NPR feed because that's the only way this non-musician found out about it.
Since a good part of tonight's band, the Hi Steps, are jazz musicians, there was no chance the show was going to start on time, so I used the lull to make the rounds and chat.
From the bartender I heard about Alton Brown's fantastical food show last night (lots of people brought him gifts of food and drink). The bandleader and I discussed the Japanese James Brown cover band I'd seen last week ("You need to tell people when something like that is happening!") that he'd missed. The organizer told me she couldn't start dancing until she had more to drink. The stranger asked me if I came here often (seriously, men really say that?). The photographer moved her camera to the side to give me a big hug.
Finally all nine members of the band had drinks and took the stage to begin the show. Master guitarist and vocalist Elliot got the ball rolling by saying, "We're the Hi Steps. Thanks so much for coming out. Blah, blah, blah." Best band opening schtick ever.
From the first time I saw the Hi Steps two years ago, I was struck by how well chosen their soul set list is. Sure, they play some obvious hits - "Chain of Fools," "It's Your Thing" and "Ain't Too Proud to Beg" - but also lesser known gems (at least to me) such as "Can't Stop the Rain," "Give It Up" and "Tell Mama." Good stuff.
They've also got three incredibly soulful people who can sing - Elliot, keyboard player Bryce (tonight stylishly dressed right down to his cream-colored shoes) and the lovely Butterfly who dances just as good as she sings.
Tonight she got tired of the empty dance floor, saying, "We're up here sweating and you all should be up here sweating, too." Of course she was right, the music is meant for dancing, but the crowd was slow to shake it tonight and not a soul got up there during their first set.
For a change, this fan had an early morning wake-up call and couldn't hang around for the second set, but I'd like to think that that thumping bass line or relentless percussion and drums eventually did the trick.
I mean, on the birthday of the man who invented the saxophone, you'd hope maybe that kickass horn section would be what finally lured people out into the dance floor.
No bets on whether Adolphe would have been proud, but at least it would have been fitting. Blah, blah, blah.
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, July 12, 2014
Do the Hustle
All work and no play makes Karen a very dull girl.
So with my new thrift store dress on, I took my hired mouth out to eat, leaving me full but eager to engage the other senses.
Enter Gigi, my willing partner in crime for tonight.
Priority one was chilling some Rose, followed by a stroll to Broad Street and the Arts District, past bicycle cops and assorted cop cars for what amounted to the second Friday art walk. Because here's the thing: if they'd done it on first Friday- July 4th - who would have come?
Stop #1 was Ghostprint Gallery for Gene Coffey's "Ghosts," a fascinating show of works based on tombstone images gathered in Italy and transferred to canvas, over which vertical lines and drips of paint gave the impression of the past peering into the present.
Without even knowing that, it took me exactly two paintings to observe to my friend that the faces looked European rather than American. Right I was, as it turned out.
The second series was of skeleton images over scores of music with areas of color, images completely abstract up close and clearly showing skulls from a distance. We marveled at how challenging it must have been to create. Very cool.
Next door at stop #2, Candela Gallery, we saw "Unbound 3," the annual group show of an eclectic assortment of photography.
Some photographs were notable for their materials - handmade paper or photographs printed on plywood- while with others, it was the subject matter - a bird at rest close up, an odd-looking fat , freckled child, a shepherd's daughter with an animals head coming out of her back.
As always, I was pleased to see that some pieces had already sold. I only wish I had the funds to purchase.
Walking out of Candela, we abandoned plans to further gallery hop when a few fat raindrops hit us, choosing instead to return to my apartment and see if the Domaine du Pere Caboche Rose had achieved sufficient coolness to quench our thirst.
Oh, happy day, it had.
That was our cue to take glasses of the strawberry-tasting gem and sprawl out in my living room, music blaring - Jeremy Messersmith, Future Islands, Champs.
Sipping and looking outside, we couldn't help but marvel at the dusky light just outside the window, illuminating the roof and trees across the street in a way that doesn't happen at any other time of day.
I told Gigi that my favorite part of summer dusk is that when it happens, it's just the prelude to another 5 or 6 hours of evening entertainment.
It was some time after we opened another bottle of Rose that I suggested that we move on to Balliceaux for music. Playing tonight was Brooklyn's trans-global soul band Karikatura, touted as producers of life-affirming, body-shaking music.
Because who doesn't want to shake their body on a warm, Friday night?
I felt like Gigi and I not only only needed our bodies shaken, but our lives affirmed, but it was her response to my suggestion that we go out that had me rolling on the floor. "Now I wish I'd worn underwear," she said nonsensically since she was wearing a skort.
The place was already hopping when we arrived, so we slid into place a few people back from the stage and were immediately captivated by Karikatura's melange of influences: reggae, Cuban, funk and soul, shaking our groove things in a way only enhanced by a couple of bottles of pink.
But because we're both short women, within ten minutes, a tall, well-dressed man took up position directly in front of us.
I let it go for half a song before tapping him gently on the shoulder and raising an eyebrow. "I'm going to stand behind you," he announced with a smile. Good thinking, Paul Bunyan.
With him out of the way, we had no problem moving forward on to the dance floor, unable to resist so much rhythm.
I have to say, "New York Hustle" was killer, a riff on all things Latin and disco, making us just part of the sweaty masses dancing our asses off.
Most nights I'm in Balliceaux, it's overly cold, the air conditioning blasting frigid air, but tonight's Latin beats and non-stop dancing crowd made for a very warm room and lots of glistening faces.
Gigi and I solved that by moving closer to the stage where a vent poured out cooler air and we could dance without sticking to those around us.
Occasionally we'd slip off the dance floor long enough to down a glass of water before returning to where the action was.
Finally, she cried uncle, saying, "Okay, one more song and that's it."
As it happened, synchronicity ensued with the band then announcing that it was their last song and launching into a slow groove of Bill Withers' "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone," the perfect cover because it didn't mimic the original but paid homage to it while making it something uniquely new.
Choosing to bring the bump to the grind right through the introductions of the sax and trombone players, we hung on dancing until the band called it quits.
Sharing a final cup of water as we walked out, Gigi raved about how good the band had been and I told her I almost hadn't mentioned it, planning to go alone, knowing she'd had a long day at work.
"Why would you do that?" she challenged. "Why wouldn't I want to go hear a great band and dance?"
Truthfully - and maybe this is a personal flaw - I couldn't think of a single good reason.
So with my new thrift store dress on, I took my hired mouth out to eat, leaving me full but eager to engage the other senses.
Enter Gigi, my willing partner in crime for tonight.
Priority one was chilling some Rose, followed by a stroll to Broad Street and the Arts District, past bicycle cops and assorted cop cars for what amounted to the second Friday art walk. Because here's the thing: if they'd done it on first Friday- July 4th - who would have come?
Stop #1 was Ghostprint Gallery for Gene Coffey's "Ghosts," a fascinating show of works based on tombstone images gathered in Italy and transferred to canvas, over which vertical lines and drips of paint gave the impression of the past peering into the present.
Without even knowing that, it took me exactly two paintings to observe to my friend that the faces looked European rather than American. Right I was, as it turned out.
The second series was of skeleton images over scores of music with areas of color, images completely abstract up close and clearly showing skulls from a distance. We marveled at how challenging it must have been to create. Very cool.
Next door at stop #2, Candela Gallery, we saw "Unbound 3," the annual group show of an eclectic assortment of photography.
Some photographs were notable for their materials - handmade paper or photographs printed on plywood- while with others, it was the subject matter - a bird at rest close up, an odd-looking fat , freckled child, a shepherd's daughter with an animals head coming out of her back.
As always, I was pleased to see that some pieces had already sold. I only wish I had the funds to purchase.
Walking out of Candela, we abandoned plans to further gallery hop when a few fat raindrops hit us, choosing instead to return to my apartment and see if the Domaine du Pere Caboche Rose had achieved sufficient coolness to quench our thirst.
Oh, happy day, it had.
That was our cue to take glasses of the strawberry-tasting gem and sprawl out in my living room, music blaring - Jeremy Messersmith, Future Islands, Champs.
Sipping and looking outside, we couldn't help but marvel at the dusky light just outside the window, illuminating the roof and trees across the street in a way that doesn't happen at any other time of day.
I told Gigi that my favorite part of summer dusk is that when it happens, it's just the prelude to another 5 or 6 hours of evening entertainment.
It was some time after we opened another bottle of Rose that I suggested that we move on to Balliceaux for music. Playing tonight was Brooklyn's trans-global soul band Karikatura, touted as producers of life-affirming, body-shaking music.
Because who doesn't want to shake their body on a warm, Friday night?
I felt like Gigi and I not only only needed our bodies shaken, but our lives affirmed, but it was her response to my suggestion that we go out that had me rolling on the floor. "Now I wish I'd worn underwear," she said nonsensically since she was wearing a skort.
The place was already hopping when we arrived, so we slid into place a few people back from the stage and were immediately captivated by Karikatura's melange of influences: reggae, Cuban, funk and soul, shaking our groove things in a way only enhanced by a couple of bottles of pink.
But because we're both short women, within ten minutes, a tall, well-dressed man took up position directly in front of us.
I let it go for half a song before tapping him gently on the shoulder and raising an eyebrow. "I'm going to stand behind you," he announced with a smile. Good thinking, Paul Bunyan.
With him out of the way, we had no problem moving forward on to the dance floor, unable to resist so much rhythm.
I have to say, "New York Hustle" was killer, a riff on all things Latin and disco, making us just part of the sweaty masses dancing our asses off.
Most nights I'm in Balliceaux, it's overly cold, the air conditioning blasting frigid air, but tonight's Latin beats and non-stop dancing crowd made for a very warm room and lots of glistening faces.
Gigi and I solved that by moving closer to the stage where a vent poured out cooler air and we could dance without sticking to those around us.
Occasionally we'd slip off the dance floor long enough to down a glass of water before returning to where the action was.
Finally, she cried uncle, saying, "Okay, one more song and that's it."
As it happened, synchronicity ensued with the band then announcing that it was their last song and launching into a slow groove of Bill Withers' "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone," the perfect cover because it didn't mimic the original but paid homage to it while making it something uniquely new.
Choosing to bring the bump to the grind right through the introductions of the sax and trombone players, we hung on dancing until the band called it quits.
Sharing a final cup of water as we walked out, Gigi raved about how good the band had been and I told her I almost hadn't mentioned it, planning to go alone, knowing she'd had a long day at work.
"Why would you do that?" she challenged. "Why wouldn't I want to go hear a great band and dance?"
Truthfully - and maybe this is a personal flaw - I couldn't think of a single good reason.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Friday, February 21, 2014
Venus, Earth and Moon are Alright Tonight
You might not know it by this blog, but I can be entertaining.
As in, I can invite guests to my apartment, serve food, play music and spark conversation to ensure everyone has a fine time.
Like many hostesses, I will put out too much food and drink, but my greatest satisfaction will come from their delight in the new bands I introduce them to with the music I put on.
When one of my guests cocks her head, smiles beatifically and says, "Is this my new anthem? I think it may be," I know my get-together is a success.
I don't do it often, but I can do it.
But as soon as the last guest is out the door, I will follow suit and head over to Ghostprint Gallery to see Tatsuya Nakatani, a Japanese percussionist who blew my mind when I saw him last May at the Nile.
Arriving at the gallery, I was not in the least surprised to find an overwhelmingly male audience and not a soul I knew.
I like that part sometimes. It's like going to a show out of town and feeling completely anonymous.
The invitation had said that doors would open at 8:30 with music at 9 sharp and, sure enough, at 8:54, Nakatani announced, "We will start in six minutes."
If you go to many shows in Richmond, you know how rare this kind of precision is.
Promptly at 9, the crowd dropped to the floor to sit and I was lucky enough to be sitting right up front.
Nakatani welcomed us, saying, "Thank you for coming tonight. Usually in a university town, we are waiting for people to show up. This is nice that you show up on time."
All of a sudden, the sound of dogs running across a wooden floor emanated from the apartment over top of the gallery and everyone looked at the ceiling.
"Did you bring dogs?" someone yelled and the musician shook his head no, smiling tolerantly. It was a sign from above that the show was on.
He said tonight was the first stop on their tour and that on the first stop, he's always a little nervous. Joined by local saxophonist Jimmy Ghaphery, they began their set with Ghaphery playing some sort of wooden flute which soon was put down for the sax (which was later put down for the clarinet).
And yet, a guy sitting over against the side wall leaned back, took off his shoes and started working the crossword puzzle in his hand. Perhaps he just wasn't as in to the music as the rest of us.
Their improvised piece had them alternately working together, as when Nakatani placed a small cymbal on his drum and blew into it to achieve a similar pitch as what Ghaphery was blowing on his sax, and working off each other, parrying and thrusting with sound.
Using broken cymbals and metal bowls, Nakatani scraped the surface of tom and snare drums, sometimes rocking a cymbal with his fingers, sometimes using homemade bows on the edge of the drum, sometimes holding up a cymbal and blowing in it toward us.
Even when he was tossing away the things he'd placed on his drum - bowls, cymbals - he'd toss them rhythmically onto the floor, still using them as percussion.
Meanwhile, Ghaphery was creating the most exquisite tension with his sax, alternately blowing long, shrill tones and other times almost making it stutter for a moody counterpoint to the pony-tailed Nakatani.
At one point, he blew into the end of the sax instead of the mouthpiece.
When their improvisation ended, both were hot and sweaty and awfully satisfied looking, much like the audience.
During intermission, a guy walked up to me, stuck out his hand and introduced himself. Asking if I was an artist (nope), he wanted to know how I'd heard about tonight. I said I'd seen Nakatani's show last year, which must have been impressive because then he wanted me to introduce myself.
"Hopefully I'll see you around again soon," he said suavely. Anything's possible, friend.
I finally found one person I knew and we chatted about what an impressive set we'd just seen, eager for Nakatani's solo second set.
He began by saying that that had been a beautiful collaboration but, "That usually works the first time, but not the second."
Then he raved about the clean floors ("You can lay down on them"), the beautiful paintings on the wall (a group show called "Wintry Mix") and how much he loved performing in the space because it was bigger than he was used to in Richmond, allowing room for four gongs, three large and one small.
That's how the second set began, with him using a bow on one of the gongs, then on two of them, eliciting different sounds from each one.
Sometimes he bowed two different sides of the same gong, creating sonic washes that filled the room.
And just so you know, the bows were all labeled with names - Venus, earth, moon.
We watched as he scraped one small cymbal across the drum, then as he "shredded" using a bow on the side of one of his drums.
There was so much sound coming out of one man as all four limbs were busy doing something to make music and I noticed a handful of people who gave up watching to close their eyes and let it all wash over them.
Most people, though, sat there enraptured, clearly trying to digest all that he was doing.
The shoe-less puzzle fan, however, tried to stick his camera on the drum, causing Nakatani to shake his head violently so he'd remove it.
Later the guy held his camera up inches from where Nakatani was drumming and this time, he held up his hand as if to say get away. One bad apple don't spoil the whole bunch, but jeez, what an idiot.
And Nakatani played on.
Whether he was using drumsticks inside metal bowls on top of drums, leaning a loose cymbal against a drum and hitting it to cause reverberations on both, or alternately bowing and hitting one or more gongs, it always sounded like there were multiple people making music instead of just one.
When his improvisation ended, the crowd sat stunned for a few seconds, long enough for laughter from the upstairs apartment to filter down. Everyone looked up again. The show was over.
The performance had taken a toll on the percussionist's hand, though, and he called out, "Anyone have Neosporin?" holding up a bloody knuckle.
No doubt all in a day's work for someone so wildly entertaining.
I can't hold a candle to that.
As in, I can invite guests to my apartment, serve food, play music and spark conversation to ensure everyone has a fine time.
Like many hostesses, I will put out too much food and drink, but my greatest satisfaction will come from their delight in the new bands I introduce them to with the music I put on.
When one of my guests cocks her head, smiles beatifically and says, "Is this my new anthem? I think it may be," I know my get-together is a success.
I don't do it often, but I can do it.
But as soon as the last guest is out the door, I will follow suit and head over to Ghostprint Gallery to see Tatsuya Nakatani, a Japanese percussionist who blew my mind when I saw him last May at the Nile.
Arriving at the gallery, I was not in the least surprised to find an overwhelmingly male audience and not a soul I knew.
I like that part sometimes. It's like going to a show out of town and feeling completely anonymous.
The invitation had said that doors would open at 8:30 with music at 9 sharp and, sure enough, at 8:54, Nakatani announced, "We will start in six minutes."
If you go to many shows in Richmond, you know how rare this kind of precision is.
Promptly at 9, the crowd dropped to the floor to sit and I was lucky enough to be sitting right up front.
Nakatani welcomed us, saying, "Thank you for coming tonight. Usually in a university town, we are waiting for people to show up. This is nice that you show up on time."
All of a sudden, the sound of dogs running across a wooden floor emanated from the apartment over top of the gallery and everyone looked at the ceiling.
"Did you bring dogs?" someone yelled and the musician shook his head no, smiling tolerantly. It was a sign from above that the show was on.
He said tonight was the first stop on their tour and that on the first stop, he's always a little nervous. Joined by local saxophonist Jimmy Ghaphery, they began their set with Ghaphery playing some sort of wooden flute which soon was put down for the sax (which was later put down for the clarinet).
And yet, a guy sitting over against the side wall leaned back, took off his shoes and started working the crossword puzzle in his hand. Perhaps he just wasn't as in to the music as the rest of us.
Their improvised piece had them alternately working together, as when Nakatani placed a small cymbal on his drum and blew into it to achieve a similar pitch as what Ghaphery was blowing on his sax, and working off each other, parrying and thrusting with sound.
Using broken cymbals and metal bowls, Nakatani scraped the surface of tom and snare drums, sometimes rocking a cymbal with his fingers, sometimes using homemade bows on the edge of the drum, sometimes holding up a cymbal and blowing in it toward us.
Even when he was tossing away the things he'd placed on his drum - bowls, cymbals - he'd toss them rhythmically onto the floor, still using them as percussion.
Meanwhile, Ghaphery was creating the most exquisite tension with his sax, alternately blowing long, shrill tones and other times almost making it stutter for a moody counterpoint to the pony-tailed Nakatani.
At one point, he blew into the end of the sax instead of the mouthpiece.
When their improvisation ended, both were hot and sweaty and awfully satisfied looking, much like the audience.
During intermission, a guy walked up to me, stuck out his hand and introduced himself. Asking if I was an artist (nope), he wanted to know how I'd heard about tonight. I said I'd seen Nakatani's show last year, which must have been impressive because then he wanted me to introduce myself.
"Hopefully I'll see you around again soon," he said suavely. Anything's possible, friend.
I finally found one person I knew and we chatted about what an impressive set we'd just seen, eager for Nakatani's solo second set.
He began by saying that that had been a beautiful collaboration but, "That usually works the first time, but not the second."
Then he raved about the clean floors ("You can lay down on them"), the beautiful paintings on the wall (a group show called "Wintry Mix") and how much he loved performing in the space because it was bigger than he was used to in Richmond, allowing room for four gongs, three large and one small.
That's how the second set began, with him using a bow on one of the gongs, then on two of them, eliciting different sounds from each one.
Sometimes he bowed two different sides of the same gong, creating sonic washes that filled the room.
And just so you know, the bows were all labeled with names - Venus, earth, moon.
We watched as he scraped one small cymbal across the drum, then as he "shredded" using a bow on the side of one of his drums.
There was so much sound coming out of one man as all four limbs were busy doing something to make music and I noticed a handful of people who gave up watching to close their eyes and let it all wash over them.
Most people, though, sat there enraptured, clearly trying to digest all that he was doing.
The shoe-less puzzle fan, however, tried to stick his camera on the drum, causing Nakatani to shake his head violently so he'd remove it.
Later the guy held his camera up inches from where Nakatani was drumming and this time, he held up his hand as if to say get away. One bad apple don't spoil the whole bunch, but jeez, what an idiot.
And Nakatani played on.
Whether he was using drumsticks inside metal bowls on top of drums, leaning a loose cymbal against a drum and hitting it to cause reverberations on both, or alternately bowing and hitting one or more gongs, it always sounded like there were multiple people making music instead of just one.
When his improvisation ended, the crowd sat stunned for a few seconds, long enough for laughter from the upstairs apartment to filter down. Everyone looked up again. The show was over.
The performance had taken a toll on the percussionist's hand, though, and he called out, "Anyone have Neosporin?" holding up a bloody knuckle.
No doubt all in a day's work for someone so wildly entertaining.
I can't hold a candle to that.
Friday, October 4, 2013
No Fear Multi-Layered Reality
My favorite wine geek painter had an opening tonight.
Josh George, whom I'd just seen last weekend at an Austrian wine tasting at J. Emerson (my favorite being the Steininger Gruner Veltliner Sekt 2010, but the Steindorfer Blaufrankisch Alte Reben 2011 wasn't far behind), was opening his new show, "Micropolis," at Ghostprint Gallery tonight.
After getting cleaned up from my day at the river, I strolled the four blocks over to the gallery, garnering a compliment on the corner of Madison and Broad.
I'll never get tired of a stranger telling me I look beautiful, but deep down I know it's the dress, not me.
Coincidentally, a friend had posted on Facebook today, "A total stranger just complimented me on my dress! Awesome!"
Such is the power of the dress. I know not to take it for anything more.
Inside the gallery, I found a crowded room and Josh's latest series of mixed media works. He's the only artist I know who supplies the wine for his shows so that he can be sure it's up to his standards.
And for that, I like him all the more.
Combining things like paint, wine labels, wallpaper scraps, old maps and cut-up pictures, he layers everything to create his own reality.
I like to think I do the same, just with fewer artistic materials.
The 24 works varied in size but most dealt with NYC, Josh's former residence, with skyscrapers set in Manhattan valleys.
"A Mission Like No Other" showed two scenesters walking down the street, the likes of which probably walk down Broad Street every day.
If buying art was as easy as layaway and I could make a nominal payment a month until I owned a Josh George painting, it is "Fear of an Urban Experience" I would covet.
The small but beautiful work boasted an array of light colored buildings with flags mounted on them flying in the breeze and a pink sky behind it all.
I was drawn to the wealth of detail in "Post-Harvest Handling," a painting depicting a woman taking things from the refrigerator.
Pattern was everywhere, on her top, her pants, her skin, even the interior walls of the refrigerator, which was stuffed with wine (natch), gourmet items and food of all kinds.
Everything wasn't about NYC, though, and RVA got its due in three small works depicting winsome bats after Josh had been amazed to see them at Byrd Park.
His story reminded me of a picnic at Byrd Park a few years ago with a friend and a Brooklyn transplant who had been transfixed when the bats began appearing at dusk.
We may be blase about our local bats, but apparently they're a big deal to New Yorkers.
I mentioned this to a tattoo artist at the opening and she said she and her husband had put up a bat house, hoping to attract bats to their yard.
When none materialized, her beloved had the brilliant idea to paint a female bat on the bat house, hoping to lure lusty bats in.
So far, nothing.
One of the bets moments came when I was looking at Josh's painting, "Everyone Should Strive to Have a Breakfast Nook," a small painting of a barely-awake-looking woman at a table with a cup of coffee and a window behind her with a fly on it.
Marveling at the detail of the fly, I soon realized it was an actual fly and sent it on its way.
Fly gone, I realized that if I couldn't afford the other painting, I'd be just as happy with this little beauty.
Someday I will own a Josh George, I hope.
I debated my options on my walk home and decided that the VMFA would suit me just fine.
It seemed like an ideal evening to sit on the deck while it's still warm and lovely and listen to whomever was playing at the Jazz Cafe.
That turned out to be Flo King, a singer with a big voice and a crack backing band of trombone, sax, keys, bass and drum.
When I arrived, it was to a slow song and lots of people were dancing, or at the very least, swaying and necking.
The next song she sung in Spanish and a guy near me said it was called "Kiss Me," although I don't know that for sure.
I was impressed she was singing in Spanish and said so to another guy, who said she'd also sung in French earlier. Apparently the band's thing was romantic jazz standards.
No doubt that explained why there was a roomful of couples and me.
During the break, I ordered a glass of Primal Roots Red, a simple blend, to go with a dish of Homestead Creamery espresso chocolate chip.
The other women in the room had dates, I had ice cream, the best I could do tonight.
I took it out on the deck to enjoy in the soft evening air and within minutes a museum friend sat down and provided company for me, asking if I'd be at the 2 Street Festival this weekend (duh, of course) until the band restarted with a vengeance.
An instrumental version of "Don't Get Around Much Anymore" brought Flo back up on the bandstand and she crooned "Am I Blue?"
But it was a bossa nova, "The Wave," that drew dancers back, and good dancers, too.
You can't deny, don't try to fight the rising sea
Don't fight the moon, the stars above and don't fight me
"What a Difference a Day Makes" was another clarion call to the slow dancers.
The band saved the swinging songs for last, and all of a sudden even I was getting asked to dance.
Politely declining, I watched a guy in a three-piece suit with pocket square and white bucks tear up the dance floor with his girl during "Route 66."
By then, it was long past closing time for the museum and the overhead lights came on to tell us to get out.
Many in the crowd, me included, headed out to the sculpture garden to continue conversations and the evening.
A young couple came up to me, I'm guessing because I was by myself, and asked me to take their picture by the water steps.
After shooting one, I asked if they wanted me to take another but they said they'd wait and see how it came out first.
What the what? Turns out I'd just used a 21st century Polaroid camera, an Instax mini, they said.
We watched the credit card-sized photo develop before our eyes, with them enthusing about the "awesome big Polaroids your generation used."
Yep, they really said that to me.
Am I blue about it? Pshaw.
Everyone should strive to have as much ice cream and slow dancing as I do.
Josh George, whom I'd just seen last weekend at an Austrian wine tasting at J. Emerson (my favorite being the Steininger Gruner Veltliner Sekt 2010, but the Steindorfer Blaufrankisch Alte Reben 2011 wasn't far behind), was opening his new show, "Micropolis," at Ghostprint Gallery tonight.
After getting cleaned up from my day at the river, I strolled the four blocks over to the gallery, garnering a compliment on the corner of Madison and Broad.
I'll never get tired of a stranger telling me I look beautiful, but deep down I know it's the dress, not me.
Coincidentally, a friend had posted on Facebook today, "A total stranger just complimented me on my dress! Awesome!"
Such is the power of the dress. I know not to take it for anything more.
Inside the gallery, I found a crowded room and Josh's latest series of mixed media works. He's the only artist I know who supplies the wine for his shows so that he can be sure it's up to his standards.
And for that, I like him all the more.
Combining things like paint, wine labels, wallpaper scraps, old maps and cut-up pictures, he layers everything to create his own reality.
I like to think I do the same, just with fewer artistic materials.
The 24 works varied in size but most dealt with NYC, Josh's former residence, with skyscrapers set in Manhattan valleys.
"A Mission Like No Other" showed two scenesters walking down the street, the likes of which probably walk down Broad Street every day.
If buying art was as easy as layaway and I could make a nominal payment a month until I owned a Josh George painting, it is "Fear of an Urban Experience" I would covet.
The small but beautiful work boasted an array of light colored buildings with flags mounted on them flying in the breeze and a pink sky behind it all.
I was drawn to the wealth of detail in "Post-Harvest Handling," a painting depicting a woman taking things from the refrigerator.
Pattern was everywhere, on her top, her pants, her skin, even the interior walls of the refrigerator, which was stuffed with wine (natch), gourmet items and food of all kinds.
Everything wasn't about NYC, though, and RVA got its due in three small works depicting winsome bats after Josh had been amazed to see them at Byrd Park.
His story reminded me of a picnic at Byrd Park a few years ago with a friend and a Brooklyn transplant who had been transfixed when the bats began appearing at dusk.
We may be blase about our local bats, but apparently they're a big deal to New Yorkers.
I mentioned this to a tattoo artist at the opening and she said she and her husband had put up a bat house, hoping to attract bats to their yard.
When none materialized, her beloved had the brilliant idea to paint a female bat on the bat house, hoping to lure lusty bats in.
So far, nothing.
One of the bets moments came when I was looking at Josh's painting, "Everyone Should Strive to Have a Breakfast Nook," a small painting of a barely-awake-looking woman at a table with a cup of coffee and a window behind her with a fly on it.
Marveling at the detail of the fly, I soon realized it was an actual fly and sent it on its way.
Fly gone, I realized that if I couldn't afford the other painting, I'd be just as happy with this little beauty.
Someday I will own a Josh George, I hope.
I debated my options on my walk home and decided that the VMFA would suit me just fine.
It seemed like an ideal evening to sit on the deck while it's still warm and lovely and listen to whomever was playing at the Jazz Cafe.
That turned out to be Flo King, a singer with a big voice and a crack backing band of trombone, sax, keys, bass and drum.
When I arrived, it was to a slow song and lots of people were dancing, or at the very least, swaying and necking.
The next song she sung in Spanish and a guy near me said it was called "Kiss Me," although I don't know that for sure.
I was impressed she was singing in Spanish and said so to another guy, who said she'd also sung in French earlier. Apparently the band's thing was romantic jazz standards.
No doubt that explained why there was a roomful of couples and me.
During the break, I ordered a glass of Primal Roots Red, a simple blend, to go with a dish of Homestead Creamery espresso chocolate chip.
The other women in the room had dates, I had ice cream, the best I could do tonight.
I took it out on the deck to enjoy in the soft evening air and within minutes a museum friend sat down and provided company for me, asking if I'd be at the 2 Street Festival this weekend (duh, of course) until the band restarted with a vengeance.
An instrumental version of "Don't Get Around Much Anymore" brought Flo back up on the bandstand and she crooned "Am I Blue?"
But it was a bossa nova, "The Wave," that drew dancers back, and good dancers, too.
You can't deny, don't try to fight the rising sea
Don't fight the moon, the stars above and don't fight me
"What a Difference a Day Makes" was another clarion call to the slow dancers.
The band saved the swinging songs for last, and all of a sudden even I was getting asked to dance.
Politely declining, I watched a guy in a three-piece suit with pocket square and white bucks tear up the dance floor with his girl during "Route 66."
By then, it was long past closing time for the museum and the overhead lights came on to tell us to get out.
Many in the crowd, me included, headed out to the sculpture garden to continue conversations and the evening.
A young couple came up to me, I'm guessing because I was by myself, and asked me to take their picture by the water steps.
After shooting one, I asked if they wanted me to take another but they said they'd wait and see how it came out first.
What the what? Turns out I'd just used a 21st century Polaroid camera, an Instax mini, they said.
We watched the credit card-sized photo develop before our eyes, with them enthusing about the "awesome big Polaroids your generation used."
Yep, they really said that to me.
Am I blue about it? Pshaw.
Everyone should strive to have as much ice cream and slow dancing as I do.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Over the Rainbow
Sometimes size does matter.
Like when you're talking about collecting art.
New Yorkers Herb and Dorothy Vogel collected 4700 pieces of art, meaning their art collection's size exceeds mine by about 4670.
Their collection was so large they could give fifty pieces to museums in all fifty states and tonight I went to see the fifty Virginia got.
"The Dorothy and Herbert Vogel Collection: Fifty Works for Fifty States" went on view last weekend and I was eager to see what had landed at the VMFA.
A lot of amazing art, that's what.
Hands down, my favorite was Charles Clough's "Ramus Major" from 1983, a work that suggested the past.
Like a band of twenty-somethings whose music reflects the influences of every band that came before them, this enamel on rag paper piece was an exquisite regurgitation of the past.
The complementary shades of blues and oranges, the sense of movement, the curving figures, were both fresh and familiar at the same time.
For me, it was the most swoon-worthy piece.
But if the VMFA wanted me to take something smaller off their hands, I'd be happy to hang Edda Renouf's 1993 "Dawn-17 (water)" in my apartment, if only to use its undulating lines on sea blue-green to lose myself in.
While strolling the gallery, I ran into a friend doing the same and her first question was if I'd seen the Goya prints (I had) and if I'd gone to the tiki bar (I had) and maybe a little quick commentary about a certain woman-about-town we both despise (shared disdain, always a pleasure).
Because she works at the museum, she'd been fortunate enough to meet artist Martin Johnson, who had two works in the Vogel show.
Some girls have all the luck.
Before long, she looked at me suddenly and said, "I thought you'd be at Ghostprint," which was exactly where I was headed next.
It was opening night at Ghostprint Gallery for Negativland's "Our Favorite Things," a show of considerable breadth of paintings and collages by the collective headed up by Mark Hosler.
As a founding member of Negativland, Mark was also performing tonight, so no wonder my friend presumed I'd be there.
The show was a retrospective of work chronicling the collaborative work of this group since the '80s.
"Untitled Tape Collage (Twenty Years of Negativland)" was a mixed media piece that you could look at for hours on end and still continue to see new things in it.
Bits and pieces of two decades intermingled on the vertical piece.
Some of the collages were paper and others were more like combines, using found objects, frames and whatever else the artists wanted.
Books, Jewelry. Car parts.
"Steak on a Whim" contained a row of plastic "steaks" with googly eyes, which visitors were encouraged to push, making them squeak.
It's a treat to be told by the gallerist,"Touch the art. The artist wants you to."
There was nothing subtle about "Madonna and Child"with its plastic fried eggs and loads of baby bottle nipples.
"Strange Lives of One Man" contained a framed picture of a couple with the glass broken, causing a man I'd met at a previous opening to observe to me, "I have a picture just like that of my Mom and Dad."
His, however, was at home in a box he said and not consigned to a better life in the service of art.
I met the artist, Mark, and, besides being handsome, was charmed by his pleasure in re-purposing objects for art.
"By Truck" had a blue ribbon hanging on it saying "1st Prize Madison County Fair" and he admitted that the ribbon was not originally part of the piece.
Rather, he'd actually submitted it to the fair, won the ribbon and added it to the work, "because it needed some color."
Even better, the $6 check he'd won for first prize was now taped to the back of the frame.
As far as I could see, that was recycling in the name of artistic evolution. Brilliant.
But Negativland also makes collages of music, radio and live performances and soon the lights were dimmed and Mark took over the controls on a large table (for what man wants a small table?) in the corner.
It was audio collage time.
Turning knobs and orchestrating sound, he proceeded to entertain the rapt crowd with samples, sound bites and enough unexpected sounds that one friend stepped outside to listen through the door after she jumped through her skin at a sudden boom.
It was interesting watching the audience; several times Mark almost locked into a groove and people began bobbing their heads, only to be knocked out of their trance state when the music took a surprising left turn.
I have to say, it was very cool listening to this guy work his audio magic while surrounded by all these collages of cultural artifacts.
When he finished, it was time to eat.
But why only eat when you can also admire two men with large instruments?
Because if you're going to play a classical instrument, you may as well play the big one.
Balliceaux was hosting "I Love Your Big Bassoon," an evening of, get this, bassoon music and bassoon trivia.
I mean, how great is that?
True, I would be useless on a bassoon trivia team, but I sensed that the entertainment value would be high.
Plus there would be bassoon music? Count me in.
I was pleased to see that Balliceaux had jumped on the small plate wagon, offering a half dozen or so $5 and $6 plates to encourage eating with their world-famous drink menu.
In short order, I chose grilled smoked Surry sausage with stewed tomatoes and local collards in a cornmeal crepe.
The rustic combo of local ingredients was a solid winner.
Deep-fried stuck pork belly skewer came with a beautiful ginger peach chutney that benefited the belly which had almost no fat.
Give me some fat with my pork belly, people, or it may as well be pork tenderloin.
Endive with a salsa of pearl couscous, beluga lentils, heirloom tomatoes and olives leaned too heavily on the olives, in my opinion, overwhelming the other ingredients to the point of oblivion.
That said, the texture was lovely, the lentils perfectly cooked.
The show began with Martin (or was it Tom?) telling us that by the end of the evening, he hoped we'd agree what a soulful instrument the bassoon was.
There were small white boards on some of the tables and four teams were quickly formed to compete on bassoon trivia.
Alternating trivia questions with performances, the evening marched along most enjoyably.
We were shown a demonstration of the parts of the bassoon (who knew there were so many?), so it was also educational.
Tom (or was it Martin?) did a piece he described as "a finger twister and a tongue twister."
I guess you need fast both if you have a big instrument.
The first question asked was what was the other kind of bassoon besides the German bassoon?
French. Duh.
The two-person team next to me got it right.
There was a piece of music described as ,"Latin music, like Latin women, is very free and unrestricted," which led to the next question about the Spanish word for Latin men thinking they were all that.
Answer: Machismo. My seatmate team scored again.
There was an hysterical and obscure question about a 1983 film called "Never Cry Wolf" which had to do with a guy going to the tundra to live with wolves.
Naturally, he takes his bassoon.
Question: What part of the bassoon did he use to fight off wolves?
With this arcane question came a demonstration by Martin (or was it Tom?), with him taking each part and using it in a beating or thrusting motion to help us figure out the best attack method by part.
And the answer was...Boot joint!
Of course.
One thing I did learn about bassoon playing tonight: I liked the duets better than the solos because the beauty of the two playing different parts was pure ear candy.
A sax-playing friend came back and joined me at the table, leading to a discussion of how kids choose what instrument they want to play.
He'd wanted the violin and his rock and rolling Dad had already put up with a child screeching on the violin and promptly steered him to the sax.
Obviously there are kids who demand the bassoon; Tom (or was it Martin) recalled teenage years getting his angst out by playing bassoon.
Friend told me that bassoons were extremely expensive, even showing me on his phone some used ones for sale for $7500.
And a hand-made one for $34,000!
What parent buys his kid that kind of pricey instrument anyway?
One question was not a question but a challenge.
The bassoon harness that distributes the weight of the instrument across the back and shoulders so the neck doesn't take all the brunt needed a more clever name.
Each team tried but only one succeeded with the very clever (and quick) suggestion of Brasoon.
After a question about the father of western music (Bach) and another right answer, I turned to the woman next to me to compliment her knowledge base.
"I play bassoon," she admitted.
Ringer.
But, wait, here was my source.
How much did your bassoon cost, I asked a perfect stranger.
"$8,000," she said. "And that's on the low end."
Now I see.
It's not just size of the instrument that matters, it's size of the wallet, too.
I refuse to believe either.
Like when you're talking about collecting art.
New Yorkers Herb and Dorothy Vogel collected 4700 pieces of art, meaning their art collection's size exceeds mine by about 4670.
Their collection was so large they could give fifty pieces to museums in all fifty states and tonight I went to see the fifty Virginia got.
"The Dorothy and Herbert Vogel Collection: Fifty Works for Fifty States" went on view last weekend and I was eager to see what had landed at the VMFA.
A lot of amazing art, that's what.
Hands down, my favorite was Charles Clough's "Ramus Major" from 1983, a work that suggested the past.
Like a band of twenty-somethings whose music reflects the influences of every band that came before them, this enamel on rag paper piece was an exquisite regurgitation of the past.
The complementary shades of blues and oranges, the sense of movement, the curving figures, were both fresh and familiar at the same time.
For me, it was the most swoon-worthy piece.
But if the VMFA wanted me to take something smaller off their hands, I'd be happy to hang Edda Renouf's 1993 "Dawn-17 (water)" in my apartment, if only to use its undulating lines on sea blue-green to lose myself in.
While strolling the gallery, I ran into a friend doing the same and her first question was if I'd seen the Goya prints (I had) and if I'd gone to the tiki bar (I had) and maybe a little quick commentary about a certain woman-about-town we both despise (shared disdain, always a pleasure).
Because she works at the museum, she'd been fortunate enough to meet artist Martin Johnson, who had two works in the Vogel show.
Some girls have all the luck.
Before long, she looked at me suddenly and said, "I thought you'd be at Ghostprint," which was exactly where I was headed next.
It was opening night at Ghostprint Gallery for Negativland's "Our Favorite Things," a show of considerable breadth of paintings and collages by the collective headed up by Mark Hosler.
As a founding member of Negativland, Mark was also performing tonight, so no wonder my friend presumed I'd be there.
The show was a retrospective of work chronicling the collaborative work of this group since the '80s.
"Untitled Tape Collage (Twenty Years of Negativland)" was a mixed media piece that you could look at for hours on end and still continue to see new things in it.
Bits and pieces of two decades intermingled on the vertical piece.
Some of the collages were paper and others were more like combines, using found objects, frames and whatever else the artists wanted.
Books, Jewelry. Car parts.
"Steak on a Whim" contained a row of plastic "steaks" with googly eyes, which visitors were encouraged to push, making them squeak.
It's a treat to be told by the gallerist,"Touch the art. The artist wants you to."
There was nothing subtle about "Madonna and Child"with its plastic fried eggs and loads of baby bottle nipples.
"Strange Lives of One Man" contained a framed picture of a couple with the glass broken, causing a man I'd met at a previous opening to observe to me, "I have a picture just like that of my Mom and Dad."
His, however, was at home in a box he said and not consigned to a better life in the service of art.
I met the artist, Mark, and, besides being handsome, was charmed by his pleasure in re-purposing objects for art.
"By Truck" had a blue ribbon hanging on it saying "1st Prize Madison County Fair" and he admitted that the ribbon was not originally part of the piece.
Rather, he'd actually submitted it to the fair, won the ribbon and added it to the work, "because it needed some color."
Even better, the $6 check he'd won for first prize was now taped to the back of the frame.
As far as I could see, that was recycling in the name of artistic evolution. Brilliant.
But Negativland also makes collages of music, radio and live performances and soon the lights were dimmed and Mark took over the controls on a large table (for what man wants a small table?) in the corner.
It was audio collage time.
Turning knobs and orchestrating sound, he proceeded to entertain the rapt crowd with samples, sound bites and enough unexpected sounds that one friend stepped outside to listen through the door after she jumped through her skin at a sudden boom.
It was interesting watching the audience; several times Mark almost locked into a groove and people began bobbing their heads, only to be knocked out of their trance state when the music took a surprising left turn.
I have to say, it was very cool listening to this guy work his audio magic while surrounded by all these collages of cultural artifacts.
When he finished, it was time to eat.
But why only eat when you can also admire two men with large instruments?
Because if you're going to play a classical instrument, you may as well play the big one.
Balliceaux was hosting "I Love Your Big Bassoon," an evening of, get this, bassoon music and bassoon trivia.
I mean, how great is that?
True, I would be useless on a bassoon trivia team, but I sensed that the entertainment value would be high.
Plus there would be bassoon music? Count me in.
I was pleased to see that Balliceaux had jumped on the small plate wagon, offering a half dozen or so $5 and $6 plates to encourage eating with their world-famous drink menu.
In short order, I chose grilled smoked Surry sausage with stewed tomatoes and local collards in a cornmeal crepe.
The rustic combo of local ingredients was a solid winner.
Deep-fried stuck pork belly skewer came with a beautiful ginger peach chutney that benefited the belly which had almost no fat.
Give me some fat with my pork belly, people, or it may as well be pork tenderloin.
Endive with a salsa of pearl couscous, beluga lentils, heirloom tomatoes and olives leaned too heavily on the olives, in my opinion, overwhelming the other ingredients to the point of oblivion.
That said, the texture was lovely, the lentils perfectly cooked.
The show began with Martin (or was it Tom?) telling us that by the end of the evening, he hoped we'd agree what a soulful instrument the bassoon was.
There were small white boards on some of the tables and four teams were quickly formed to compete on bassoon trivia.
Alternating trivia questions with performances, the evening marched along most enjoyably.
We were shown a demonstration of the parts of the bassoon (who knew there were so many?), so it was also educational.
Tom (or was it Martin?) did a piece he described as "a finger twister and a tongue twister."
I guess you need fast both if you have a big instrument.
The first question asked was what was the other kind of bassoon besides the German bassoon?
French. Duh.
The two-person team next to me got it right.
There was a piece of music described as ,"Latin music, like Latin women, is very free and unrestricted," which led to the next question about the Spanish word for Latin men thinking they were all that.
Answer: Machismo. My seatmate team scored again.
There was an hysterical and obscure question about a 1983 film called "Never Cry Wolf" which had to do with a guy going to the tundra to live with wolves.
Naturally, he takes his bassoon.
Question: What part of the bassoon did he use to fight off wolves?
With this arcane question came a demonstration by Martin (or was it Tom?), with him taking each part and using it in a beating or thrusting motion to help us figure out the best attack method by part.
And the answer was...Boot joint!
Of course.
One thing I did learn about bassoon playing tonight: I liked the duets better than the solos because the beauty of the two playing different parts was pure ear candy.
A sax-playing friend came back and joined me at the table, leading to a discussion of how kids choose what instrument they want to play.
He'd wanted the violin and his rock and rolling Dad had already put up with a child screeching on the violin and promptly steered him to the sax.
Obviously there are kids who demand the bassoon; Tom (or was it Martin) recalled teenage years getting his angst out by playing bassoon.
Friend told me that bassoons were extremely expensive, even showing me on his phone some used ones for sale for $7500.
And a hand-made one for $34,000!
What parent buys his kid that kind of pricey instrument anyway?
One question was not a question but a challenge.
The bassoon harness that distributes the weight of the instrument across the back and shoulders so the neck doesn't take all the brunt needed a more clever name.
Each team tried but only one succeeded with the very clever (and quick) suggestion of Brasoon.
After a question about the father of western music (Bach) and another right answer, I turned to the woman next to me to compliment her knowledge base.
"I play bassoon," she admitted.
Ringer.
But, wait, here was my source.
How much did your bassoon cost, I asked a perfect stranger.
"$8,000," she said. "And that's on the low end."
Now I see.
It's not just size of the instrument that matters, it's size of the wallet, too.
I refuse to believe either.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Mercurial and Inquisitorial.
When everything around you is making you crazy, it's nice to escape into a dream.
Or, in tonight's case, into "Dreamscapes," the name of Ghostprint Gallery's new show which was previewing tonight.
Described as a show demonstrating that you can live with good art and good furniture, it was a beautiful expression of both.
Catherine Roseberry's enamel-painted wood cabinet, "Aerial" had a scene with figures painted on the front, but it was the list of words painted on both sides that caught my eye.
Capricious. Sanguine. Mercurial. Inquisitorial.
Jeremy Witt's silver image print was absolutely compelling, because it was impossible to figure out what I was seeing.
The black, gray and white that made up the image were exquisite in their richness of color but gave no clue as to what they represented, which naturally pulled me in further.
There were plenty of vintage pieces - an antique Parisian bed, a '70s white plaster twisted column lamp, a '50s glass table with seahorses supporting the top- with my favorite being a classical architectural head on a custom stand.
Easily one of the most striking pieces in a room full of unique pieces was Maurice Bean's "Twig Table," painted a heavenly shade of pale green with black forged steel "twigs" that stretched over 3/4 of the drawer as handles.
Walking around the gallery, I saw many favorite artist names from former Ghostprint shows, only this time integrated into tableaux with tables, lamps and other furniture.
Satisfied that the goal of showing how it's done had been achieved in the most charming manner, I left to meet a friend for dinner.
Hey, people gotta eat.
We decided on Lemon Cuisine of India because neither of us had been yet.
At first, we were worried about the lack of Indian customers in the dining room, always a good indicator, but it wasn't long before that changed.
I'd been curious about how the former Byram's had changed to accommodate an Indian restaurant, but while it was less fussy and dated looking, it really didn't seem all that different than my last memory of it, except cleaner.
We began with a bottle of Gruner Veltliner and the Tandoori sampler, with lamb kebab, chicken tikka and mint chicken kebab.
It wasn't long before I heard my name called and turned to find a friend out on a school night.
"Twice in one week!" she boasted proudly, a nod to her early morning schedule and the fact that she knows I'm out every night.
Like us, it was her first visit and she was eager to experience the food, so we hugged and she moved on to the back room, where they apparently put the cool kids.
Meanwhile, we went back to talking about my friend's recent trip to Charleston, the difference in sand at various beaches, the meals, including Hank's, and the relentless rainy weather while there.
The way I see it, a rainy day at the beach still beats a rainy day anywhere else, if you know what I mean.
Having adjusted our taste buds to Indian spice blends, we ordered lamb pasanda, naan and palak paneer, a creamed spinach with homemade Indian cheese and gorged until we had no more room and the dining room was almost empty.
Not sure if that's the Indian way, but it worked for us.
Or, in tonight's case, into "Dreamscapes," the name of Ghostprint Gallery's new show which was previewing tonight.
Described as a show demonstrating that you can live with good art and good furniture, it was a beautiful expression of both.
Catherine Roseberry's enamel-painted wood cabinet, "Aerial" had a scene with figures painted on the front, but it was the list of words painted on both sides that caught my eye.
Capricious. Sanguine. Mercurial. Inquisitorial.
Jeremy Witt's silver image print was absolutely compelling, because it was impossible to figure out what I was seeing.
The black, gray and white that made up the image were exquisite in their richness of color but gave no clue as to what they represented, which naturally pulled me in further.
There were plenty of vintage pieces - an antique Parisian bed, a '70s white plaster twisted column lamp, a '50s glass table with seahorses supporting the top- with my favorite being a classical architectural head on a custom stand.
Easily one of the most striking pieces in a room full of unique pieces was Maurice Bean's "Twig Table," painted a heavenly shade of pale green with black forged steel "twigs" that stretched over 3/4 of the drawer as handles.
Walking around the gallery, I saw many favorite artist names from former Ghostprint shows, only this time integrated into tableaux with tables, lamps and other furniture.
Satisfied that the goal of showing how it's done had been achieved in the most charming manner, I left to meet a friend for dinner.
Hey, people gotta eat.
We decided on Lemon Cuisine of India because neither of us had been yet.
At first, we were worried about the lack of Indian customers in the dining room, always a good indicator, but it wasn't long before that changed.
I'd been curious about how the former Byram's had changed to accommodate an Indian restaurant, but while it was less fussy and dated looking, it really didn't seem all that different than my last memory of it, except cleaner.
We began with a bottle of Gruner Veltliner and the Tandoori sampler, with lamb kebab, chicken tikka and mint chicken kebab.
It wasn't long before I heard my name called and turned to find a friend out on a school night.
"Twice in one week!" she boasted proudly, a nod to her early morning schedule and the fact that she knows I'm out every night.
Like us, it was her first visit and she was eager to experience the food, so we hugged and she moved on to the back room, where they apparently put the cool kids.
Meanwhile, we went back to talking about my friend's recent trip to Charleston, the difference in sand at various beaches, the meals, including Hank's, and the relentless rainy weather while there.
The way I see it, a rainy day at the beach still beats a rainy day anywhere else, if you know what I mean.
Having adjusted our taste buds to Indian spice blends, we ordered lamb pasanda, naan and palak paneer, a creamed spinach with homemade Indian cheese and gorged until we had no more room and the dining room was almost empty.
Not sure if that's the Indian way, but it worked for us.
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.
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