Opinionated as I am, I was born to be part of a charette.
After happy hour with Prosecco/tequila cocktails and an old friend from out of town, I set my sights on the Virginia Center for Architecture's panel discussion, "Reprogramming the City," based on the fascinating new exhibit there.
I'd already written a piece on it for Style Weekly, here, with my own suggestions for utilizing the ideas in the exhibit but tonight was about listening to savvy panelists explain macro and micro ideas for using Richmond's infrastructure to improve the city.
Stewart Schwartz gave us an overview of the D.C area's mistakes and successes in creating walkable urbanism, followed by a look at Richmond's efforts. Incredibly knowledgeable about development, he stressed the importance of the public in planning a city's future (that's where I want to come in).
Next came Jim Smither who teaches at VCU and used images of projects done by urban planning students to re-imagine parts of Richmond.
Although I have no interest in the suburbs, the plan for redeveloping Chesterfield Town Center mall looked like a huge improvement with a clock tower, parks, an arch with a rooftop cafe, a library, post office, hotel and apartments breaking up the existing block of stores.
Turns out it's in response to a demand for more public space in the suburbs. Who knew they wanted that?
Far more compelling was another project proposing redevelopment of the old bus station at Robinson and Cary Streets. There, the students had struck a balance of preserving the historic trolley sheds and infilling with retail, residential and a parking garage.
But it went further than that. They'd laid out a plan for pocket parks, a sculpture garden, a rain garden, a playground and even managed to find a place to put one of the old trolleys on display for historical reference, all within the block where the sheds sit.
Where Robinson Street crosses over the Downtown Expressway, they'd envisioned pedestrian walkways, crosswalks and lamp posts with flags to make the bridge a gateway to Robinson Street.
Best of all, everything was done in the scale of the existing neighborhood, so nothing looked out of place, just more welcoming.
When the moderator brought up his fiscal conservatism in the face of these plans, Smither explained that a project like this was a 20 year plan that would need to be broken into phases.
He even brought up another student's project in Jackson Ward, one I knew well since I'd been a part of it. A group of neighbors had met over four consecutive weeks to reimagine the triangle at Adams and Broad and while we had no money to implement our ideas, a few of them had been accomplished with sweat equity as proof to the city that they were not only possible but a major improvement to the neighborhood.
It was through that project that I'd discovered how satisfying it is to be part of a charette and collaborate on a vision for development.
As the audience began asking questions, it became clear which topics are high on everyone's radar. BRT (bus rapid transit) was one, with Schwartz emphasizing the importance of making people want to live near the bus stops and how people need to have a positive experience - exciting, interesting, appealing -when they get off a bus to make it successful (see: D.C.).
We talked about the over-abundance of parking garages downtown and how they're privately owned and aren't shared, making them useless too much of the time. "If we want a vibrant city, we have to get a handle on parking," he insisted.
Apparently during the downtown master plan charettes a few years back, there was talk of making the Leigh Street connector more attractive by adding a green median and better bike lanes. Having just walked it today and picked up two bags of trash along the way, I couldn't agree more that it needs a face-lift
But the idea that grabbed me, thrilled me most and the one he said should be an even higher priority than the bridge park currently being planned was for Mayo's bridge.
In order to knit together Shockoe Slip and Bottom to Manchester, he said, Mayo's bridge should be closed to traffic and made a green space with bike lanes, wide sidewalks and places from which to fish. A loop would be formed with a park on Mayo Island.
It's so easy to imagine because the scale of that bridge is so unlike the others that cross the James. It's low to the river, it's only one lane in either direction. It's a bridge scaled for people, not cars.
A traffic study has already shown that the paltry amount of traffic using that bridge could easily be shifted to the Manchester bridge seven blocks away leaving that old, historic stone bridge to become a pathway from one downtown neighborhood to another.
It's by far the best idea for reprogramming the city I've heard. And in case anyone's taking names, I want to be part of the charette that works on such a brilliant idea.
Let me be one of the voices giving feedback to the designers and the city about the best way to walk from one neighborhood to another. I'd say I'm pretty close to an expert on that subject.
Showing posts with label VA Center for Architecture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label VA Center for Architecture. Show all posts
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Friday, January 31, 2014
Do I Know You?
It was a good night for random guys to talk to me.
Curious about what Harvard Graduate School of Design students might come up with, I went to the Virginia Center for Architecture for the opening of "Menokin Revealed."
You might not know what Menokin is, but I do, at least I have since attending a lecture at the Virginia Historical Society in 2012 given by David Brown who wrote a book about Menokin, a highly terraced 1769 home on the northern neck.
Recalling slides he'd shown of a house that had mostly collapsed on itself, I was curious to see what overly-educated students came up with for restoration ideas after spending four days on site.
Hardly surprisingly, with no budget parameters, the twelve students dreamed big, envisioning towers, catwalks, visitor centers, bridges and just about any other architectural features of which they could conceive.
As I was looking at one based on Native American "canopies," a man approached me and asked my name.
Turns out he's a trustee of the Menokin board and wanted to know if I knew where Menokin was.
He was surprised that I knew it was outside of Warsaw and I was surprised that he'd heard of my parents' tiny little crabbing village.
"If you live out there, you know where everything is," he assured me, asking if he could show me something.
"Something" turned out to be a scale model of the actual restoration that will be done to Menokin, which bears no resemblance to the students' visions.
Instead, they intend to take the pieces of the remaining walls, add supports and a roof and finish all the missing areas with glass walls. You'll once again be able to see the river over the treeline from the second floor.
Even better, paneling and furniture removed from the house 40 or so years ago when they realized it was falling apart will be returned to its rightful place and re-installed.
"I'd like to see a pavilion on the grounds, too," the trustee said. "Someplace that would make Menokin a cultural destination for the northern neck, a place the symphony could come and play."
Well, you know I was all about that idea and assured him that people like my parents would be, too.
By the time he'd finished showing me all the models and explaining everything, a good part of the crowd had left. I'd been so fascinated with hearing about the plans that I'd lost track of time and the opening was officially over.
Thanking my unexpected guide, I left for the VMFA's jazz cafe to see M. Law and the Modern Prophets of Jazz, mainly because I keep seeing the name at venues around town and knew nothing about them.
First surprise? M. Law is a woman (Mary Lawrence Hicks). Second, she plays trumpet. Third, Larry Branch, whose quartet I'd seen last week plays piano in this group.
Finding a place near enough to see and hear, it wasn't long before a guy walked by, winked and said hello, he'd be right back.
I was a little surprised at his boldness, until he came back from getting a beer and stopped to ask if I remembered him (um, no?). Gallery 5, a few weeks ago, yadda, yadda.
In my own defense, tonight he was wearing a sweater and that night he'd had on a bulky coat because G5's heat wasn't working so he looked different to me. Or maybe he just hadn't been that memorable, although I appreciate anyone who swings from Gallery 5 to VMFA's jazz cafe.
He invited me to join him at his table, but I was just fine where I was listening to the band's improvisational takes on standards as well as some interesting original material against a backdrop of people strolling through the still snow-covered sculpture garden.
M Law wasn't much for between-song patter, so one song followed another for non-stop music. I have to say, it's satisfying seeing a woman blow a horn, especially in a dress.
Once that ended, I went straight to Cafe 821 for eats, joining the throngs for thirsty Thursday.
From my bar stool, I had a constant clutch of people behind me, not just ogling the tap list (because they were all $2 off tonight) but discussing what to order with their friends.
After the fourth or fifth group, I could conclude that, for most guys anyway, the overriding factor in choosing a beer was the alcohol percentage.
They were all pretty bummed when the 10% stout keg tapped out and they had to make do with a 7% second choice.
Don't get me started on our over-saturated beer market.
Without such things to worry about, I savored the pleasures of a perfect plate of black bean nachos with punk music blaring loud enough to drown out the conversation of the rest of the room.
Until a guy sat down at the end of the bar, looked over, looked again, and asked if we had met.
Sure had. He'd been seated next to me during my fried chicken dinner at Saison recently, where we'd talked about the primal pleasures of eating with your fingers.
Funny the people who recall you when you show up elsewhere and out of context.
Leaving the thirsty hordes to their discounted rail drinks and beers, I moved on to Balliceaux for a terrific double bill of Way, Shape or Form followed by Annousheh.
Getting my hand stamped to go in, I happened into a conversation involving pools of vomit.
Promising to do my best, the one guy looked at me and said, "You don't seem like a pools of vomit kind of girl."
Thanks for noticing.
I'm not going to lie, I fell for Way, Shape or Form's prog-influenced indie pop with just enough post-rock to seal the deal last January when I first heard them, becoming a complete convert once I spoke to leader Troy afterwards and learning that we'd both been at the same Pinback, Tortoise and Minus the Bear shows.
No wonder I liked them so much given the overlap in our musical taste.
Joined by a friend who'd never heard them, I had the pleasure of hearing how much someone else was impressed with the jangley, syncopated guitars and odd time signatures.
It's always fun to introduce a fellow music-lover to a local band to whom I'm devoted.
And Annousheh, well, that's just guilty pop pleasure, 80s-sounding songs done '90s alternative style. radio-ready and delighting the crowd no end.
Plus instead of random guys, I got to talk to friends - the dance party enthusiast, the newly blond minimalist, the tango teacher, the brilliant bartender, the new WSoF fan - making for a fine finale to my evening.
Nothing guilty about the pleasures of the right kind of conversation paired with live music...especially absent pools of vomit.
Curious about what Harvard Graduate School of Design students might come up with, I went to the Virginia Center for Architecture for the opening of "Menokin Revealed."
You might not know what Menokin is, but I do, at least I have since attending a lecture at the Virginia Historical Society in 2012 given by David Brown who wrote a book about Menokin, a highly terraced 1769 home on the northern neck.
Recalling slides he'd shown of a house that had mostly collapsed on itself, I was curious to see what overly-educated students came up with for restoration ideas after spending four days on site.
Hardly surprisingly, with no budget parameters, the twelve students dreamed big, envisioning towers, catwalks, visitor centers, bridges and just about any other architectural features of which they could conceive.
As I was looking at one based on Native American "canopies," a man approached me and asked my name.
Turns out he's a trustee of the Menokin board and wanted to know if I knew where Menokin was.
He was surprised that I knew it was outside of Warsaw and I was surprised that he'd heard of my parents' tiny little crabbing village.
"If you live out there, you know where everything is," he assured me, asking if he could show me something.
"Something" turned out to be a scale model of the actual restoration that will be done to Menokin, which bears no resemblance to the students' visions.
Instead, they intend to take the pieces of the remaining walls, add supports and a roof and finish all the missing areas with glass walls. You'll once again be able to see the river over the treeline from the second floor.
Even better, paneling and furniture removed from the house 40 or so years ago when they realized it was falling apart will be returned to its rightful place and re-installed.
"I'd like to see a pavilion on the grounds, too," the trustee said. "Someplace that would make Menokin a cultural destination for the northern neck, a place the symphony could come and play."
Well, you know I was all about that idea and assured him that people like my parents would be, too.
By the time he'd finished showing me all the models and explaining everything, a good part of the crowd had left. I'd been so fascinated with hearing about the plans that I'd lost track of time and the opening was officially over.
Thanking my unexpected guide, I left for the VMFA's jazz cafe to see M. Law and the Modern Prophets of Jazz, mainly because I keep seeing the name at venues around town and knew nothing about them.
First surprise? M. Law is a woman (Mary Lawrence Hicks). Second, she plays trumpet. Third, Larry Branch, whose quartet I'd seen last week plays piano in this group.
Finding a place near enough to see and hear, it wasn't long before a guy walked by, winked and said hello, he'd be right back.
I was a little surprised at his boldness, until he came back from getting a beer and stopped to ask if I remembered him (um, no?). Gallery 5, a few weeks ago, yadda, yadda.
In my own defense, tonight he was wearing a sweater and that night he'd had on a bulky coat because G5's heat wasn't working so he looked different to me. Or maybe he just hadn't been that memorable, although I appreciate anyone who swings from Gallery 5 to VMFA's jazz cafe.
He invited me to join him at his table, but I was just fine where I was listening to the band's improvisational takes on standards as well as some interesting original material against a backdrop of people strolling through the still snow-covered sculpture garden.
M Law wasn't much for between-song patter, so one song followed another for non-stop music. I have to say, it's satisfying seeing a woman blow a horn, especially in a dress.
Once that ended, I went straight to Cafe 821 for eats, joining the throngs for thirsty Thursday.
From my bar stool, I had a constant clutch of people behind me, not just ogling the tap list (because they were all $2 off tonight) but discussing what to order with their friends.
After the fourth or fifth group, I could conclude that, for most guys anyway, the overriding factor in choosing a beer was the alcohol percentage.
They were all pretty bummed when the 10% stout keg tapped out and they had to make do with a 7% second choice.
Don't get me started on our over-saturated beer market.
Without such things to worry about, I savored the pleasures of a perfect plate of black bean nachos with punk music blaring loud enough to drown out the conversation of the rest of the room.
Until a guy sat down at the end of the bar, looked over, looked again, and asked if we had met.
Sure had. He'd been seated next to me during my fried chicken dinner at Saison recently, where we'd talked about the primal pleasures of eating with your fingers.
Funny the people who recall you when you show up elsewhere and out of context.
Leaving the thirsty hordes to their discounted rail drinks and beers, I moved on to Balliceaux for a terrific double bill of Way, Shape or Form followed by Annousheh.
Getting my hand stamped to go in, I happened into a conversation involving pools of vomit.
Promising to do my best, the one guy looked at me and said, "You don't seem like a pools of vomit kind of girl."
Thanks for noticing.
I'm not going to lie, I fell for Way, Shape or Form's prog-influenced indie pop with just enough post-rock to seal the deal last January when I first heard them, becoming a complete convert once I spoke to leader Troy afterwards and learning that we'd both been at the same Pinback, Tortoise and Minus the Bear shows.
No wonder I liked them so much given the overlap in our musical taste.
Joined by a friend who'd never heard them, I had the pleasure of hearing how much someone else was impressed with the jangley, syncopated guitars and odd time signatures.
It's always fun to introduce a fellow music-lover to a local band to whom I'm devoted.
And Annousheh, well, that's just guilty pop pleasure, 80s-sounding songs done '90s alternative style. radio-ready and delighting the crowd no end.
Plus instead of random guys, I got to talk to friends - the dance party enthusiast, the newly blond minimalist, the tango teacher, the brilliant bartender, the new WSoF fan - making for a fine finale to my evening.
Nothing guilty about the pleasures of the right kind of conversation paired with live music...especially absent pools of vomit.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Shutters and Mouths Open
Tonight's lesson: How to be a glutton after art and architecture.
It began in a rainstorm and ended in clogged arteries.
As I was dressing to go out, the wind was howling in the windows of the apartment and by the time I left, it was pouring rain.
The fierce weather meant that the lecture at the Virginia Center for Architecture was delayed to allow for latecomers.
I wasn't bothered in the least; the postponement meant that I could check out their new exhibition, "Art by Architects."
The 44 pieces were all by practicing or retired architects and in various mediums.
I hate to say it, but the pieces that delighted me most were mostly of, well, buildings and streetscapes.
Like Christina Canabou's "Tenement Street," a large drawing that focused not on the buildings but on the magnificent dome rising behind the shabby apartments.
The charming "Sicilian Street" by John LaMonica was tiny but evocative.
I was transported back to a 2008 visit for Patrick McClane's watercolor, "Bermuda Shutter," with its white-washed building and wall and deep green shutter, propped open but shading the interior.
Since so many of the pieces were about buildings, the ones that weren't stood out all the more.
Figures, nature scenes, and abstract collages all attested to what's in an architect's mind besides building plans.
I said hello to the Frenchman and found a seat in the third row for the lecture.
Tonight's lecture was "Poplar Forest: The Most Palladian Work in America" by architectural historian Travis McDonald, who's been involved with the restoration of Thomas Jefferson's country retreat for twenty-some years.
You gotta love you some TJ to work at a project that long.
It was interesting, I hadn't known that TJ envisioned Poplar Forest as his getaway from the hordes of people at Monticello clamoring to see him.
It was where he intended to be a hermit.
For the record, I shall need no such place when I retire.
An example of villa-style architecture, the octagonal house was, according to McDonald, "a fantasy impervious to reality."
Oh, my, if only all of life could be like that.
And, just for the record, the privies were octagonal, too. No lie, he showed us a slide.
The history nerd in me looks forward to someday seeing this unique house now that I know its story.
With such enlightenment behind me, I was free to head east to meet a friend for dinner.
Aziza's was mobbed when I arrived (hello, restaurant of the year) and my friend was missing in action, but conveniently, I found another at the bar.
He looked a tad stuffed and confirmed with a grin that he'd eaten far more than he'd intended to.
Since my dinner date was nowhere to be seen, I sat down to catch up with the one who was present.
I had heard that he was leaving Richmond, so I asked about his plans.
Turns out he's off to Palestine in two weeks to teach, with no plans to return.
I asked how his parents were taking his decision (not well) and he mentioned that his mother was appalled at his choice of destinations.
"Can't you just go teach in the East End instead?" she'd not-so-gently suggested.
He admitted to curiosity about how impoverished kids in that part of the world are different from our own disadvantaged youth.
Fact is, he's considering eventually doing his PhD on the subject.
It was a curious experience having a conversation with a guy I've known for four years, knowing I may never lay eyes on him again.
I did tell him how much I admire this great adventure he's setting off on (and if not now, when?) and all the potential it holds.
Then I asked him to text my friend and inquire where the hell he was.
"On my way down the hill," he texted back from high atop Church Hill.
The explorer left once the tardy one arrived, but we stayed at the bar because every table was taken.
Who am I kidding? We'd have stayed there anyway.
My friend started a new job a few weeks ago and it has been kicking his butt up and down the hill ever since.
You see, he used to be a bartender/photographer/perennial student and now he works a regular job and answers to a manager or two.
Whoa. It has taken some major adjustment for him.
Luckily, he'd caught twenty winks before our dinner, so he was starved and ready to chat.
With no further plans later tonight, we set out to become eating machines.
We got our socks knocked off with our very first dish: shad roe with sunchoke puree, citron brown butter sauce and, just in case that wasn't decadent enough, an oozing fried egg atop it all.
Best of all, it was my friend's first shad roe, making him a lucky man to start with shad roe of this ilk.
The sweetness of the sunchoke was a killer balance to the earthy shad roe and egg and we were still naive enough to go ahead and sop up all that puree and butter sauce until the plate was gleaming.
Rookie mistake and we're not rookies.
He was busy telling me about his upcoming trip to Nashville and the pleasures of photographing small children and we forgot to keep our eyes on the prize.
So when the pan-seared softshell crab with ramps atop cheesy polenta with bacon arrived, we dove in again, barely coming up for air.
In my defense, it was only my second softshell so far this season and I couldn't have controlled myself if I'd wanted to.
And I didn't.
The cheesy polenta was rich on its own and obscene with the chunks of bacon and the crab's delicate breading let the flavor of the meat shine through.
But, it should be noted, we were slowing down just a bit.
I told him my barber story only to learn he knew the barbers and the shop.
We walked about how people who grow up in California are different and why he might want to move to California (a woman, natch).
And then, brave souls that we are, we went on to our next course.
He was having a margarita pizza with hot Italian sausage and I, to my eternal optimism, was having some gland.
Pan-seared sweetbreads with English peas ('tis the season) and carrots in saffron sauce was exquisite, the sweetbreads with a silky texture, the fresh-as-a-morning peas and the carrots of various colors adding a sweet crunch.
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
Hell, I couldn't. At least not entirely.
I ate as much as I could before my taste buds shut down, telling me A) I was disgustingly full and B) all my savory needs had been met for the evening.
Even my compadre, a man and much bigger than I am, threw in the towel after one piece of pizza.
It wasn't like we didn't want to finish, just that it was impossible.
In fact, we knew as soon as he brought up that he hadn't known how foie gras came about.
When your dining companion starts talking about force-feeding in the middle of dinner, he's trying to tell you something.
Or maybe I'm reading too much into it.
In any case, we asked for boxes for our leftovers at that point.
He and I have been going to Aziza's for years together and we never fail to end a meal with a cream puff.
He even took a picture of me once with the cream puff approaching my wide-open mouth and posted it all over the internets for the world to see.
Tonight, with our boxes sitting on the counter and our filled-to-the-gills satiety, it appeared that a long-standing tradition was about to die.
Instead, Friend ordered his second cup of coffee and suggested we enjoy some after-dinner patter.
I told him about the gardening I'd done earlier this week and he shared that he'd prepared his beds but not yet planted anything.
We talked about the upcoming RiverRock festival, Toots and the Maytalls and doing yoga on a paddle board.
Another photographer came in and the two of them discussed some Haiti photos.
And then my friend looked at me, looked at all the coffee left in his mug and said, "Yea, we're gonna need a cream puff."
Hallelujah and spread the ganache.
Our server, to her credit, merely smiled but the look in her eyes said, "told you so."
Yes, we were full, and no, we had no more room for savory, but sweet was a whole different matter.
One of us would fork the puff to hold it in place so the other could break off the perfect combination of dark chocolate, sweet cream and delicate pastry.
At one point, Friend looked at me and said, "I wanna be in a vat of that cream."
I can't say I shared that wish, but I did scarf my half way before he finished.
My lack of a petite feminine appetite no longer amazes him after four years of shared meals.
His response is hilarious and always the same. "Whoa."
It just means he's impervious to my reality. Smart man.
It began in a rainstorm and ended in clogged arteries.
As I was dressing to go out, the wind was howling in the windows of the apartment and by the time I left, it was pouring rain.
The fierce weather meant that the lecture at the Virginia Center for Architecture was delayed to allow for latecomers.
I wasn't bothered in the least; the postponement meant that I could check out their new exhibition, "Art by Architects."
The 44 pieces were all by practicing or retired architects and in various mediums.
I hate to say it, but the pieces that delighted me most were mostly of, well, buildings and streetscapes.
Like Christina Canabou's "Tenement Street," a large drawing that focused not on the buildings but on the magnificent dome rising behind the shabby apartments.
The charming "Sicilian Street" by John LaMonica was tiny but evocative.
I was transported back to a 2008 visit for Patrick McClane's watercolor, "Bermuda Shutter," with its white-washed building and wall and deep green shutter, propped open but shading the interior.
Since so many of the pieces were about buildings, the ones that weren't stood out all the more.
Figures, nature scenes, and abstract collages all attested to what's in an architect's mind besides building plans.
I said hello to the Frenchman and found a seat in the third row for the lecture.
Tonight's lecture was "Poplar Forest: The Most Palladian Work in America" by architectural historian Travis McDonald, who's been involved with the restoration of Thomas Jefferson's country retreat for twenty-some years.
You gotta love you some TJ to work at a project that long.
It was interesting, I hadn't known that TJ envisioned Poplar Forest as his getaway from the hordes of people at Monticello clamoring to see him.
It was where he intended to be a hermit.
For the record, I shall need no such place when I retire.
An example of villa-style architecture, the octagonal house was, according to McDonald, "a fantasy impervious to reality."
Oh, my, if only all of life could be like that.
And, just for the record, the privies were octagonal, too. No lie, he showed us a slide.
The history nerd in me looks forward to someday seeing this unique house now that I know its story.
With such enlightenment behind me, I was free to head east to meet a friend for dinner.
Aziza's was mobbed when I arrived (hello, restaurant of the year) and my friend was missing in action, but conveniently, I found another at the bar.
He looked a tad stuffed and confirmed with a grin that he'd eaten far more than he'd intended to.
Since my dinner date was nowhere to be seen, I sat down to catch up with the one who was present.
I had heard that he was leaving Richmond, so I asked about his plans.
Turns out he's off to Palestine in two weeks to teach, with no plans to return.
I asked how his parents were taking his decision (not well) and he mentioned that his mother was appalled at his choice of destinations.
"Can't you just go teach in the East End instead?" she'd not-so-gently suggested.
He admitted to curiosity about how impoverished kids in that part of the world are different from our own disadvantaged youth.
Fact is, he's considering eventually doing his PhD on the subject.
It was a curious experience having a conversation with a guy I've known for four years, knowing I may never lay eyes on him again.
I did tell him how much I admire this great adventure he's setting off on (and if not now, when?) and all the potential it holds.
Then I asked him to text my friend and inquire where the hell he was.
"On my way down the hill," he texted back from high atop Church Hill.
The explorer left once the tardy one arrived, but we stayed at the bar because every table was taken.
Who am I kidding? We'd have stayed there anyway.
My friend started a new job a few weeks ago and it has been kicking his butt up and down the hill ever since.
You see, he used to be a bartender/photographer/perennial student and now he works a regular job and answers to a manager or two.
Whoa. It has taken some major adjustment for him.
Luckily, he'd caught twenty winks before our dinner, so he was starved and ready to chat.
With no further plans later tonight, we set out to become eating machines.
We got our socks knocked off with our very first dish: shad roe with sunchoke puree, citron brown butter sauce and, just in case that wasn't decadent enough, an oozing fried egg atop it all.
Best of all, it was my friend's first shad roe, making him a lucky man to start with shad roe of this ilk.
The sweetness of the sunchoke was a killer balance to the earthy shad roe and egg and we were still naive enough to go ahead and sop up all that puree and butter sauce until the plate was gleaming.
Rookie mistake and we're not rookies.
He was busy telling me about his upcoming trip to Nashville and the pleasures of photographing small children and we forgot to keep our eyes on the prize.
So when the pan-seared softshell crab with ramps atop cheesy polenta with bacon arrived, we dove in again, barely coming up for air.
In my defense, it was only my second softshell so far this season and I couldn't have controlled myself if I'd wanted to.
And I didn't.
The cheesy polenta was rich on its own and obscene with the chunks of bacon and the crab's delicate breading let the flavor of the meat shine through.
But, it should be noted, we were slowing down just a bit.
I told him my barber story only to learn he knew the barbers and the shop.
We walked about how people who grow up in California are different and why he might want to move to California (a woman, natch).
And then, brave souls that we are, we went on to our next course.
He was having a margarita pizza with hot Italian sausage and I, to my eternal optimism, was having some gland.
Pan-seared sweetbreads with English peas ('tis the season) and carrots in saffron sauce was exquisite, the sweetbreads with a silky texture, the fresh-as-a-morning peas and the carrots of various colors adding a sweet crunch.
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
Hell, I couldn't. At least not entirely.
I ate as much as I could before my taste buds shut down, telling me A) I was disgustingly full and B) all my savory needs had been met for the evening.
Even my compadre, a man and much bigger than I am, threw in the towel after one piece of pizza.
It wasn't like we didn't want to finish, just that it was impossible.
In fact, we knew as soon as he brought up that he hadn't known how foie gras came about.
When your dining companion starts talking about force-feeding in the middle of dinner, he's trying to tell you something.
Or maybe I'm reading too much into it.
In any case, we asked for boxes for our leftovers at that point.
He and I have been going to Aziza's for years together and we never fail to end a meal with a cream puff.
He even took a picture of me once with the cream puff approaching my wide-open mouth and posted it all over the internets for the world to see.
Tonight, with our boxes sitting on the counter and our filled-to-the-gills satiety, it appeared that a long-standing tradition was about to die.
Instead, Friend ordered his second cup of coffee and suggested we enjoy some after-dinner patter.
I told him about the gardening I'd done earlier this week and he shared that he'd prepared his beds but not yet planted anything.
We talked about the upcoming RiverRock festival, Toots and the Maytalls and doing yoga on a paddle board.
Another photographer came in and the two of them discussed some Haiti photos.
And then my friend looked at me, looked at all the coffee left in his mug and said, "Yea, we're gonna need a cream puff."
Hallelujah and spread the ganache.
Our server, to her credit, merely smiled but the look in her eyes said, "told you so."
Yes, we were full, and no, we had no more room for savory, but sweet was a whole different matter.
One of us would fork the puff to hold it in place so the other could break off the perfect combination of dark chocolate, sweet cream and delicate pastry.
At one point, Friend looked at me and said, "I wanna be in a vat of that cream."
I can't say I shared that wish, but I did scarf my half way before he finished.
My lack of a petite feminine appetite no longer amazes him after four years of shared meals.
His response is hilarious and always the same. "Whoa."
It just means he's impervious to my reality. Smart man.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
My Next One
Sometimes you just gotta say what's on your mind.
Architect Michael Graves should know and he was the reason I was at First Baptist Church tonight, sitting on a cushioned pew and wondering where the kneeling bench was.
You can make the girl a heathen, but the Catholic doctrine stays deeply ingrained. I can say that because I spent the first ten minutes waiting for the talk to begin noticing how un-ornamented Baptist churches are.
Once Michael Graves came out in his wheelchair, all conversation ceased.
Helene Dreilling, President of the Virginia Center for Architecture, joined him on the altar/stage. I'm sure I wasn't the only one pleased when her questions took a more personal slant rather than just topics for the roomful of architects (whom I assumed where all the nice-looking men in dark suits and top coats).
Michael began by reminiscing about his parents' canasta nights ("somewhere between bingo and bridge") where he was inevitably asked what he wanted to be when he grew up. When his response of "an artist!" got back to his conservative mother, she gently guided him in the more socially acceptable direction of a profession.
The eight-year old was okay with that as long as he could still draw. She offered him engineering or architecture and the rest is history.
He told of going to the University of Cincinnati, where he alternated classes and working to pay for an art education that left him clueless about Palladio. His graduate school education got a huge laugh when he said, "Just to be sure I never knew who Palladio was, I then went to Harvard."
Of the years at the American Academy of Rome he said, "The experience changed my life."
He glossed over teaching at Princeton and starting his own practice in 1964, admitting, "Everything I did came naturally." Clearly a lot came naturally.
But it was a life-changing illness in the early aughts that got him working on matters of health care. Talking about the chairs hospitals use to get patients from their rooms to treatment, he called them, "One of the most uncomfortable chairs in all of Christendom. Especially when you have to wait two hours in it."
And he would know.
He was full of great anecdotes, like the one about a Japanese architect who'd had it with Graves at a presentation about his work. The architect up-ended the table, depositing its entire contents onto Graves' lap, just to make himself perfectly clear.
His passion for cities was clear when he talked about places where people live, work, recreate and go to the theater as "organisms that work."
"Glass box buildings have no meaning for me," he said emphatically. "They're set back so far they take away the vibrancy of the sidewalks. I feel strongly about the role of buildings in the context of where they are."
Um, shouldn't all architects or is that just too 20th century?
His comments about Richmond, or the little he'd seen of it today, were spot on, at least as far as I'm concerned. "Richmond seems very livable to me. From what I've seen, it seems like you could take a walk after a coffee here."
The man may have been in a wheelchair, but his humor and intelligence shone through in practically everything he said.
There was no way not to talk about his association with Target and its 1700 stores and how he'd been able to do what the artists of the Bauhaus hadn't been - to bring good design to the masses. We heard that his next project is with J.C. Penney, which he characterized as, "A little creepy in there," before the revamping currently going on. He promised that the 300 items which will be sold in the Michael Graves department, "Will do more than put a smile on your face."
Near the end, Helene told him that at recent Virginia Center for Architecture board meeting, one of the board members had asked her if Michael would sign her toaster. "So be warned that she may come find you to ask," Helene said.
"She already did," he deadpanned, making me think I should have brought my teakettle for him to initial.
Talking about his massive resort project in Shanghai, he was just as low key. "The client was a man of no taste." No taste, but enough grace at least to name one of the hotels after Michael ("That'll eventually be changed," he predicted with a smile).
The unexpected benefit of that was a letter he received from a newly pregnant couple who'd been trying unsuccessfully for years to conceive. "We stayed at the Hotel Michael and now we're expecting," they wrote.
"That's what it's about," Michael said, laughing.
He was just as amusing talking about the project to cover the Washington monument in scaffolding during restoration. When Hillary read that the scaffolding would be lit all night, she called up Michael, worried that Bill's bedroom faced the monument and if it was lit at night, it might shine unpleasantly.
Michael assured Hillary that it wouldn't bother the President. "Anyway, he knows how to find dark places," he joked to us.
Toward the end of the talk, he was just as lively, but talking about bigger things. "All my work is out there. It's public for everyone to see," he said. "We don't have a chance to do B+ work."
When asked to compare Rome, a city he still loves, with an American city, he named several worthy contenders: San Francisco, New Orleans, Boston and South Beach, speaking longest and most enthusiastically about the latter. "South Beach is so distinctively different. It's like going to a village in Tuscany. It's a downtown done on a delicate scale."
On the subject of his long experiences in hospitals and finding a mission in making them more disabled-friendly, he was clear. "I'm gonna change it one hospital at a time." If you'd heard him say it, you'd know he will.
And he has already, working with Stryker and other companies to create equipment, furniture and living quarters that put everything within reach for the disabled. "I will fight for all of us," he promised.
When asked his favorite project, his answer was sunny. "My next one!"
During the more than an hour he talked, I continued to marvel that this world-famous architect was sitting in a Baptist church in Richmond, talking to a roomful of admirers for free. Better living thanks to corporate sponsorship. Sure, I'll give them a round of applause for that.
After the talk, Michael and probably a lot of the people in the room, were going over two blocks to the Virginia Center for Architecture for a dinner with Graves. At $100 a seat, it was well beyond my budget, but I was just as thrilled to have listened to this talented man who'd only wanted to draw for a living since he was a kid. A man who talked about an upcoming architectural award winner and his winning design by stating, "It's bullshit."
A man who also laughed and said, "There are things you don't need to say," and proceeded to tell us more. The city-loving man who'd designed the teakettle that sits on my stove.
"At my age, there aren't that many days left and you've just got to say things," he said in closing. Hell, at my age, there are plenty of days left and I've just got to say things.
In this case, thank you to Michael Graves for gracing Richmond with your presence.
I like your attitude.
Architect Michael Graves should know and he was the reason I was at First Baptist Church tonight, sitting on a cushioned pew and wondering where the kneeling bench was.
You can make the girl a heathen, but the Catholic doctrine stays deeply ingrained. I can say that because I spent the first ten minutes waiting for the talk to begin noticing how un-ornamented Baptist churches are.
Once Michael Graves came out in his wheelchair, all conversation ceased.
Helene Dreilling, President of the Virginia Center for Architecture, joined him on the altar/stage. I'm sure I wasn't the only one pleased when her questions took a more personal slant rather than just topics for the roomful of architects (whom I assumed where all the nice-looking men in dark suits and top coats).
Michael began by reminiscing about his parents' canasta nights ("somewhere between bingo and bridge") where he was inevitably asked what he wanted to be when he grew up. When his response of "an artist!" got back to his conservative mother, she gently guided him in the more socially acceptable direction of a profession.
The eight-year old was okay with that as long as he could still draw. She offered him engineering or architecture and the rest is history.
He told of going to the University of Cincinnati, where he alternated classes and working to pay for an art education that left him clueless about Palladio. His graduate school education got a huge laugh when he said, "Just to be sure I never knew who Palladio was, I then went to Harvard."
Of the years at the American Academy of Rome he said, "The experience changed my life."
He glossed over teaching at Princeton and starting his own practice in 1964, admitting, "Everything I did came naturally." Clearly a lot came naturally.
But it was a life-changing illness in the early aughts that got him working on matters of health care. Talking about the chairs hospitals use to get patients from their rooms to treatment, he called them, "One of the most uncomfortable chairs in all of Christendom. Especially when you have to wait two hours in it."
And he would know.
He was full of great anecdotes, like the one about a Japanese architect who'd had it with Graves at a presentation about his work. The architect up-ended the table, depositing its entire contents onto Graves' lap, just to make himself perfectly clear.
His passion for cities was clear when he talked about places where people live, work, recreate and go to the theater as "organisms that work."
"Glass box buildings have no meaning for me," he said emphatically. "They're set back so far they take away the vibrancy of the sidewalks. I feel strongly about the role of buildings in the context of where they are."
Um, shouldn't all architects or is that just too 20th century?
His comments about Richmond, or the little he'd seen of it today, were spot on, at least as far as I'm concerned. "Richmond seems very livable to me. From what I've seen, it seems like you could take a walk after a coffee here."
The man may have been in a wheelchair, but his humor and intelligence shone through in practically everything he said.
There was no way not to talk about his association with Target and its 1700 stores and how he'd been able to do what the artists of the Bauhaus hadn't been - to bring good design to the masses. We heard that his next project is with J.C. Penney, which he characterized as, "A little creepy in there," before the revamping currently going on. He promised that the 300 items which will be sold in the Michael Graves department, "Will do more than put a smile on your face."
Near the end, Helene told him that at recent Virginia Center for Architecture board meeting, one of the board members had asked her if Michael would sign her toaster. "So be warned that she may come find you to ask," Helene said.
"She already did," he deadpanned, making me think I should have brought my teakettle for him to initial.
Talking about his massive resort project in Shanghai, he was just as low key. "The client was a man of no taste." No taste, but enough grace at least to name one of the hotels after Michael ("That'll eventually be changed," he predicted with a smile).
The unexpected benefit of that was a letter he received from a newly pregnant couple who'd been trying unsuccessfully for years to conceive. "We stayed at the Hotel Michael and now we're expecting," they wrote.
"That's what it's about," Michael said, laughing.
He was just as amusing talking about the project to cover the Washington monument in scaffolding during restoration. When Hillary read that the scaffolding would be lit all night, she called up Michael, worried that Bill's bedroom faced the monument and if it was lit at night, it might shine unpleasantly.
Michael assured Hillary that it wouldn't bother the President. "Anyway, he knows how to find dark places," he joked to us.
Toward the end of the talk, he was just as lively, but talking about bigger things. "All my work is out there. It's public for everyone to see," he said. "We don't have a chance to do B+ work."
When asked to compare Rome, a city he still loves, with an American city, he named several worthy contenders: San Francisco, New Orleans, Boston and South Beach, speaking longest and most enthusiastically about the latter. "South Beach is so distinctively different. It's like going to a village in Tuscany. It's a downtown done on a delicate scale."
On the subject of his long experiences in hospitals and finding a mission in making them more disabled-friendly, he was clear. "I'm gonna change it one hospital at a time." If you'd heard him say it, you'd know he will.
And he has already, working with Stryker and other companies to create equipment, furniture and living quarters that put everything within reach for the disabled. "I will fight for all of us," he promised.
When asked his favorite project, his answer was sunny. "My next one!"
During the more than an hour he talked, I continued to marvel that this world-famous architect was sitting in a Baptist church in Richmond, talking to a roomful of admirers for free. Better living thanks to corporate sponsorship. Sure, I'll give them a round of applause for that.
After the talk, Michael and probably a lot of the people in the room, were going over two blocks to the Virginia Center for Architecture for a dinner with Graves. At $100 a seat, it was well beyond my budget, but I was just as thrilled to have listened to this talented man who'd only wanted to draw for a living since he was a kid. A man who talked about an upcoming architectural award winner and his winning design by stating, "It's bullshit."
A man who also laughed and said, "There are things you don't need to say," and proceeded to tell us more. The city-loving man who'd designed the teakettle that sits on my stove.
"At my age, there aren't that many days left and you've just got to say things," he said in closing. Hell, at my age, there are plenty of days left and I've just got to say things.
In this case, thank you to Michael Graves for gracing Richmond with your presence.
I like your attitude.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Chicken and Biscuit Piazza
Amazing what a finger or five can do.
Witness Michael Graves, the architect, designer and subject of the new exhibit at the Virginia Center for Architecture.
"From Towers to Teakettles: Michael Graves Architecture and Design" opened Thursday and somehow in the hubbub of the snow, I forgot all about it.
Snow gone, it seemed like a perfect way to spend a sunny Saturday afternoon.
I was familiar enough with Graves to have one of his whistling bird teakettles from Target, albeit a secondhand version I got at Diversity with the bird missing.
But I honestly had no idea of the sheer breadth of the man's work since the sixties.
So in addition to seeing his mega-resort projects in Singapore, there was also a collection of some of his stunning chairs (the lounger being my favorite, with the Milan chair a close second for its sheer beauty) and images of everything from a coffee and tea piazza (coffee pot, sugar and creamer on a tray) to jewelry to lighting fixtures.
Clearly the man's vision extends to practically everything.
I was impressed to read that he was an advocate of drawing by hand, something I have heard is becoming a lost art in the architecture world.
The show referred to his partnering with Target in 1998 as "the democratization of the design movement," surely a boon to all us little people who could never have hoped to own such beautifully designed objects otherwise.
Looking at the panels featuring some of his building designs, his predilection for color was obvious, whether in Washington, D.C., Louisville, Kentucky or Singapore.
Walking into the main gallery provided an unexpected moment of beauty and warmth as the late afternoon sun shone through the leaded windows, warming my legs and necessitating sunglasses indoors.
There I learned he also painted murals and did artwork to accompany his architecture and design work.
Was there nothing this guy couldn't do?
Well, let's see, he designed the scaffolding for the Washington Monument's restoration back in 2000, coming up with a unique blue semi-transparent fabric that mirrored the shape of the iconic monument.
Pure genius. And as many times as I'd seen the monument when that scaffolding had been up, I'd had no idea that Graves had designed it.
And in a classic example of fate shaping destiny, when Graves was partially paralyzed from an infection, he turned his genius to designing patient rooms and furniture in health care facilities.
Let's just say I left with a new-found appreciation for the genius of my teakettle.
Admiring genius works up an appetite, though, so I headed the car across the river for some finger-licking.
I have a complicated relationship with Dixie Chicken.
The first time I tried to go, they were closed due to illness.
The second time I went, I got my fried chicken, but it was seriously overcooked and the skin was dark brown and brittle, not at all what I'd been hoping for from all the online accolades.
The third time I tried, they were suddenly closed on Mondays, although the Facebook page I'd checked before leaving said otherwise.
No telling what today would hold.
Score. They were open, I had a companion so we could try multiple things and life was good.
Wagner was playing dramatically on the little boom box in the window on entering and it smelled of long-cooked collards.
Unfortunately, they were out of the pork belly sandwich I wanted to try, but a barbecue sandwich was substituted, sides of mashed potatoes and gravy, slaw and collards acquired.
The only thing left was to sign the phone screen with my fingertip to pay for the meal and we were off.
It was a most 21st century way to obtain decidedly old-school food.
Given the hot food and the sunny day, a stop at Forest Hill Park seemed like a no-brainer.
I had to admit that despite two decades in Richmond, I'd never been to this park until today.
There were families on the tennis courts, families on the playground and dog walkers all around, so we found a picnic table away from the fray.
From the second I opened my styrofoam box, I knew that this chicken wasn't going to disappoint again.
No siree, this was golden brown and moist-looking, still steaming from the fryer.
The batter had a decidedly peppery bent and I only reluctantly shared a few bites with the barbecue eater who was offered me a bite of the meaty pig sandwich.
Sides were challenging only because we had no utensils, but a trip to the car resulted in a spoon and the cole slaw remained as tasty as I recalled from the first time, with the mashed potatoes and collards executed in typical southern style.
As someone who grew up in a household with a southern grandmother who made from-scratch biscuits at least twice a week, I am too spoiled to find anyone else's biscuits as good as hers, but only because I like her style better than others.
Dixie's biscuits were definitely good, although I'd always prefer a biscuit I have to butter to one that seems a little buttery to start.
Just for the record, I inhaled the biscuit. Sorry, Grandma.
I'd say Dixie Chicken and I have resolved our differences.
Witness Michael Graves, the architect, designer and subject of the new exhibit at the Virginia Center for Architecture.
"From Towers to Teakettles: Michael Graves Architecture and Design" opened Thursday and somehow in the hubbub of the snow, I forgot all about it.
Snow gone, it seemed like a perfect way to spend a sunny Saturday afternoon.
I was familiar enough with Graves to have one of his whistling bird teakettles from Target, albeit a secondhand version I got at Diversity with the bird missing.
But I honestly had no idea of the sheer breadth of the man's work since the sixties.
So in addition to seeing his mega-resort projects in Singapore, there was also a collection of some of his stunning chairs (the lounger being my favorite, with the Milan chair a close second for its sheer beauty) and images of everything from a coffee and tea piazza (coffee pot, sugar and creamer on a tray) to jewelry to lighting fixtures.
Clearly the man's vision extends to practically everything.
I was impressed to read that he was an advocate of drawing by hand, something I have heard is becoming a lost art in the architecture world.
The show referred to his partnering with Target in 1998 as "the democratization of the design movement," surely a boon to all us little people who could never have hoped to own such beautifully designed objects otherwise.
Looking at the panels featuring some of his building designs, his predilection for color was obvious, whether in Washington, D.C., Louisville, Kentucky or Singapore.
Walking into the main gallery provided an unexpected moment of beauty and warmth as the late afternoon sun shone through the leaded windows, warming my legs and necessitating sunglasses indoors.
There I learned he also painted murals and did artwork to accompany his architecture and design work.
Was there nothing this guy couldn't do?
Well, let's see, he designed the scaffolding for the Washington Monument's restoration back in 2000, coming up with a unique blue semi-transparent fabric that mirrored the shape of the iconic monument.
Pure genius. And as many times as I'd seen the monument when that scaffolding had been up, I'd had no idea that Graves had designed it.
And in a classic example of fate shaping destiny, when Graves was partially paralyzed from an infection, he turned his genius to designing patient rooms and furniture in health care facilities.
Let's just say I left with a new-found appreciation for the genius of my teakettle.
Admiring genius works up an appetite, though, so I headed the car across the river for some finger-licking.
I have a complicated relationship with Dixie Chicken.
The first time I tried to go, they were closed due to illness.
The second time I went, I got my fried chicken, but it was seriously overcooked and the skin was dark brown and brittle, not at all what I'd been hoping for from all the online accolades.
The third time I tried, they were suddenly closed on Mondays, although the Facebook page I'd checked before leaving said otherwise.
No telling what today would hold.
Score. They were open, I had a companion so we could try multiple things and life was good.
Wagner was playing dramatically on the little boom box in the window on entering and it smelled of long-cooked collards.
Unfortunately, they were out of the pork belly sandwich I wanted to try, but a barbecue sandwich was substituted, sides of mashed potatoes and gravy, slaw and collards acquired.
The only thing left was to sign the phone screen with my fingertip to pay for the meal and we were off.
It was a most 21st century way to obtain decidedly old-school food.
Given the hot food and the sunny day, a stop at Forest Hill Park seemed like a no-brainer.
I had to admit that despite two decades in Richmond, I'd never been to this park until today.
There were families on the tennis courts, families on the playground and dog walkers all around, so we found a picnic table away from the fray.
From the second I opened my styrofoam box, I knew that this chicken wasn't going to disappoint again.
No siree, this was golden brown and moist-looking, still steaming from the fryer.
The batter had a decidedly peppery bent and I only reluctantly shared a few bites with the barbecue eater who was offered me a bite of the meaty pig sandwich.
Sides were challenging only because we had no utensils, but a trip to the car resulted in a spoon and the cole slaw remained as tasty as I recalled from the first time, with the mashed potatoes and collards executed in typical southern style.
As someone who grew up in a household with a southern grandmother who made from-scratch biscuits at least twice a week, I am too spoiled to find anyone else's biscuits as good as hers, but only because I like her style better than others.
Dixie's biscuits were definitely good, although I'd always prefer a biscuit I have to butter to one that seems a little buttery to start.
Just for the record, I inhaled the biscuit. Sorry, Grandma.
I'd say Dixie Chicken and I have resolved our differences.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Music for Short People
You haven't lived until you've seen a Volvo played in a bakery.
Or perhaps it's just me who's impressed by such things.
I started with the opening of "Design 2012: A Retrospective of Winning Work" at the Virginia Center for Architecture.
It's an annual event and always a good opportunity to asses the state of architecture done by Virginia firms in the last year.
As always, the buildings are not limited to Virginia; there were winning buildings in Oklahoma, Louisiana, Montana and Florida.
But the ones that grab my attention inevitably are closer to home.
Like the Winkler Family Trust offices built at the Torpedo Factory in Alexandria.
The architects preserved the views across old town Alexandria and the waterfront.
Nice enough, but even better, the owner's motorcycle hangs in the office. Now that was a nice touch.
Closer to home at UR, the Carole Weinstein International Center was a handsome Gothic-esque (but not copycat Gothic) building with a magnificent globe-topped fountain at the center of the interior courtyard.
There was a house built on a wooded hill overlooking the Potomac in the footprint of where a (no doubt smaller) house had formerly stood.
The new house had a suspended pool (who knew there was such a thing?) and the jury credited the architects with having created a sense of place in the woods.
I'm particularly curious about the historic preservation winners because it's so easy to fail when making additions or renovations to historically significant buildings.
Garrett Hall at UVA was originally designed by architecture god Stanford White in 1908 with a hideous 1959 conversion that surely made Mr. Jefferson spin in his grave.
The latest renovation had surely put T.J. to rest peacefully again.
One of the most interesting winners was not local, but the conversation brought it home.
It was the Riverwide Barbecue Pavilion in Yellowstone Bend Park in Montana.
Created by local response to nearby "unsightly suburbs" (is there any other kind?), the long building had been placed in the landscape for shelter with long views to the river and mountains.
It even had sliding barn doors for protection from strong winds.
As I was admiring the concept, if not the remote location, an architect walked up to me and began discussing it.
"A barbecue pavilion," he exclaimed, "What a great idea! Buzz and Ned's ought to do that."
But surely not on the Boulevard, I countered.
"Oh, yes. Tear down that building and do this instead!" he enthused.
I'll mention it to Buzz next time I see him.
But barbecue wasn't in the cards tonight, Tio Pablo was.
We took places at the bar and listened as our affable server told us the taco specials.
When she mentioned "barbacoa," we inquired about what it was.
Putting her finger over lip like a mustache, she replied, "Lips, the fatty part."
Who could resist lips passing our lips?
Along with beef tongue (still my all-time fave) and fish (tonight mahi mahi), we got sides of cactus with tomatoes and onions and guacamole ("It's spicy!" we were warned).
The barbacoa did have a satisfying amount of fat and was simply done with onions, cilantro and lime juice.
The tongue tacos, we decided, must be ordered in twos from here on out because sharing one is insufficient.
Too stuffed for dessert, we left to head up the hill.
Our destination was the soon-to-be-opened Sub Rosa Bakery for music.
Music at an unopened bakery, you say.
Sure, why not?
Owner Evrim was busy making flatbread with three kinds of toppings (the pepper paste smelled amazing) as the crowd slowly wandered in.
Not sure that I'd see anyone I knew, I was happily surprised to run into the poet who usually goes to bed early, the poet I'd seen read just last week and the scientist acknowledging that he should have been at home working on tomorrow's lesson plan.
Playing first was Gull and he came over to say hello beforehand but all I could say was, where's your hair?
After years of shoulder-length locks, he was newly shorn and looking very handsome.
"It was just time," he grinned before stating another of his tour-de-force sets.
Until you've seen him play guitar, drum and sing simultaneously, you really can't call yourself a Richmonder.
It was hot in the bakery because Evrim had his wood-burning oven fired up steadily making flatbreads for the masses (sadly, we were too full), so after Gull's set we went outside to cool down.
Some people headed across the street to the Roosevelt for a libation, but we just parked ourselves on the stoop and embraced the cooler air.
But when we heard the sound of homemade instruments, we bounded up so as to get good vantage points.
Playing tonight were Brooklyn duo Buke and Gass, whose distinctive sound and DIY ethic had landed them on NPR's Top 50 albums for 2010, not to mention a Tiny Desk concert for them, too.
Their name comes from their instruments: a gass is a guitar with three guitar strings and three bass strings with pickups for both sets to the appropriate heavy-duty amps.
And as if that's not cool enough, the body is made from a 1960s Volvo, and has the dents in it to prove it.
A buke is a baritone ukulele with six strings, effectively a tiny guitar.
Then there's the toe-bourine and a kick drum with noisemakers.
The pedal boards were truly impressive and for the first few songs, they were all some people could look at, marveling.
All told, it's a lot of sound coming out of two people, Arone on vocals, buke and toe-bourine and Aron on back-up vocals, gass and drum.
After the first song, Arone with her tiny pigtails, incited the crowd to move forward, closer to the band.
"Everyone move up, short people in front."
As those of us who qualify for short did as instructed, she beamed, "Short people represent!"
If only every band insisted on prime position for the vertically challenged.
The energy coming from them was terrific and Arone's voice occasionally reminded me of Karen O's with her distinctive wail.
At one point, they started a song and Aron went off-key, causing Arone to stop playing and singing and say, "That's like bad sex!"
They adjusted and restarted seamlessly. Easier than after bad sex.
At times hypnotic, often pure adrenaline, they played to a rapt crowd, even if we couldn't always hear the vocals clearly.
Come on, it's a bakery (and not even an open one for another month), not a venue.
As a further reminder of that, a glance over the counter during the encore revealed Evrim bent over a table in his white apron, busy making rolls? bread? something near the glowing oven.
As cars came around the traffic circle outside, their headlights shone through the big windows, and projected the shop's name onto the wall over the band.
The words "Sub Rosa" appearing and disappearing over a rollicking Brooklyn band was just the way to baptize a newcomer to Church Hill.
And the bread smelled amazing.
This town makes it so easy to have a good time, it's ridiculous.
Or perhaps it's just me who's impressed by such things.
I started with the opening of "Design 2012: A Retrospective of Winning Work" at the Virginia Center for Architecture.
It's an annual event and always a good opportunity to asses the state of architecture done by Virginia firms in the last year.
As always, the buildings are not limited to Virginia; there were winning buildings in Oklahoma, Louisiana, Montana and Florida.
But the ones that grab my attention inevitably are closer to home.
Like the Winkler Family Trust offices built at the Torpedo Factory in Alexandria.
The architects preserved the views across old town Alexandria and the waterfront.
Nice enough, but even better, the owner's motorcycle hangs in the office. Now that was a nice touch.
Closer to home at UR, the Carole Weinstein International Center was a handsome Gothic-esque (but not copycat Gothic) building with a magnificent globe-topped fountain at the center of the interior courtyard.
There was a house built on a wooded hill overlooking the Potomac in the footprint of where a (no doubt smaller) house had formerly stood.
The new house had a suspended pool (who knew there was such a thing?) and the jury credited the architects with having created a sense of place in the woods.
I'm particularly curious about the historic preservation winners because it's so easy to fail when making additions or renovations to historically significant buildings.
Garrett Hall at UVA was originally designed by architecture god Stanford White in 1908 with a hideous 1959 conversion that surely made Mr. Jefferson spin in his grave.
The latest renovation had surely put T.J. to rest peacefully again.
One of the most interesting winners was not local, but the conversation brought it home.
It was the Riverwide Barbecue Pavilion in Yellowstone Bend Park in Montana.
Created by local response to nearby "unsightly suburbs" (is there any other kind?), the long building had been placed in the landscape for shelter with long views to the river and mountains.
It even had sliding barn doors for protection from strong winds.
As I was admiring the concept, if not the remote location, an architect walked up to me and began discussing it.
"A barbecue pavilion," he exclaimed, "What a great idea! Buzz and Ned's ought to do that."
But surely not on the Boulevard, I countered.
"Oh, yes. Tear down that building and do this instead!" he enthused.
I'll mention it to Buzz next time I see him.
But barbecue wasn't in the cards tonight, Tio Pablo was.
We took places at the bar and listened as our affable server told us the taco specials.
When she mentioned "barbacoa," we inquired about what it was.
Putting her finger over lip like a mustache, she replied, "Lips, the fatty part."
Who could resist lips passing our lips?
Along with beef tongue (still my all-time fave) and fish (tonight mahi mahi), we got sides of cactus with tomatoes and onions and guacamole ("It's spicy!" we were warned).
The barbacoa did have a satisfying amount of fat and was simply done with onions, cilantro and lime juice.
The tongue tacos, we decided, must be ordered in twos from here on out because sharing one is insufficient.
Too stuffed for dessert, we left to head up the hill.
Our destination was the soon-to-be-opened Sub Rosa Bakery for music.
Music at an unopened bakery, you say.
Sure, why not?
Owner Evrim was busy making flatbread with three kinds of toppings (the pepper paste smelled amazing) as the crowd slowly wandered in.
Not sure that I'd see anyone I knew, I was happily surprised to run into the poet who usually goes to bed early, the poet I'd seen read just last week and the scientist acknowledging that he should have been at home working on tomorrow's lesson plan.
Playing first was Gull and he came over to say hello beforehand but all I could say was, where's your hair?
After years of shoulder-length locks, he was newly shorn and looking very handsome.
"It was just time," he grinned before stating another of his tour-de-force sets.
Until you've seen him play guitar, drum and sing simultaneously, you really can't call yourself a Richmonder.
It was hot in the bakery because Evrim had his wood-burning oven fired up steadily making flatbreads for the masses (sadly, we were too full), so after Gull's set we went outside to cool down.
Some people headed across the street to the Roosevelt for a libation, but we just parked ourselves on the stoop and embraced the cooler air.
But when we heard the sound of homemade instruments, we bounded up so as to get good vantage points.
Playing tonight were Brooklyn duo Buke and Gass, whose distinctive sound and DIY ethic had landed them on NPR's Top 50 albums for 2010, not to mention a Tiny Desk concert for them, too.
Their name comes from their instruments: a gass is a guitar with three guitar strings and three bass strings with pickups for both sets to the appropriate heavy-duty amps.
And as if that's not cool enough, the body is made from a 1960s Volvo, and has the dents in it to prove it.
A buke is a baritone ukulele with six strings, effectively a tiny guitar.
Then there's the toe-bourine and a kick drum with noisemakers.
The pedal boards were truly impressive and for the first few songs, they were all some people could look at, marveling.
All told, it's a lot of sound coming out of two people, Arone on vocals, buke and toe-bourine and Aron on back-up vocals, gass and drum.
After the first song, Arone with her tiny pigtails, incited the crowd to move forward, closer to the band.
"Everyone move up, short people in front."
As those of us who qualify for short did as instructed, she beamed, "Short people represent!"
If only every band insisted on prime position for the vertically challenged.
The energy coming from them was terrific and Arone's voice occasionally reminded me of Karen O's with her distinctive wail.
At one point, they started a song and Aron went off-key, causing Arone to stop playing and singing and say, "That's like bad sex!"
They adjusted and restarted seamlessly. Easier than after bad sex.
At times hypnotic, often pure adrenaline, they played to a rapt crowd, even if we couldn't always hear the vocals clearly.
Come on, it's a bakery (and not even an open one for another month), not a venue.
As a further reminder of that, a glance over the counter during the encore revealed Evrim bent over a table in his white apron, busy making rolls? bread? something near the glowing oven.
As cars came around the traffic circle outside, their headlights shone through the big windows, and projected the shop's name onto the wall over the band.
The words "Sub Rosa" appearing and disappearing over a rollicking Brooklyn band was just the way to baptize a newcomer to Church Hill.
And the bread smelled amazing.
This town makes it so easy to have a good time, it's ridiculous.
Friday, September 14, 2012
They Don't Know How Far We'll Go
It's not just about the art, it's also about the improvement in the scenery.
Every day I cross Broad and Belvidere and, no question, the southwest corner is underwhelming.
Surface parking lot, architecturally unimpressive apartment building, shabby Chinese take-out.
Translation: I am completely stoked for VCU's Institute for Contemporary Art to take over that corner.
And while anyone with any interest at all has already seen the rendering of what it will look like, tonight I got a more in-depth peek at what's to come.
Opening at the Virginia Center for Architecture was "Steven Holl Architects: Forking Time."
For the uninitiated, Holl is the creative force behind the design of the ICA.
On display were a row of watercolor sketches of the new 38,000 square foot building and a series of study models of it, all explorations of the architect's design journey.
It's an enlightening exhibit for the insight it gives into the creative process over time.
Words are scribbled on the sketches, showing the thought process as things were worked out.
I learned that there will a double front to the ICA, one on the B & B corner and one from the sculpture garden.
Guess which one this visitor intends to use.
You got it; I'll be making my entrance through the garden and (wait for it) "thinking field."
How wonderful is that?
Sure, there are other stand-out features: a reflecting pond of recycled water, a cafe, a 243-seat performance space and four "forking" galleries, each with a different feel and focus for the ever-changing exhibitions of the new.
Simply put, the ICA will capture the energy of contemporary art.
And, as arts dean Joe Seipel said at the opening tonight, "It'll be an incubator for new art."
Almost as importantly, this Jackson Ward resident will get to walk by it every single day on her daily constitutional.
I can hardly wait for 2015.
Once I finished dreaming about the future, I went off to the National for some dream pop, courtesy of Baltimore's Beach House.
And if you don't know what I mean by that, consider this exchange between two Facebook friends.
Him: If anyone needs two Beach House tickets for tonight, let me know.
Her: Don't tempt me. I need sleeeep.
Him: Beach House is LIKE sleep.
Humor aside, I prefer to think of them as melancholy songs with woozy keyboards and insistent drumming, a sound of which I'm very fond.
I'd seen them as openers back in 2007 and must have liked what I heard because I can't even remember the headliner.
Then I'd had a ticket to see them back in May in Charlottesville and hadn't gone, so I was owed a night of Beach House.
Tonight I collected.
The most surprising part of the evening was only seeing two people I knew (one of whom hadn't been to the National since I took him to see Dashboard Confessional back in December 2010!) and both only near the end.
The opener was Dustin Wong, a guy with a guitar and lots of pedals.
"This is my first show playing with Beach House," he said. "It's a real honor to be here."
His endless looping of various guitar sounds brought to mind my friend Dave Watkins, who plays dulcitar and loops in a similar fashion.
Coincidentally, Dave was playing a show tonight, too and while Dustin was good, he's no Dave Watkins, if you know what I mean.
And if you've ever seen Dave create layers of sound, you do know.
I watched the crowd slowly won over by Dustin as they became intrigued by so much sound coming from one guy.
A long break followed but I held my ground in front of the sound booth for the main event.
When Beach House arrived onstage, it was with little talking.
As a trio, they were lined up at the front of the stage.
It was great to have the drummer especially so close to the crowd since that's usually the musician relegated to the back.
The band did a lot of alternating of their most recent album "Bloom" and their defining previous album "Teen Dream."
The crowd greeted the second song "Norway" with a roar.
Singer Victoria's voice sounded even more languid than it had on the original.
Just a few songs in and two things were apparent: there wasn't going to be any direct light on the band and there wasn't going to be much between-song chatter.
Everyone in the room seemed willing to accept both.
Victoria was playing her keyboards in the center of the stage and often bending forward to do so, leaving her long hair to trail the keys.
In a burst of unexpected connection, she asked, "How is everyone doing? This is our first time in Richmond. And that's the end of my story."
No attention hog, that one.
She had unusually expressive hand gestures; if one or both hands weren't involved playing, she was making dramatic gestures with them as she sang.
Stevie Nicks would have been proud.
Their last song, "Take Care," had every couple in the room in full-on sway and/or kissing mode.
Stand beside it, we can't hide the way it makes us glow
It's no good unless it grows
Feel this burning love of mine
Once they left the stage, the crowd clapped insistently for a longer than usual time until they returned.
"10 Mile Stereo" put everyone over the edge with its galloping intensity and hopeful lyrics.
The heart is a stone
And this is a stone that we throw
Put your hand on this stone
It's the stone of a home you'll know
They say we will go far
But they don't know how far we'll go
"Thank you for everything," the succinct Victoria said afterwards.
For their last song, the lights finally focused onstage so we could see Victoria and her band mates end our evening together.
It was only while playing her keyboard ferociously then that Victoria dropped her head and began twirling that long mane of hair in a big circle.
Mad audience reaction and then, boom, it was over.
Hard to believe anyone thinks that's like sleep.
Every day I cross Broad and Belvidere and, no question, the southwest corner is underwhelming.
Surface parking lot, architecturally unimpressive apartment building, shabby Chinese take-out.
Translation: I am completely stoked for VCU's Institute for Contemporary Art to take over that corner.
And while anyone with any interest at all has already seen the rendering of what it will look like, tonight I got a more in-depth peek at what's to come.
Opening at the Virginia Center for Architecture was "Steven Holl Architects: Forking Time."
For the uninitiated, Holl is the creative force behind the design of the ICA.
On display were a row of watercolor sketches of the new 38,000 square foot building and a series of study models of it, all explorations of the architect's design journey.
It's an enlightening exhibit for the insight it gives into the creative process over time.
Words are scribbled on the sketches, showing the thought process as things were worked out.
I learned that there will a double front to the ICA, one on the B & B corner and one from the sculpture garden.
Guess which one this visitor intends to use.
You got it; I'll be making my entrance through the garden and (wait for it) "thinking field."
How wonderful is that?
Sure, there are other stand-out features: a reflecting pond of recycled water, a cafe, a 243-seat performance space and four "forking" galleries, each with a different feel and focus for the ever-changing exhibitions of the new.
Simply put, the ICA will capture the energy of contemporary art.
And, as arts dean Joe Seipel said at the opening tonight, "It'll be an incubator for new art."
Almost as importantly, this Jackson Ward resident will get to walk by it every single day on her daily constitutional.
I can hardly wait for 2015.
Once I finished dreaming about the future, I went off to the National for some dream pop, courtesy of Baltimore's Beach House.
And if you don't know what I mean by that, consider this exchange between two Facebook friends.
Him: If anyone needs two Beach House tickets for tonight, let me know.
Her: Don't tempt me. I need sleeeep.
Him: Beach House is LIKE sleep.
Humor aside, I prefer to think of them as melancholy songs with woozy keyboards and insistent drumming, a sound of which I'm very fond.
I'd seen them as openers back in 2007 and must have liked what I heard because I can't even remember the headliner.
Then I'd had a ticket to see them back in May in Charlottesville and hadn't gone, so I was owed a night of Beach House.
Tonight I collected.
The most surprising part of the evening was only seeing two people I knew (one of whom hadn't been to the National since I took him to see Dashboard Confessional back in December 2010!) and both only near the end.
The opener was Dustin Wong, a guy with a guitar and lots of pedals.
"This is my first show playing with Beach House," he said. "It's a real honor to be here."
His endless looping of various guitar sounds brought to mind my friend Dave Watkins, who plays dulcitar and loops in a similar fashion.
Coincidentally, Dave was playing a show tonight, too and while Dustin was good, he's no Dave Watkins, if you know what I mean.
And if you've ever seen Dave create layers of sound, you do know.
I watched the crowd slowly won over by Dustin as they became intrigued by so much sound coming from one guy.
A long break followed but I held my ground in front of the sound booth for the main event.
When Beach House arrived onstage, it was with little talking.
As a trio, they were lined up at the front of the stage.
It was great to have the drummer especially so close to the crowd since that's usually the musician relegated to the back.
The band did a lot of alternating of their most recent album "Bloom" and their defining previous album "Teen Dream."
The crowd greeted the second song "Norway" with a roar.
Singer Victoria's voice sounded even more languid than it had on the original.
Just a few songs in and two things were apparent: there wasn't going to be any direct light on the band and there wasn't going to be much between-song chatter.
Everyone in the room seemed willing to accept both.
Victoria was playing her keyboards in the center of the stage and often bending forward to do so, leaving her long hair to trail the keys.
In a burst of unexpected connection, she asked, "How is everyone doing? This is our first time in Richmond. And that's the end of my story."
No attention hog, that one.
She had unusually expressive hand gestures; if one or both hands weren't involved playing, she was making dramatic gestures with them as she sang.
Stevie Nicks would have been proud.
Their last song, "Take Care," had every couple in the room in full-on sway and/or kissing mode.
Stand beside it, we can't hide the way it makes us glow
It's no good unless it grows
Feel this burning love of mine
Once they left the stage, the crowd clapped insistently for a longer than usual time until they returned.
"10 Mile Stereo" put everyone over the edge with its galloping intensity and hopeful lyrics.
The heart is a stone
And this is a stone that we throw
Put your hand on this stone
It's the stone of a home you'll know
They say we will go far
But they don't know how far we'll go
"Thank you for everything," the succinct Victoria said afterwards.
For their last song, the lights finally focused onstage so we could see Victoria and her band mates end our evening together.
It was only while playing her keyboard ferociously then that Victoria dropped her head and began twirling that long mane of hair in a big circle.
Mad audience reaction and then, boom, it was over.
Hard to believe anyone thinks that's like sleep.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Goodbye, Good Friends
I am the magnet and the world is the steel.
Or, put another way, I can always count on strangers talking to me. Always.
The Virginia Center for Architecture was my first stop for the opening of the new exhibit "Young Architects of Spain."
I found it to be a fascinating look at the design skills for buildings that would never get built in this country, or at the very least, on this coast.
There was an apartment in Madrid made of plastic, which was odd enough, but it had a a pink and white kitchen.
I think we stopped making pink and white kitchens sometime in the Kennedy era.
The Vega Sicilia Garden Pavilion had been designed because the winery needed a place to receive clients and guests.
Naturally, the Spaniard responsible for the design created a place where you could sip wine while overlooking a magnificent, surrounding garden.
As I stood admiring a glass and cedar collective housing project, I wondered aloud what the term "collective housing" meant.
The guy next to me looked as perplexed as I was.
To our rescue came a handsome bystander who explained in a charming accent that it was like a condo, a group building with shared ownership.
Ah-ha.
That led to a discussion of the next panel, which was of a public housing project in Madrid, basically a white box with modules set into it randomly, making for a pastiche of windows, balconies and jutting promontories.
I mentioned that it appeared to me to be a structure light years more stylish and unique than any public housing ever built in this country.
"Are you an architect?" he asked and I had to disappoint him.
Turns out he was and had come to this country from Poland to practice a few years ago.
He admitted that when he'd first come here, he was all about form (as only a young architect can be), only to gradually realize that he's developed a passion for cornices and such.
"Now I feel differently," he said. "It's too cold looking. I didn't like it anymore."
Somehow I'd lucked into having the ideal person to share the exhibit with since clearly he knew way more about architecture than I did.
Score!
He asked what I did and said he wished he had a knack for writing, while I only wish I could design buildings, making for a chat about the other man's grass always being greener.
When he left to get more sangria, I soldiered on without him, marveling at a "Space for Youth Creation" made from a former water tank with three-foot thick walls.
These young Spaniards were nothing if not out-of-the-box thinkers.
Exiting the VCA, I almost ran into the Man About Town, walking home from work.
He was recently back from a sojourn in NYC, and knwoing what a theater geek I am, he shared some theater experiences (masks! liability! six-inch heels!) he'd seen there while we lingered on the brick sidewalk in the early evening air.
My friend sauntered on while I was on to Amuse to meet a friend.
I got the last free barstool and hugs from four people in the first five minutes. Clearly it had been too long.
With a split of Cava and a bowl of mussels with Surry sausage, white wine and garlic (no kissing tonight!), I was happy as a clam.
When I looked up from inhaling my dinner, I noticed that I was now alone at the bar.
Where had everybody gone?
When I mentioned it to the bartender, he wryly observed, "Yea, you seem to do that a lot."
That's my kind of bartender.
My friend filled me in on his recent trip out west and his upcoming plans that will take him from Richmond for at least a couple of years and maybe forever.
I'm happy he's going to pursue something he loves, but I'll miss his good company here.
We brought out our planners, mine a small purple book and his a phone, and coordinated a date to do debauched things before he leaves.
Next thing I know, a man is asking if the recently vacant stool next to me is free.
Come on in, I told him and next thing I knew he was introducing himself and telling me where he worked, about his dislike for a class he's taking and about his carrying on at the Beer and Bourbon Festival.
When he heard my friend talking about his move, he said he'd come and visit, "And I'll even bring Karen!"
Let's be clear here; he'd met me fifteen minutes ago.
And when my Cava was gone, he kindly offered to buy me more, but I had places to be.
I had to go say goodbye to another friend.
His farewell soiree was at Balliceaux and one of my favorite local bands, Marionette, was playing.
The beauty of that is that the friend leaving has been designing Marionette's merch for the past five years.
The Marionette t-shirt I have? His design.
The Marionette postcard on my desk? His design.
And now he's off to San Diego to go to graduate school and continue his artistic bent.
When the band got ready to begin, drummer Kevin announced, "Where's the man of the hour? We need Austin front and center!"
Once he was in full view of the band, they started their set, which included a lot of the new songs that will be on the upcoming album.
The room was packed and I saw at least three musicians from other local bands in the crowd.
A friend came up to chat about my love life before asking me point blank, "Do you think that's the bass player's "O" face? I think it is."
It might very well have been, but as I pointed out, guitarist Adam seemed to be using his "O" face on certain solos, too.
Maybe that's part of the appeal of live music.
Later in the set Adam spoke a few words about Austin leaving and what a contribution he'd made to the band over the years by essentially defining the Marionette aesthetic with his posters and t-shirts.
"If it weren't for Austin's posters, Karen would never have come to see us," Adam informed the crowd.
I turned to Austin then, admitting, "It's true."
Back in the Stone Age of 2007/2008, I was an avid admirer of show posters, stopping to read them every chance I got.
It used to be how I found out about shows in the pre-Facebook days.
And Austin's Marionette posters were uniquely and beautifully artistic. In fact, I still have several of them squirreled away.
For the final song of the set, the vintage video montage that always plays behind Marionette included several of Austin's posters followed by wishes of good luck for his new adventure.
It was a fitting tribute to him and his art. When it ended, he'd disappeared.
As I went to leave Balliceaux, the front room was playing Beach House's "Teen Dream" album.
It was bittersweet because that was an album Austin and I bonded over many times, both of us obsessed with its sound and having listened to it for months on end.
I left to find Austin just outside the door, smoking and talking to people.
Holding the door open so he could hear what was playing, I told him how fitting it was that I got to say goodbye to him to Beach House.
Before I could say the rest of what I wanted to say to him, he said the exact words in my head to me.
"I'm so glad that I got to know you," he said, hugging me.
Luck is having strangers talk to me because I never know which ones will end up being friends.
Even if I have to eventually bid them farewell.
Or, put another way, I can always count on strangers talking to me. Always.
The Virginia Center for Architecture was my first stop for the opening of the new exhibit "Young Architects of Spain."
I found it to be a fascinating look at the design skills for buildings that would never get built in this country, or at the very least, on this coast.
There was an apartment in Madrid made of plastic, which was odd enough, but it had a a pink and white kitchen.
I think we stopped making pink and white kitchens sometime in the Kennedy era.
The Vega Sicilia Garden Pavilion had been designed because the winery needed a place to receive clients and guests.
Naturally, the Spaniard responsible for the design created a place where you could sip wine while overlooking a magnificent, surrounding garden.
As I stood admiring a glass and cedar collective housing project, I wondered aloud what the term "collective housing" meant.
The guy next to me looked as perplexed as I was.
To our rescue came a handsome bystander who explained in a charming accent that it was like a condo, a group building with shared ownership.
Ah-ha.
That led to a discussion of the next panel, which was of a public housing project in Madrid, basically a white box with modules set into it randomly, making for a pastiche of windows, balconies and jutting promontories.
I mentioned that it appeared to me to be a structure light years more stylish and unique than any public housing ever built in this country.
"Are you an architect?" he asked and I had to disappoint him.
Turns out he was and had come to this country from Poland to practice a few years ago.
He admitted that when he'd first come here, he was all about form (as only a young architect can be), only to gradually realize that he's developed a passion for cornices and such.
"Now I feel differently," he said. "It's too cold looking. I didn't like it anymore."
Somehow I'd lucked into having the ideal person to share the exhibit with since clearly he knew way more about architecture than I did.
Score!
He asked what I did and said he wished he had a knack for writing, while I only wish I could design buildings, making for a chat about the other man's grass always being greener.
When he left to get more sangria, I soldiered on without him, marveling at a "Space for Youth Creation" made from a former water tank with three-foot thick walls.
These young Spaniards were nothing if not out-of-the-box thinkers.
Exiting the VCA, I almost ran into the Man About Town, walking home from work.
He was recently back from a sojourn in NYC, and knwoing what a theater geek I am, he shared some theater experiences (masks! liability! six-inch heels!) he'd seen there while we lingered on the brick sidewalk in the early evening air.
My friend sauntered on while I was on to Amuse to meet a friend.
I got the last free barstool and hugs from four people in the first five minutes. Clearly it had been too long.
With a split of Cava and a bowl of mussels with Surry sausage, white wine and garlic (no kissing tonight!), I was happy as a clam.
When I looked up from inhaling my dinner, I noticed that I was now alone at the bar.
Where had everybody gone?
When I mentioned it to the bartender, he wryly observed, "Yea, you seem to do that a lot."
That's my kind of bartender.
My friend filled me in on his recent trip out west and his upcoming plans that will take him from Richmond for at least a couple of years and maybe forever.
I'm happy he's going to pursue something he loves, but I'll miss his good company here.
We brought out our planners, mine a small purple book and his a phone, and coordinated a date to do debauched things before he leaves.
Next thing I know, a man is asking if the recently vacant stool next to me is free.
Come on in, I told him and next thing I knew he was introducing himself and telling me where he worked, about his dislike for a class he's taking and about his carrying on at the Beer and Bourbon Festival.
When he heard my friend talking about his move, he said he'd come and visit, "And I'll even bring Karen!"
Let's be clear here; he'd met me fifteen minutes ago.
And when my Cava was gone, he kindly offered to buy me more, but I had places to be.
I had to go say goodbye to another friend.
His farewell soiree was at Balliceaux and one of my favorite local bands, Marionette, was playing.
The beauty of that is that the friend leaving has been designing Marionette's merch for the past five years.
The Marionette t-shirt I have? His design.
The Marionette postcard on my desk? His design.
And now he's off to San Diego to go to graduate school and continue his artistic bent.
When the band got ready to begin, drummer Kevin announced, "Where's the man of the hour? We need Austin front and center!"
Once he was in full view of the band, they started their set, which included a lot of the new songs that will be on the upcoming album.
The room was packed and I saw at least three musicians from other local bands in the crowd.
A friend came up to chat about my love life before asking me point blank, "Do you think that's the bass player's "O" face? I think it is."
It might very well have been, but as I pointed out, guitarist Adam seemed to be using his "O" face on certain solos, too.
Maybe that's part of the appeal of live music.
Later in the set Adam spoke a few words about Austin leaving and what a contribution he'd made to the band over the years by essentially defining the Marionette aesthetic with his posters and t-shirts.
"If it weren't for Austin's posters, Karen would never have come to see us," Adam informed the crowd.
I turned to Austin then, admitting, "It's true."
Back in the Stone Age of 2007/2008, I was an avid admirer of show posters, stopping to read them every chance I got.
It used to be how I found out about shows in the pre-Facebook days.
And Austin's Marionette posters were uniquely and beautifully artistic. In fact, I still have several of them squirreled away.
For the final song of the set, the vintage video montage that always plays behind Marionette included several of Austin's posters followed by wishes of good luck for his new adventure.
It was a fitting tribute to him and his art. When it ended, he'd disappeared.
As I went to leave Balliceaux, the front room was playing Beach House's "Teen Dream" album.
It was bittersweet because that was an album Austin and I bonded over many times, both of us obsessed with its sound and having listened to it for months on end.
I left to find Austin just outside the door, smoking and talking to people.
Holding the door open so he could hear what was playing, I told him how fitting it was that I got to say goodbye to him to Beach House.
Before I could say the rest of what I wanted to say to him, he said the exact words in my head to me.
"I'm so glad that I got to know you," he said, hugging me.
Luck is having strangers talk to me because I never know which ones will end up being friends.
Even if I have to eventually bid them farewell.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Do It for George
You could ask "What would George have wanted?" except that it's a safe bet that our first Prez wouldn't have wanted it at all.
I'm talking about the Washington monument, which is the focus of the new exhibit at the Virginia Center for Architecture.
"Someday in the Park with George: The National Ideas Competition for the Washington Monument Grounds" collects historical drawings, pictures and information about how we ended up with the monument we know and love.
But the hook is that a competition was held last year to solicit ideas for doing something with the grounds around it.
Something besides a ring of flags and security barricades.
Something that's not barren and ugly.
The grounds have played host to any number of unlikely uses, including a beef depot (cows everywhere) and from 1910-20, a military base.
Am I the only one surprised by this?
During World War II, the federal government erected temporary office buildings all along the Mall, including the monument grounds.
I was amazed to learn that the last of these wasn't removed until 1970.
The array of design possibilities over the years were far-reaching but never completed.
My favorite had a circular colonnade with a triumphal arch leading into the monument. Very European looking, I thought.
Another was for the grounds to have been used by the 1892 Colombian Exposition, but Washington, D.C. didn't win the bid.
The plan would have erected temporary fair buildings and man-made lakes on the grounds, inevitably making for a very different place now, had it been done.
There were photographs of people ice skating on the mall in the early decades of the 20th century and Tidal basin bathers in 1922.
At one time, a proposal was made to construct two elevated roadways along either side of the mall to help alleviate Washington's notorious traffic problems.
Imagine a time when desecrating the mall for the sake of roads was even an option.
The second room of the exhibit showcases the six finalists in the National Ideas competition, which allowed anyone in the world over twelve years of age to submit ideas.
Two of the wining six were not even Americans, which shows how compelling the notion of having a say in the monument's outcome is to everyone.
One finalist suggested a Field of Stars with lights mounted in the ground; their brightness at night would be determined by how much foot traffic walked over them during the day.
It was meant to be a metaphor for all of us having a say in democracy.
The one called the People's Forum imagined stone steps and terraces surrounding the monument, making for a perfect performance space.
Another envisioned a glass-topped sky-lit museum surrounding the monument.
I was particularly fond of the two finalists' visions of tree-scaped grounds to offer shade to visitors, sorely lacking in the present grounds.
But until we actually decide to do something about the Washington monument grounds, even the best ideas are no more than a pipe dream.
At the time the monument opened, it had the highest passenger elevator and observation deck in the world.
Back then, people described the feeling of riding it as scary and like ascending to heaven. Seems like the view from the top should be a lot more heavenly than it is.
I think even the modest George would agree.
I'm talking about the Washington monument, which is the focus of the new exhibit at the Virginia Center for Architecture.
"Someday in the Park with George: The National Ideas Competition for the Washington Monument Grounds" collects historical drawings, pictures and information about how we ended up with the monument we know and love.
But the hook is that a competition was held last year to solicit ideas for doing something with the grounds around it.
Something besides a ring of flags and security barricades.
Something that's not barren and ugly.
The grounds have played host to any number of unlikely uses, including a beef depot (cows everywhere) and from 1910-20, a military base.
Am I the only one surprised by this?
During World War II, the federal government erected temporary office buildings all along the Mall, including the monument grounds.
I was amazed to learn that the last of these wasn't removed until 1970.
The array of design possibilities over the years were far-reaching but never completed.
My favorite had a circular colonnade with a triumphal arch leading into the monument. Very European looking, I thought.
Another was for the grounds to have been used by the 1892 Colombian Exposition, but Washington, D.C. didn't win the bid.
The plan would have erected temporary fair buildings and man-made lakes on the grounds, inevitably making for a very different place now, had it been done.
There were photographs of people ice skating on the mall in the early decades of the 20th century and Tidal basin bathers in 1922.
At one time, a proposal was made to construct two elevated roadways along either side of the mall to help alleviate Washington's notorious traffic problems.
Imagine a time when desecrating the mall for the sake of roads was even an option.
The second room of the exhibit showcases the six finalists in the National Ideas competition, which allowed anyone in the world over twelve years of age to submit ideas.
Two of the wining six were not even Americans, which shows how compelling the notion of having a say in the monument's outcome is to everyone.
One finalist suggested a Field of Stars with lights mounted in the ground; their brightness at night would be determined by how much foot traffic walked over them during the day.
It was meant to be a metaphor for all of us having a say in democracy.
The one called the People's Forum imagined stone steps and terraces surrounding the monument, making for a perfect performance space.
Another envisioned a glass-topped sky-lit museum surrounding the monument.
I was particularly fond of the two finalists' visions of tree-scaped grounds to offer shade to visitors, sorely lacking in the present grounds.
But until we actually decide to do something about the Washington monument grounds, even the best ideas are no more than a pipe dream.
At the time the monument opened, it had the highest passenger elevator and observation deck in the world.
Back then, people described the feeling of riding it as scary and like ascending to heaven. Seems like the view from the top should be a lot more heavenly than it is.
I think even the modest George would agree.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Listen Without Prejudice
When it comes down to it, it's all about finding a receptive audience.
I started my audience participation at the Virginia Center for Architecture and the social hour they were having to explore the new exhibit.
"The Art and Architecture of Carlton Abbott" was like a retrospective of the Williamsburg architect's career.
Which was as much about art as architecture.
Abbott's father had been the landscape architect for the Blue Ridge Parkway and his son documented many Blue Ridge Parkway buildings in pen and ink (even that most romantic-sounding of mediums, India ink).
Cantilevered barns, spring houses and weighted gates were captured by Abbott in the purest line.
But then there was Abbott, the engineer-minded architect, who designed the access bridge at Texas beach, the Visitor's Center at Jamestown and the frickin' mixing bowl.
Oh, yes, Abbott was the one behind the revamped Springfield exits on I-95.
Who knew such a logical, clear-thinking brain could also produce such pure art?
Abbott's postcards from France were a series of cards on which he sketched a French scene on the front, then drew a basic diagram of the layout of the location, maybe wrote a few words on the back, and mailed it home to himself.
And sometimes, to him and his wife.
Most were depictions of charming buildings and streets, but one was a carafe of wine and two filled glasses on a tabletop.
On the back, he had written, "Mon Cheri, I love you. CSA."
Kind of makes your heart melt, doesn't it?
A majestic charcoal over the mantle of the fireplace, "The Norfolk Dock" gave the viewer a sense of actually being on the dock due to its sheer size.
The man's multi-media art was of the deepest, brightest colors, super-saturated in their brilliance.
They were three-dimensional, some layers of fabric, some painted dowels, some intricately arranged geometric/mechanical-looking contrivances.
The man is in his fifth decade of creating and it's obvious he's still going strong.
The optimistic among us would call that encouraging.
The optimistic and the rest took off for Six Burner to discuss that kind of range of talent and enjoy well priced "midnight in a glass," Domaine la Bouissiere "Les Amis de Bouissiere."
We heard about an actor's upcoming audition and a film graduate's desire to find the local film community.
The music went from the Lou Reed station on Pandora to the Phil Collins station.
This alone fascinates me, but I won't go there now.
When George Micheal came on, I went to point it out to the actor, who was by that time dancing to George Micheal behind the bar.
Clearly he already knew who it was.
Big points went to the panzanella salad (redundant, I think) with Feta cheese, capers, roasted tomatoes, cucumber, red onion, preserved Meyer lemon and oil for its pleasantly chewy bred cubes and perfect saltiness.
The panzanella led seamlessly into the mussels in a white wine cream sauce with bacon, red onions and bleu cheese.
It was ridiculously rich and just the right sized serving to leave you with some sense of dignity. At least until the bread-sopping part came and then all bets were off.
I got theater talk ("Rocky Horror Picture Show" coming to Firehouse) and a chance to recommend some good local film events (Biograph 40th, Southern Film Fest, James River Filmmakers' Forum) before realizing that some of us had places to be.
It was a parking lot farewell.
Since I hadn't had time to have a sweet course, I defaulted to the best late-night dessert bar I know: Ipanema.
After ordering a glass of Analissa Primitovo and a slice of double chocolate cake, I took in the conversations around me.
"Why don't you have any girl bartenders?" a twenty-something girl inquired.
"Well, you know..." the bartender trailed off.
"This place is a sausagefest," I teased him, joining in.
"A Post Office!" he laughed. "A lot of male!"
Did I mention that the comedy is free of charge at the best late night dessert bar in town?
Two bites into my cake, a couple of musician friends walked up to see what I was up to.
One asked me where I'd already been, presuming that my night was not just now starting.
The other suggested, "When you finish your cake, you should head over there," pointing to his friends and band mates celebrating a birthday.
Near the end of my cake, I heard the guy next to me mention Jackson Ward.
If that's not an invitation for me to let them know I've been eavesdropping, I don't know that is.Surely he and I would have something to talk about.
What about Jackson Ward, I asked politely but eager to sing the praises of my 'hood.
One told me where they lived (two blocks away), near the park.
"Yes, it's great. My only complaint is the people from Gilpin walk through our park and they don't live here," he said in all seriousness.
Oh, wow. Clearly we have nothing to talk about.
So I moved away from them and over to my friends where the conversation centered on Tom Waits fishing and other things I could get behind.
My fandom of their band was complimented. Hey, they're the ones doing all the heavy lifting. All I have to do is appreciate it.
"So where were you before this?" the bass player asked, echoing the earlier question.
I wouldn't be presuming I've been anywhere, my friend.
Except, of course, I had.
By that time, I'd already been an audience several times over.
As my Richmond grandmother used to say, stick with what you're good at.
There are few things I'd rather be than a really fine audience. Insert applause.
Mine.
I started my audience participation at the Virginia Center for Architecture and the social hour they were having to explore the new exhibit.
"The Art and Architecture of Carlton Abbott" was like a retrospective of the Williamsburg architect's career.
Which was as much about art as architecture.
Abbott's father had been the landscape architect for the Blue Ridge Parkway and his son documented many Blue Ridge Parkway buildings in pen and ink (even that most romantic-sounding of mediums, India ink).
Cantilevered barns, spring houses and weighted gates were captured by Abbott in the purest line.
But then there was Abbott, the engineer-minded architect, who designed the access bridge at Texas beach, the Visitor's Center at Jamestown and the frickin' mixing bowl.
Oh, yes, Abbott was the one behind the revamped Springfield exits on I-95.
Who knew such a logical, clear-thinking brain could also produce such pure art?
Abbott's postcards from France were a series of cards on which he sketched a French scene on the front, then drew a basic diagram of the layout of the location, maybe wrote a few words on the back, and mailed it home to himself.
And sometimes, to him and his wife.
Most were depictions of charming buildings and streets, but one was a carafe of wine and two filled glasses on a tabletop.
On the back, he had written, "Mon Cheri, I love you. CSA."
Kind of makes your heart melt, doesn't it?
A majestic charcoal over the mantle of the fireplace, "The Norfolk Dock" gave the viewer a sense of actually being on the dock due to its sheer size.
The man's multi-media art was of the deepest, brightest colors, super-saturated in their brilliance.
They were three-dimensional, some layers of fabric, some painted dowels, some intricately arranged geometric/mechanical-looking contrivances.
The man is in his fifth decade of creating and it's obvious he's still going strong.
The optimistic among us would call that encouraging.
The optimistic and the rest took off for Six Burner to discuss that kind of range of talent and enjoy well priced "midnight in a glass," Domaine la Bouissiere "Les Amis de Bouissiere."
We heard about an actor's upcoming audition and a film graduate's desire to find the local film community.
The music went from the Lou Reed station on Pandora to the Phil Collins station.
This alone fascinates me, but I won't go there now.
When George Micheal came on, I went to point it out to the actor, who was by that time dancing to George Micheal behind the bar.
Clearly he already knew who it was.
Big points went to the panzanella salad (redundant, I think) with Feta cheese, capers, roasted tomatoes, cucumber, red onion, preserved Meyer lemon and oil for its pleasantly chewy bred cubes and perfect saltiness.
The panzanella led seamlessly into the mussels in a white wine cream sauce with bacon, red onions and bleu cheese.
It was ridiculously rich and just the right sized serving to leave you with some sense of dignity. At least until the bread-sopping part came and then all bets were off.
I got theater talk ("Rocky Horror Picture Show" coming to Firehouse) and a chance to recommend some good local film events (Biograph 40th, Southern Film Fest, James River Filmmakers' Forum) before realizing that some of us had places to be.
It was a parking lot farewell.
Since I hadn't had time to have a sweet course, I defaulted to the best late-night dessert bar I know: Ipanema.
After ordering a glass of Analissa Primitovo and a slice of double chocolate cake, I took in the conversations around me.
"Why don't you have any girl bartenders?" a twenty-something girl inquired.
"Well, you know..." the bartender trailed off.
"This place is a sausagefest," I teased him, joining in.
"A Post Office!" he laughed. "A lot of male!"
Did I mention that the comedy is free of charge at the best late night dessert bar in town?
Two bites into my cake, a couple of musician friends walked up to see what I was up to.
One asked me where I'd already been, presuming that my night was not just now starting.
The other suggested, "When you finish your cake, you should head over there," pointing to his friends and band mates celebrating a birthday.
Near the end of my cake, I heard the guy next to me mention Jackson Ward.
If that's not an invitation for me to let them know I've been eavesdropping, I don't know that is.Surely he and I would have something to talk about.
What about Jackson Ward, I asked politely but eager to sing the praises of my 'hood.
One told me where they lived (two blocks away), near the park.
"Yes, it's great. My only complaint is the people from Gilpin walk through our park and they don't live here," he said in all seriousness.
Oh, wow. Clearly we have nothing to talk about.
So I moved away from them and over to my friends where the conversation centered on Tom Waits fishing and other things I could get behind.
My fandom of their band was complimented. Hey, they're the ones doing all the heavy lifting. All I have to do is appreciate it.
"So where were you before this?" the bass player asked, echoing the earlier question.
I wouldn't be presuming I've been anywhere, my friend.
Except, of course, I had.
By that time, I'd already been an audience several times over.
As my Richmond grandmother used to say, stick with what you're good at.
There are few things I'd rather be than a really fine audience. Insert applause.
Mine.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Lecture Interruptus
Since when is it the audience's job to guide the speaker's lecture?
The question had never occurred to me until I saw it happen today.
The Virginia Center for Architecture was doing their monthly brown bag lunch lecture series, Design Bites, and I was there along with architects and dilettantes alike.
Today's speaker was James Wootton, Executive Director of the Capital Square Preservation Council and his topic was "Thomas Jefferson, American Architect."
A woman sitting in front of me turned and asked what had brought me out, an interest in Jefferson or architecture. Both, I told her.
That was the clue that I missed.
Wootton began with a look at Virginia architecture as it was in the 1600s when the colony was collectively building the kinds of structures they remembered from England.
Buildings like Bacon's Castle with its six angled chimneys to announce the owner's wealth from a distance.
He talked about the very British style of the College of William and Mary and Westover Plantation and was providing all kinds of interesting history about men and their buildings.
It was while he was talking about Jefferson lambasting locals for building with wood given the threat of fire or usage requiring replacement (which TJ saw as the only good thing about it) that the woman in front of me raised her hand.
She kept it there while Wooten finished his thought before calling on her.
"It's 12:30," she announced. "Can you get to Thomas Jefferson's architecture?"
There was a sharp intake of breath on the part of most of the audience at her audacity.
He clicked to the very next slide, which was of TJ and began talking about how he'd taught himself architecture by reading Palladio's "Four Books of Architecture" and using pattern books of the day.
Taking us through the many buildings in which Jefferson had a hand, I got nervous every time he mentioned a follower of TJ or a follower's building.
Was the woman going to chastise him again?
Fortunately it didn't happen and Wootton was able to talk about the design of the State Capitol, UVA and Monticello without further incident.
Ah, now I get the name "Design Bites."
It bites when someone is talking about design and gets rudely interrupted by a clock watcher dictating the lecture structure.
Where is Miss Manners when you need her?
The question had never occurred to me until I saw it happen today.
The Virginia Center for Architecture was doing their monthly brown bag lunch lecture series, Design Bites, and I was there along with architects and dilettantes alike.
Today's speaker was James Wootton, Executive Director of the Capital Square Preservation Council and his topic was "Thomas Jefferson, American Architect."
A woman sitting in front of me turned and asked what had brought me out, an interest in Jefferson or architecture. Both, I told her.
That was the clue that I missed.
Wootton began with a look at Virginia architecture as it was in the 1600s when the colony was collectively building the kinds of structures they remembered from England.
Buildings like Bacon's Castle with its six angled chimneys to announce the owner's wealth from a distance.
He talked about the very British style of the College of William and Mary and Westover Plantation and was providing all kinds of interesting history about men and their buildings.
It was while he was talking about Jefferson lambasting locals for building with wood given the threat of fire or usage requiring replacement (which TJ saw as the only good thing about it) that the woman in front of me raised her hand.
She kept it there while Wooten finished his thought before calling on her.
"It's 12:30," she announced. "Can you get to Thomas Jefferson's architecture?"
There was a sharp intake of breath on the part of most of the audience at her audacity.
He clicked to the very next slide, which was of TJ and began talking about how he'd taught himself architecture by reading Palladio's "Four Books of Architecture" and using pattern books of the day.
Taking us through the many buildings in which Jefferson had a hand, I got nervous every time he mentioned a follower of TJ or a follower's building.
Was the woman going to chastise him again?
Fortunately it didn't happen and Wootton was able to talk about the design of the State Capitol, UVA and Monticello without further incident.
Ah, now I get the name "Design Bites."
It bites when someone is talking about design and gets rudely interrupted by a clock watcher dictating the lecture structure.
Where is Miss Manners when you need her?
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
An Afternoon Folly
I will die a perpetual student.
Despite having taken architecture history classes in college, years of attending architecture lectures, even taking an eight-week architectural literacy seminar a few years ago, I never fail to learn something new every time I go to an exhibit at the Virginia Center for Architecture.
I was delighted when I arrived there today to see so many of the diamond-paned lead glass windows of the Branch House open to the beautiful 73-degree air.
I'd never seen a single window open there before.
Inside, the new show "Design 2011: A Retrospective of Winning Work" was full of clever takes on new architecture, interior design and preservation projects.
Particularly appealing was the inclusion of some of the judges' commentary for why each project was chosen.
"Weirdness" was my favorite judges' descriptor, used for the winner of a house in Kensington, MD, a place I once lived.
Looking at the striking post-modern redesign, very different from the houses I recall in that neighborhood, I would guess that the neighbors would agree with that assessment.
There were more than a few university projects: VCU's Dental Clinic in Wise, Founder's Hall at George Mason and the Performing Arts Center at JMU.
But I was more interested in residential projects.
Virginia Tech's Architecture School had built their third solar house, this one notable for its net-zero energy use despite much glass and an airy, unenclosed feel, so unlike typical solar houses.
A loft in Winchester's historic district maintained its Victorian facade on the front of the house but the rest was open to interpretation.
The owner, a collector, told the architects to view the building elements as opportunities for modern, pop art sculpture, so interesting surfaces were everywhere in the back.
Today's new term for me was "folly," a building deliberately constructed to be ornamental.
One of the design winners included a folly as part of the construction of a pool and garden pavilion. The charming building was decidedly ornamental.
My favorite preservation project was the Hazel River Cabin which joined an historic slave quarters set for demolition with a 1794 toll keeper's cabin and its 1856 addition.
Inside it was rustic, functional and clean-lined. Outside, you saw three distinct styles of American architecture married in an aesthetically pleasing way.
It seemed to me that it was truly fortunate that someone with enough money to make it happen chose to save three historically significant buildings while crafting a comfortable, modern-day living space for the 21st century.
Not that a lowly student knows what she's talking about.
Despite having taken architecture history classes in college, years of attending architecture lectures, even taking an eight-week architectural literacy seminar a few years ago, I never fail to learn something new every time I go to an exhibit at the Virginia Center for Architecture.
I was delighted when I arrived there today to see so many of the diamond-paned lead glass windows of the Branch House open to the beautiful 73-degree air.
I'd never seen a single window open there before.
Inside, the new show "Design 2011: A Retrospective of Winning Work" was full of clever takes on new architecture, interior design and preservation projects.
Particularly appealing was the inclusion of some of the judges' commentary for why each project was chosen.
"Weirdness" was my favorite judges' descriptor, used for the winner of a house in Kensington, MD, a place I once lived.
Looking at the striking post-modern redesign, very different from the houses I recall in that neighborhood, I would guess that the neighbors would agree with that assessment.
There were more than a few university projects: VCU's Dental Clinic in Wise, Founder's Hall at George Mason and the Performing Arts Center at JMU.
But I was more interested in residential projects.
Virginia Tech's Architecture School had built their third solar house, this one notable for its net-zero energy use despite much glass and an airy, unenclosed feel, so unlike typical solar houses.
A loft in Winchester's historic district maintained its Victorian facade on the front of the house but the rest was open to interpretation.
The owner, a collector, told the architects to view the building elements as opportunities for modern, pop art sculpture, so interesting surfaces were everywhere in the back.
Today's new term for me was "folly," a building deliberately constructed to be ornamental.
One of the design winners included a folly as part of the construction of a pool and garden pavilion. The charming building was decidedly ornamental.
My favorite preservation project was the Hazel River Cabin which joined an historic slave quarters set for demolition with a 1794 toll keeper's cabin and its 1856 addition.
Inside it was rustic, functional and clean-lined. Outside, you saw three distinct styles of American architecture married in an aesthetically pleasing way.
It seemed to me that it was truly fortunate that someone with enough money to make it happen chose to save three historically significant buildings while crafting a comfortable, modern-day living space for the 21st century.
Not that a lowly student knows what she's talking about.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Going Dutch and Sexo
I didn't see a lot of crossover.
Chances are I was the only person at the documentary screening at the Virginia Center for Architecture and at the Guillermo Sexo show at Balliceaux tonight.
I noticed that the crowd was much smaller than usual for the monthly Richmond Modern film series as we mingled at the reception, enjoying beer, wine and apps before the show.
Tonight they were screening "Helia Jongerius: Contemporary Archetypes" about the Dutch designer.
Okay, so I'd never heard of her but I'm sure savvy types have.
She's apparently considered one of the most innovative and creative designers working today.
Her strength seemed to be putting together extreme differences; she combined a contemporary aesthetic with something from the collective memory of the culture.
What I liked most about her whatever (furniture, textiles, household items) was her disdain for perfection.
She considered imperfections to show the work of the artisan's hand.
"I'm not afraid to make failures because failures can be brilliant," she said almost philosophically.
Hmm...
I made a point to arrive at Balliceaux in time to catch Boston indie rockers Guillermo Sexo.
As I expected, they were three guys and girl who delivered reverb, psych-folk and a fair amount of shredding.
I ran into a DJ friend who was as into their set as I was.
He was a tad more enthusiastic about the lead singer's dress falling off her shoulder during a rambunctious drum part, but other than that, we both found a lot to like about the sound.
The main event tonight was Black Girls (Modest Mouse meets K.C. and the Sunshine Band) whom I've sen lots of times.
It was the lead singer's birthday and he was in high spirits.
"There's a reason you're out at a bar on a Wednesday night and it's not the music!" he shouted, exhorting the crowd to drink.
My Hornitos was in hand, so I was well ahead of him.
And he wasn't entirely correct, either. While I would have guessed that far too few people had been there to see Guillermo Sexo, plenty of people of all ages were there to see Black Girls.
Definitely not all of them (it is Balliceaux) but plenty.
Even so, after the third song the guy next to me leaned over and asked if I knew the name of the band.
When I told him, he asked if I knew the band members. Sorry, no. But clearly some people are still discovering them.
Encouraging the crowd to move to the music, the singer said, "I have a dream that all of Balliceaux will be dancing" and plenty of people obliged.
It doesn't take much effort to dance to music like that of Black Girls (K.C. made a fortune proving that back in the 70s).
As the show wound down, I made my way to the front bar only to run into (surprise) friends, musicians both, but not a couple.
He was trying to convince her that he's crossed the fence and can now date blonds. I didn't even attempt to join that discussion.
When I asked if they'd come for the music which was nearly over, they explained that they were there to drink.
Anything in particular, I asked?
"Alcohol on ice," the more smart-assed of the two responded.
My alcohol on ice long gone, I left them at the bar talking about wife-stealing.
Like I said, not a lot of cross-over.
Which, I guess, makes me the missing link.
I do have some brilliant failures to recommend myself to both crowds.
Chances are I was the only person at the documentary screening at the Virginia Center for Architecture and at the Guillermo Sexo show at Balliceaux tonight.
I noticed that the crowd was much smaller than usual for the monthly Richmond Modern film series as we mingled at the reception, enjoying beer, wine and apps before the show.
Tonight they were screening "Helia Jongerius: Contemporary Archetypes" about the Dutch designer.
Okay, so I'd never heard of her but I'm sure savvy types have.
She's apparently considered one of the most innovative and creative designers working today.
Her strength seemed to be putting together extreme differences; she combined a contemporary aesthetic with something from the collective memory of the culture.
What I liked most about her whatever (furniture, textiles, household items) was her disdain for perfection.
She considered imperfections to show the work of the artisan's hand.
"I'm not afraid to make failures because failures can be brilliant," she said almost philosophically.
Hmm...
I made a point to arrive at Balliceaux in time to catch Boston indie rockers Guillermo Sexo.
As I expected, they were three guys and girl who delivered reverb, psych-folk and a fair amount of shredding.
I ran into a DJ friend who was as into their set as I was.
He was a tad more enthusiastic about the lead singer's dress falling off her shoulder during a rambunctious drum part, but other than that, we both found a lot to like about the sound.
The main event tonight was Black Girls (Modest Mouse meets K.C. and the Sunshine Band) whom I've sen lots of times.
It was the lead singer's birthday and he was in high spirits.
"There's a reason you're out at a bar on a Wednesday night and it's not the music!" he shouted, exhorting the crowd to drink.
My Hornitos was in hand, so I was well ahead of him.
And he wasn't entirely correct, either. While I would have guessed that far too few people had been there to see Guillermo Sexo, plenty of people of all ages were there to see Black Girls.
Definitely not all of them (it is Balliceaux) but plenty.
Even so, after the third song the guy next to me leaned over and asked if I knew the name of the band.
When I told him, he asked if I knew the band members. Sorry, no. But clearly some people are still discovering them.
Encouraging the crowd to move to the music, the singer said, "I have a dream that all of Balliceaux will be dancing" and plenty of people obliged.
It doesn't take much effort to dance to music like that of Black Girls (K.C. made a fortune proving that back in the 70s).
As the show wound down, I made my way to the front bar only to run into (surprise) friends, musicians both, but not a couple.
He was trying to convince her that he's crossed the fence and can now date blonds. I didn't even attempt to join that discussion.
When I asked if they'd come for the music which was nearly over, they explained that they were there to drink.
Anything in particular, I asked?
"Alcohol on ice," the more smart-assed of the two responded.
My alcohol on ice long gone, I left them at the bar talking about wife-stealing.
Like I said, not a lot of cross-over.
Which, I guess, makes me the missing link.
I do have some brilliant failures to recommend myself to both crowds.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Heat Drove Me to Flights of Fancy
On any given beautiful day, I can happily spend hours in a museum.
So on a god-forsaken hot and humid day, I can think of no better place to spend some time than taking in a new exhibit.
And what cooler place is there than the thick stone walls and leaded windows of the Branch House, which houses the Virginia Center for Architecture?
The new show "Flights of Fancy" looks at the form, function and geometry of fences and staircases. Ho-hum, right?
Hardly.
Artist Kirsten Kindler's fascination with architectural detail led her to explore the wrought iron fences that pepper neighborhoods like my beloved Jackson Ward.
From there, she meticulously cuts out imagery from magazines and assembles architectural collages that suggest the intricate design work or directly uses staircase imagery in a new way.
The "Mirrored Filigree" triptych was three 8' tall works on paper that resembled the wrought iron of the porches I see all around me, but in muted shades of silvery blue, bronze gray and brown.
"Study for Impossible Fence I" was enormous and elaborate. At its center was a square with interlocking lines which could have been inspired by the motif on my own iron fence.
From there, the design mutates with curlicues, bead-like imagery and assorted curvilinear shapes.
"Study for Impossible Fence II" looks like a Victorian chandelier that morphed into adjoining and elaborately flocked wallpaper.
A sculptural piece called "Information Entity" uses hand cut magazine images of film projectors, cameras, monitors, phones, microphones TVs and binoculars, layering imagery over each other.
Standing taller than the viewer, it comes across as communications overload, an apt metaphor for our 21st century lives.
For me, the most striking piece was "Escalator Treehouse" a nearly floor to ceiling work on paper showing a series of stairs and railings going up a multi-branched tree.
A spiral staircase winds itself around the trunk and stairs and railings connect branches and trunk. It is almost Escher-like except that the stairs actually go somewhere.
Another sculptural piece of paper mounted on plastic film, "Balustrade Sphere," is hung a few inches from the wall, allowing shadows to be cast behind it.
At its center is a simple Doric column and the many staircases are supported by a single black footed urn at the bottom.
The delicacy of the cut-outs of staircases and railings must surely require a variety of scissors and the surest of hands.
The strength of the show is how Kindler translates the beauty of three dimensional objects (and heavy ones at that, iron) into the most delicate of two-dimensional images on paper.
Her manipulation of dimension and space is the best kind of mind f*ck. Intellectually, you know it makes no sense, and yet it reads believably.
For those of us who can't cut on a straight line, her ability to cut out, for example, endless minute balustrade openings is nothing short of awe-inspiring.
And cool. It was deliciously cool admiring wrought ironwork and fences from someplace other than the sidewalk on a day like today.
So on a god-forsaken hot and humid day, I can think of no better place to spend some time than taking in a new exhibit.
And what cooler place is there than the thick stone walls and leaded windows of the Branch House, which houses the Virginia Center for Architecture?
The new show "Flights of Fancy" looks at the form, function and geometry of fences and staircases. Ho-hum, right?
Hardly.
Artist Kirsten Kindler's fascination with architectural detail led her to explore the wrought iron fences that pepper neighborhoods like my beloved Jackson Ward.
From there, she meticulously cuts out imagery from magazines and assembles architectural collages that suggest the intricate design work or directly uses staircase imagery in a new way.
The "Mirrored Filigree" triptych was three 8' tall works on paper that resembled the wrought iron of the porches I see all around me, but in muted shades of silvery blue, bronze gray and brown.
"Study for Impossible Fence I" was enormous and elaborate. At its center was a square with interlocking lines which could have been inspired by the motif on my own iron fence.
From there, the design mutates with curlicues, bead-like imagery and assorted curvilinear shapes.
"Study for Impossible Fence II" looks like a Victorian chandelier that morphed into adjoining and elaborately flocked wallpaper.
A sculptural piece called "Information Entity" uses hand cut magazine images of film projectors, cameras, monitors, phones, microphones TVs and binoculars, layering imagery over each other.
Standing taller than the viewer, it comes across as communications overload, an apt metaphor for our 21st century lives.
For me, the most striking piece was "Escalator Treehouse" a nearly floor to ceiling work on paper showing a series of stairs and railings going up a multi-branched tree.
A spiral staircase winds itself around the trunk and stairs and railings connect branches and trunk. It is almost Escher-like except that the stairs actually go somewhere.
Another sculptural piece of paper mounted on plastic film, "Balustrade Sphere," is hung a few inches from the wall, allowing shadows to be cast behind it.
At its center is a simple Doric column and the many staircases are supported by a single black footed urn at the bottom.
The delicacy of the cut-outs of staircases and railings must surely require a variety of scissors and the surest of hands.
The strength of the show is how Kindler translates the beauty of three dimensional objects (and heavy ones at that, iron) into the most delicate of two-dimensional images on paper.
Her manipulation of dimension and space is the best kind of mind f*ck. Intellectually, you know it makes no sense, and yet it reads believably.
For those of us who can't cut on a straight line, her ability to cut out, for example, endless minute balustrade openings is nothing short of awe-inspiring.
And cool. It was deliciously cool admiring wrought ironwork and fences from someplace other than the sidewalk on a day like today.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Be Me and Report Back
Does anyone else really want to do what I do?
Tonight that would have started with the happy hour at the Anderson Gallery for a performance by the Bird and Her Consort.
For the uninitiated, that would be Jonathan and Antonia Vassar of JV and the Speckled Bird.
Using guitar, accordion and classical voice, the duo performed what was termed as "parlor music" with an open parasol sitting on the floor in front of them.
Before the show, the older gentleman sitting next to me in the gallery inquired if I knew what parlor music was and I was of no assistance, but we were both willing to find out.
After listening to their beautiful interpretations of vintage music in French, Italian and English, I would say parlor music involves sad songs of love, passion and longing, some of which I even recognized.
They had recently performed at Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden and after a sad French song, a French Canadian couple had informed them that it had been sung too slowly.
"But I think they're wrong," Antonia said defiantly tonight. She sang the song at the exact same tempo as she had the last time and it was stunning. What do French Canucks know anyway?
After the show, I was asked what was next on my agenda for the evening. But it was a devoted fan of Antonia's who asked me the question of the day.
"So have you ever considered having someone take over your life for a few weeks to give you a vacation?" she asked with a twinkle in her eye.
Silly me, my initial reaction was that she was suggesting that my life might get tiresome. Then I realized she was offering herself up.
"I'd need some advance notice," she qualified. "I'd have to rest up and go to the gym." All I had to do was hand over my itinerary and she was going to live it and blog it for me.
It was a most intriguing idea, even if she would need me to plot it out for her. Someone pointed out that she'd have to modify her 9:00 bedtime to be me. That's the least of her worries, I might add.
Stop number two was the Virginia Center for Architecture for a screening of "Visual Acoustics: The Modernism of Julius Shulman."
Had I known who Julius Shulman was a month ago? No, but once a little research divulged that he was the premiere architectural photographer of the twentieth century, I was in and interested.
Because architectural photography is the primary means by which most people see a given building, it is hugely significant.
And the twentieth century was an optimistic time when architects believed they could change the world and the photographs of their work shaped the world's perceptions of the West Coast and that lifestyle.
The film was made before Shulman's death in 2009 (he was nearly 100!) so it included his ruminations, jokes, and thoughts as well as visits to some of the houses he had shot decades ago.
Sadly, post-modernism drove Shulman into retirement, but his photographs became invaluable for restoration projects of any number of modernist houses that had fallen into disrepair.
Eventually, his photographs were seen as fine art and he had gallery shows both here and abroad.
A fascinating observation made during the film was that "The houses in real life were not as beautiful as Julius' photographs."
From what was shown in the film, he clearly had a knack for picking the best possible angle of any given structure. Luckily, his legacy lives on in the archives of the Getty Museum in L.A.
Last, but not least, was dinner with a long-absent girlfriend at Pescado's China Street. She'd been traveling for work so much that it had been a month since our last rendezvous.
When I walked in it was after 8:30 and every table was taken, as was every bar stool. I'd never seen the place so crowded.
My friend had finally snagged a table after much waiting and our server immediately poured me a glass from her bottle of Santa Digna Sauvignon Blanc.
I didn't get too far into it before we were able to move to a couple of available stools and get settled in for some catching up.
Conch fritters made for a fine start and then I had the smoked Pacific marlin tostada with black beans, radish and roasted corn salsa.
While it qualified for "tall food" status, it was the trio of flavors; smokey fish, fresh corn salsa and hearty (and heart-healthy) black beans that got my taste buds singing.
My friend had the tetilla tamales of roasted chicken, masa, tetilla cheese, tomato/basil jalapeno sauce and cilantro aioli, which I had to taste because I'd never had them before.
Instead of the usual Latin music or reggae, we enjoyed a soulful mix tonight that even got our bartender busting a move at one point. Old-school soul certainly has stood the test of time well.
Co-owner Bob dropped by to talk restaurants and near West End development with us and we all got passionate about the possible demise of the Westhampton Theater. Now that would be a loss.
Eventually my friend went on to the delicious Los Cabos salad while I enjoyed the switch to Conde Villar Branco Vinho Verde, a fizzy little gem that was perfect given today's heat.
We were so busy catching up with one another that all of a sudden we looked up and the staff was putting chairs on top of tables. Oops, time to go.
And therein lies the challenge for my replacement. Sure, you can be me as long as you can hang until you've finished doing all the good stuff every night.
Only then is it okay to cut bait and go home and tell the world about it.
Well, except for the really good stuff, which doesn't happen nearly often enough, and that's what remains the great mystery.
Tonight that would have started with the happy hour at the Anderson Gallery for a performance by the Bird and Her Consort.
For the uninitiated, that would be Jonathan and Antonia Vassar of JV and the Speckled Bird.
Using guitar, accordion and classical voice, the duo performed what was termed as "parlor music" with an open parasol sitting on the floor in front of them.
Before the show, the older gentleman sitting next to me in the gallery inquired if I knew what parlor music was and I was of no assistance, but we were both willing to find out.
After listening to their beautiful interpretations of vintage music in French, Italian and English, I would say parlor music involves sad songs of love, passion and longing, some of which I even recognized.
They had recently performed at Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden and after a sad French song, a French Canadian couple had informed them that it had been sung too slowly.
"But I think they're wrong," Antonia said defiantly tonight. She sang the song at the exact same tempo as she had the last time and it was stunning. What do French Canucks know anyway?
After the show, I was asked what was next on my agenda for the evening. But it was a devoted fan of Antonia's who asked me the question of the day.
"So have you ever considered having someone take over your life for a few weeks to give you a vacation?" she asked with a twinkle in her eye.
Silly me, my initial reaction was that she was suggesting that my life might get tiresome. Then I realized she was offering herself up.
"I'd need some advance notice," she qualified. "I'd have to rest up and go to the gym." All I had to do was hand over my itinerary and she was going to live it and blog it for me.
It was a most intriguing idea, even if she would need me to plot it out for her. Someone pointed out that she'd have to modify her 9:00 bedtime to be me. That's the least of her worries, I might add.
Stop number two was the Virginia Center for Architecture for a screening of "Visual Acoustics: The Modernism of Julius Shulman."
Had I known who Julius Shulman was a month ago? No, but once a little research divulged that he was the premiere architectural photographer of the twentieth century, I was in and interested.
Because architectural photography is the primary means by which most people see a given building, it is hugely significant.
And the twentieth century was an optimistic time when architects believed they could change the world and the photographs of their work shaped the world's perceptions of the West Coast and that lifestyle.
The film was made before Shulman's death in 2009 (he was nearly 100!) so it included his ruminations, jokes, and thoughts as well as visits to some of the houses he had shot decades ago.
Sadly, post-modernism drove Shulman into retirement, but his photographs became invaluable for restoration projects of any number of modernist houses that had fallen into disrepair.
Eventually, his photographs were seen as fine art and he had gallery shows both here and abroad.
A fascinating observation made during the film was that "The houses in real life were not as beautiful as Julius' photographs."
From what was shown in the film, he clearly had a knack for picking the best possible angle of any given structure. Luckily, his legacy lives on in the archives of the Getty Museum in L.A.
Last, but not least, was dinner with a long-absent girlfriend at Pescado's China Street. She'd been traveling for work so much that it had been a month since our last rendezvous.
When I walked in it was after 8:30 and every table was taken, as was every bar stool. I'd never seen the place so crowded.
My friend had finally snagged a table after much waiting and our server immediately poured me a glass from her bottle of Santa Digna Sauvignon Blanc.
I didn't get too far into it before we were able to move to a couple of available stools and get settled in for some catching up.
Conch fritters made for a fine start and then I had the smoked Pacific marlin tostada with black beans, radish and roasted corn salsa.
While it qualified for "tall food" status, it was the trio of flavors; smokey fish, fresh corn salsa and hearty (and heart-healthy) black beans that got my taste buds singing.
My friend had the tetilla tamales of roasted chicken, masa, tetilla cheese, tomato/basil jalapeno sauce and cilantro aioli, which I had to taste because I'd never had them before.
Instead of the usual Latin music or reggae, we enjoyed a soulful mix tonight that even got our bartender busting a move at one point. Old-school soul certainly has stood the test of time well.
Co-owner Bob dropped by to talk restaurants and near West End development with us and we all got passionate about the possible demise of the Westhampton Theater. Now that would be a loss.
Eventually my friend went on to the delicious Los Cabos salad while I enjoyed the switch to Conde Villar Branco Vinho Verde, a fizzy little gem that was perfect given today's heat.
We were so busy catching up with one another that all of a sudden we looked up and the staff was putting chairs on top of tables. Oops, time to go.
And therein lies the challenge for my replacement. Sure, you can be me as long as you can hang until you've finished doing all the good stuff every night.
Only then is it okay to cut bait and go home and tell the world about it.
Well, except for the really good stuff, which doesn't happen nearly often enough, and that's what remains the great mystery.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Pouring the Glass Over My Head
My inner (and outer) nerd was dying a slow death of late.
Don't get me wrong, I love, nay, need to prolong my birthday celebration for as long as I possibly can, as long as friends are willing to fete me.
But enough is enough.
My brain was craving exercise.
Which is why I was eagerly anticipating tonight's documentary at the Virginia Center for Architecture; showing was "Modern Views: A Conversation on Northwest Modern Architecture" and a subject on which I knew nearly nothing.
The film covered the histories of five prominent Northwest modern architects and their vision of a clear, simple aesthetic with forms devoid of ornamentation and using new technologies.
Most of them were graduates of the University of Washington.
What I found fascinating generally was learning about a school of architectural design which I hadn't even known existed and specifically, learning of their insistence on integration with the environment, a unique feature of Northwest architecture.
Some of the most amusing scenes were old footage of an American Institute of Architects design competition with the renowned modernist Philip Johnson as one of the judges.
As he sat there with another judge perusing entries, he was brutal, tossing aside submission after submission with a witty dismissal indicating his disdain for the work.
Even the other judge had to laugh at his callousness at times; the man knew what he liked and eschewed the rest.
The period covered in the film was roughly from the 30s to the 50s and I thought it was interesting how, in their early quest for modernity, thebrash young Turks architects used flat rooves and big overhangs on their houses.
Eventually, they had to accept that in a region known for its wetness, a pitched roof is a necessity unless you want leaking and pooling problems.
After their aha! moment, they adjusted accordingly.
Perhaps most striking was how green and environmentally conscious these architects were fifty years ahead of their time.
In an area starved for natural light, they used window placement and solar panels; they were ahead of the curve in insisting on natural and local materials.
I may have been the only brain-dead one there, but the room was packed with architects, members of Modern Richmond and artsy types.
A local art gallery owner took the seat next to mine, so I had another art nerd with whom to chat before and after the screening.
We discussed the differences between the Main Street art crowd and the Broad Street crowd (my preference having been stated here previously).
I mentioned how much I liked the new Arts District banners now lining Broad.
The tallest man in the room (and possibly in the city tonight) took the seat directly in front of me, so I moved over a seat.
Fortunately another architect noticed his oblivious move and the surrounding short people and threatened to throw crackers at the back of his head if he didn't move to the back.
That made him my architectural hero for the evening.
And although my usual M.O. would have been to stop somewhere on the way home, I opted to bring my recently re-engaged mind home and enjoy some reading on the back porch instead.
I'd received a book as an unexpected birthday present today and I wanted the pleasure of a good read from a surprising source.
To make the warm evening even better, I was listening to music with references to a character from a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel.
You know, just in case I get lucky and find someone who wants to get all literary with me.
Another year older, another year just as foolishly optimistic.
Seriously, I will die with my glass half frickin' full.
But isn't that the way to go?
Don't get me wrong, I love, nay, need to prolong my birthday celebration for as long as I possibly can, as long as friends are willing to fete me.
But enough is enough.
My brain was craving exercise.
Which is why I was eagerly anticipating tonight's documentary at the Virginia Center for Architecture; showing was "Modern Views: A Conversation on Northwest Modern Architecture" and a subject on which I knew nearly nothing.
The film covered the histories of five prominent Northwest modern architects and their vision of a clear, simple aesthetic with forms devoid of ornamentation and using new technologies.
Most of them were graduates of the University of Washington.
What I found fascinating generally was learning about a school of architectural design which I hadn't even known existed and specifically, learning of their insistence on integration with the environment, a unique feature of Northwest architecture.
Some of the most amusing scenes were old footage of an American Institute of Architects design competition with the renowned modernist Philip Johnson as one of the judges.
As he sat there with another judge perusing entries, he was brutal, tossing aside submission after submission with a witty dismissal indicating his disdain for the work.
Even the other judge had to laugh at his callousness at times; the man knew what he liked and eschewed the rest.
The period covered in the film was roughly from the 30s to the 50s and I thought it was interesting how, in their early quest for modernity, the
Eventually, they had to accept that in a region known for its wetness, a pitched roof is a necessity unless you want leaking and pooling problems.
After their aha! moment, they adjusted accordingly.
Perhaps most striking was how green and environmentally conscious these architects were fifty years ahead of their time.
In an area starved for natural light, they used window placement and solar panels; they were ahead of the curve in insisting on natural and local materials.
I may have been the only brain-dead one there, but the room was packed with architects, members of Modern Richmond and artsy types.
A local art gallery owner took the seat next to mine, so I had another art nerd with whom to chat before and after the screening.
We discussed the differences between the Main Street art crowd and the Broad Street crowd (my preference having been stated here previously).
I mentioned how much I liked the new Arts District banners now lining Broad.
The tallest man in the room (and possibly in the city tonight) took the seat directly in front of me, so I moved over a seat.
Fortunately another architect noticed his oblivious move and the surrounding short people and threatened to throw crackers at the back of his head if he didn't move to the back.
That made him my architectural hero for the evening.
And although my usual M.O. would have been to stop somewhere on the way home, I opted to bring my recently re-engaged mind home and enjoy some reading on the back porch instead.
I'd received a book as an unexpected birthday present today and I wanted the pleasure of a good read from a surprising source.
To make the warm evening even better, I was listening to music with references to a character from a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel.
You know, just in case I get lucky and find someone who wants to get all literary with me.
Another year older, another year just as foolishly optimistic.
Seriously, I will die with my glass half frickin' full.
But isn't that the way to go?
Friday, April 15, 2011
Down the Rabbit Hole
Walking through that giant door at the Virginia Center for Architecture (aka the Branch House on Monument Avenue) always feels a bit like an Alice in Wonderland moment to me. Yes, I'm vertically-challenged but I think it would feel enormous to anyone because it is.
By the same token, standing in front of an 8 x 13 foot living wall feels a tad surreal, kind of like a house plant on steroids. Or maybe a flat Audrey ("Feed me...").
Tonight's opening was for "Vertical Gardens," a new show about green walls and green roofs and how they're now being embraced for their economical, environmental, and aesthetic values. Some of them were truly fantastical.
There was a private residence in Mumbai, which was essentially a residential tower inspired by the hanging gardens of Babylon. The core of the tower was living space with lush greenscapes growing around it on every floor and hanging off the edges. Serious money was clearly involved in this creation.
Considering that vertical gardens were "invented" in the late 80s, the exhibit made clear how much progress has been made with them in barely a quarter of a century. Rooftop gardens? Pshaw, old news.
I mean, even the Shake Shack in NYC's Madison Square Park has a green roof. Chicago's City Hall has one. But the truly impressive one was the Vancouver Convention Center, which sported a six-acre green roof.
The centerpiece of the exhibit was Edmundo Ortega's giant living wall made from hundreds of plants over the course of three days. I know that only because he was at the opening and willing to talk to anyone who asked about his creation. I loved how enthusiastic he was about creating these huge green walls for people.
When I left the opening, I drove down Park Avenue and spotted a farmer friend I hadn't seen in months in front of his apartment. Calling out to say hello, he looked at me like I'd grown horns.
"I've never seen you driving before. I don't think of you that way," he called uneasily from the sidewalk. I had no idea.
Not wanting to further destroy his illusions about me, I drove on to Six Burner, tonight the site of multiple large group gatherings, but with not a soul at the bar.
A "Washingtonian" magazine was suspiciously front and center at the end of the bar; I learned it was because of a mention of Six Burner in it (Chef Philip Denny's use of sous-vide made it worthy).
In an article about getaways, Richmond was the first suggested destination (come on, Picasso, of course). And, like every other out-of-town piece ever written about our fair city, Millie's was recommended. Yawn.
I look forward to the day when non-local writers can make RVA restaurant suggestions without mentioning Millie's. I'm pretty sure everyone on the east coast knows about Millie's by now...and no doubt mistakenly believes that it's our only (or best) restaurant.
Maron Cotes de Provence was considered the featured white (because, sadly, no one has a featured pink listing), so that was a no-brainer. Dinner, not that I needed it, was the duck confit, potato gnocchi, cocoa and blood orange sections.
I'm a gnocchi hound anyway, but put it with that decadent duck confit and I could see why the bitterness of the dusted cocoa was the right thing to do. Guilt should have come with every rich bite, but didn't.
Instead, I took my time savoring it, enjoying conversation with a rotating cast. On the chat table (bar?) were party tape mixes, slaughterhouse rules, where to eat in DC and new restaurant wars. I couldn't have asked for a better combination.
Unlike Alice, I didn't need anything labeled "Eat me" and "Drink me" for clarification. Although as usual, I may as well have been wearing a "Talk to me" sign.
Curious Satisfying how I manage to convey that without a label.
By the same token, standing in front of an 8 x 13 foot living wall feels a tad surreal, kind of like a house plant on steroids. Or maybe a flat Audrey ("Feed me...").
Tonight's opening was for "Vertical Gardens," a new show about green walls and green roofs and how they're now being embraced for their economical, environmental, and aesthetic values. Some of them were truly fantastical.
There was a private residence in Mumbai, which was essentially a residential tower inspired by the hanging gardens of Babylon. The core of the tower was living space with lush greenscapes growing around it on every floor and hanging off the edges. Serious money was clearly involved in this creation.
Considering that vertical gardens were "invented" in the late 80s, the exhibit made clear how much progress has been made with them in barely a quarter of a century. Rooftop gardens? Pshaw, old news.
I mean, even the Shake Shack in NYC's Madison Square Park has a green roof. Chicago's City Hall has one. But the truly impressive one was the Vancouver Convention Center, which sported a six-acre green roof.
The centerpiece of the exhibit was Edmundo Ortega's giant living wall made from hundreds of plants over the course of three days. I know that only because he was at the opening and willing to talk to anyone who asked about his creation. I loved how enthusiastic he was about creating these huge green walls for people.
When I left the opening, I drove down Park Avenue and spotted a farmer friend I hadn't seen in months in front of his apartment. Calling out to say hello, he looked at me like I'd grown horns.
"I've never seen you driving before. I don't think of you that way," he called uneasily from the sidewalk. I had no idea.
Not wanting to further destroy his illusions about me, I drove on to Six Burner, tonight the site of multiple large group gatherings, but with not a soul at the bar.
A "Washingtonian" magazine was suspiciously front and center at the end of the bar; I learned it was because of a mention of Six Burner in it (Chef Philip Denny's use of sous-vide made it worthy).
In an article about getaways, Richmond was the first suggested destination (come on, Picasso, of course). And, like every other out-of-town piece ever written about our fair city, Millie's was recommended. Yawn.
I look forward to the day when non-local writers can make RVA restaurant suggestions without mentioning Millie's. I'm pretty sure everyone on the east coast knows about Millie's by now...and no doubt mistakenly believes that it's our only (or best) restaurant.
Maron Cotes de Provence was considered the featured white (because, sadly, no one has a featured pink listing), so that was a no-brainer. Dinner, not that I needed it, was the duck confit, potato gnocchi, cocoa and blood orange sections.
I'm a gnocchi hound anyway, but put it with that decadent duck confit and I could see why the bitterness of the dusted cocoa was the right thing to do. Guilt should have come with every rich bite, but didn't.
Instead, I took my time savoring it, enjoying conversation with a rotating cast. On the chat table (bar?) were party tape mixes, slaughterhouse rules, where to eat in DC and new restaurant wars. I couldn't have asked for a better combination.
Unlike Alice, I didn't need anything labeled "Eat me" and "Drink me" for clarification. Although as usual, I may as well have been wearing a "Talk to me" sign.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
As Long As I Don't Have to Actually Knit
If I want to be surrounded by men, all I have to do is go to a lecture at the Virginia Center for Architecture. Not that that's why I went tonight. Or not entirely anyway.
Actually the topic was what drew me to the Branch House tonight. "A Ruin Revealed: Rosewell" was about the 18th century Gloucester County mansion that I had never even heard of before the opening of the "American Ruins" photography exhibition currently at the VCA.
Oh, sure, I knew about the Barboursville ruins (always a pleasant side trip after some wine tasting), but Rosewell not so much. Clearly a lesson was in order.
Architectural historian Mark Wenger provided the history as well as future plans for this three-story brick mansion with the three and a half foot thick brick walls. This house that Thomas Jefferson frequently visited (even writing a rough draft of the Declaration of Independence there).
A house with 450,000 bricks in it. One that took three miles of forest to procure the lumber for the floorboards alone. Because it took a decade to be built, owner Mann Page was dead five years before its completion, drat the luck.
It was a fire in 1916 that destroyed all but the east wall, parts of the other walls, the four chimneys and the wine cellar. Wenger said efforts are underway to stabilize what's left for the sake of further research and for future generations.
As far as I'm concerned, I now have to see Rosewell. I want to stand on the banks of the York River and admire the surviving wine cellar and imagine the grand parties the house once hosted. Fortunately, the ruins are still open to the public...for now. Road trip?
At the reception afterwards (after being warned to keep the red wine in the social room for fear of spillage), I had the pleasure of being approached by several attendees, all of whom asked what my interest in the lecture was (was this a quiz?). Sheer nerdiness? Curiosity about history? I didn't have any easy answers, but I got lots of great conversation from strangers.
A stop at Black Sheep on the way home for dessert and wine, and to chat up a friend I hadn't seen in a while was in order. I timed it right so things were winding down.
I took a seat next to two girls trying to finish their battleships and somehow we ended up in conversation when they asked for a dessert menu and I shared mine before their server could return with one.
Not wanting to influence their dessert choice, I waited till they'd ordered and my LaBrea tarpit (chocolate creme brulee) arrived before offering them bites of mine, insisting they take an animal cracker and scoop out some chocolate for each of them to taste.
They loved it, just like I knew they would and from then on we were fast friends. They said my dessert acumen meant they should ask about my favorite restaurants.
That led to a discussion of all kinds of eating out, covering even Fredericksbug since they'd gone to school at Mary Washington (which also led to a wonderful discussion of the satisfaction of driving Route 301; they were kindred souls on that subject).
By the time they got up to leave, my friend had finished her shift so she sat down to eat and catch up. The radio was set to slacker.com, so the music was terrific (The XX, Smashing Pumpkins, Andrew Bird) and just the right volume now that all the customers were gone. We talked about customers with unrealistic expectations of small restaurants and how to address that.
She brought up RVA's love affair with brunch ("People will wait an hour and half and then order scrambled eggs and a biscuit. I don't get it."). We tried to understand why Richmonders are averse to community eating and California and Europe are not. And who decides to proclaim that a restaurant kid-friendly?
By the time my Guintrady Cote du Rhone Grenache blend was gone, we had talked and talked but hadn't solved all the issues on the table.
"We need to have a knitting circle with restaurant people and just talk about this stuff," she said. "You have to be there."
But I'm not a restaurant person, I told her. "Oh yes you are," she objected.
Will there be chocolate and wine?
Actually the topic was what drew me to the Branch House tonight. "A Ruin Revealed: Rosewell" was about the 18th century Gloucester County mansion that I had never even heard of before the opening of the "American Ruins" photography exhibition currently at the VCA.
Oh, sure, I knew about the Barboursville ruins (always a pleasant side trip after some wine tasting), but Rosewell not so much. Clearly a lesson was in order.
Architectural historian Mark Wenger provided the history as well as future plans for this three-story brick mansion with the three and a half foot thick brick walls. This house that Thomas Jefferson frequently visited (even writing a rough draft of the Declaration of Independence there).
A house with 450,000 bricks in it. One that took three miles of forest to procure the lumber for the floorboards alone. Because it took a decade to be built, owner Mann Page was dead five years before its completion, drat the luck.
It was a fire in 1916 that destroyed all but the east wall, parts of the other walls, the four chimneys and the wine cellar. Wenger said efforts are underway to stabilize what's left for the sake of further research and for future generations.
As far as I'm concerned, I now have to see Rosewell. I want to stand on the banks of the York River and admire the surviving wine cellar and imagine the grand parties the house once hosted. Fortunately, the ruins are still open to the public...for now. Road trip?
At the reception afterwards (after being warned to keep the red wine in the social room for fear of spillage), I had the pleasure of being approached by several attendees, all of whom asked what my interest in the lecture was (was this a quiz?). Sheer nerdiness? Curiosity about history? I didn't have any easy answers, but I got lots of great conversation from strangers.
A stop at Black Sheep on the way home for dessert and wine, and to chat up a friend I hadn't seen in a while was in order. I timed it right so things were winding down.
I took a seat next to two girls trying to finish their battleships and somehow we ended up in conversation when they asked for a dessert menu and I shared mine before their server could return with one.
Not wanting to influence their dessert choice, I waited till they'd ordered and my LaBrea tarpit (chocolate creme brulee) arrived before offering them bites of mine, insisting they take an animal cracker and scoop out some chocolate for each of them to taste.
They loved it, just like I knew they would and from then on we were fast friends. They said my dessert acumen meant they should ask about my favorite restaurants.
That led to a discussion of all kinds of eating out, covering even Fredericksbug since they'd gone to school at Mary Washington (which also led to a wonderful discussion of the satisfaction of driving Route 301; they were kindred souls on that subject).
By the time they got up to leave, my friend had finished her shift so she sat down to eat and catch up. The radio was set to slacker.com, so the music was terrific (The XX, Smashing Pumpkins, Andrew Bird) and just the right volume now that all the customers were gone. We talked about customers with unrealistic expectations of small restaurants and how to address that.
She brought up RVA's love affair with brunch ("People will wait an hour and half and then order scrambled eggs and a biscuit. I don't get it."). We tried to understand why Richmonders are averse to community eating and California and Europe are not. And who decides to proclaim that a restaurant kid-friendly?
By the time my Guintrady Cote du Rhone Grenache blend was gone, we had talked and talked but hadn't solved all the issues on the table.
"We need to have a knitting circle with restaurant people and just talk about this stuff," she said. "You have to be there."
But I'm not a restaurant person, I told her. "Oh yes you are," she objected.
Will there be chocolate and wine?
Friday, June 18, 2010
Still Running with Scissors
In my never-ending quest to check out the new and interesting in RVA, I went to the Off the Wall: Intersections of Art and Architecture opening tonight at the Virginia Center for Architecture.
Barboursville Winery was doing the pouring (always a good thing) so the crowd sipped as we investigated the new exhibit.
Because of the shift in how people view public art over the past forty or so years, there has been a change in what is being created and the line between art and architecture has blurred; artistic conventions have been questioned, resulting in a melding of the two.
From public squares to playgrounds, the exhibit showed how we've come to see architecture as art.
"Your Black Horizon Art Pavilion" was a fascinating installation consisting of a slotted entrance (overlooking water) to a pavilion which created patterns of natural light through which a visitor walks in order to get to the black box where a band of light mimicked the rhythms of the natural light patterns.
The art and architecture were read as one element. and it was very cool.
My other favorite was a proposal for last year's InLight exhibition.
Called "Tree Wraith," it appeared to be the shadow of a tree on the facade of the Greater Richmond Convention Center.
Solar cells delineated the tree and were used to collect energy during the day and emit it at night.
The name comes from the fact that an actual tree could not grow in this spot up against the building; in some ways, it suggested a memory of the trees lost to the construction of the convention center.
I wish it had been executed because it added a humanistic element to that behemoth of a building on Broad Street.
Afterwards, I met up with a a friend and we walked over to Bistro 27 for a meal because she had a craving for their calamari with polenta.
A handsome nearby barsitter was eating a Caesar salad with grilled shrimp and it looked so appealing (as did he) that I ordered it.
It's not something I ever order, as evidenced by Dave bringing it over and setting it down in front of my friend.
When we pointed out the mix-up, he glared at me. "Since when do you order a salad for dinner?"
Never, I had to admit, but that doesn't mean that I can't change things up occasionally. It happens.
Our primary purpose in getting together had been to hear live music at Six Burner tonight and we weren't the only ones.
My bar stool of choice was occupied when we arrived, so we made do with a table until the bar cleared out some and then moved over, the better to chat with the staff and not be blown out by the speakers.
Bartender Josh delivered the CDs he'd promised me last weekend, told me why I'd like them and guaranteed a good show.
The crowd started out noisy, chatting over opener Kevin, but quieting down for singer/songwriter Eric Manwiller; he had an excellent singing voice which seemed to capture the audience's attention, even with all the beer being poured.
Favorite lyric: "I ain't running with scissors no more."
Personally, I haven't made that commitment yet (perhaps that's part of my problem).
But Josh, Eric's producer, had been right on the money about this guy and we couldn't resist leaving with the CD.
We made one final stop at Balliceaux because Amazing Ghost was playing and they never disappoint.
I'm happy to say we arrived in time to hear them cover "Born in the USA" and while it's a few days past Flag Day, it was rousing (and unexpected) nonetheless.
As usual, the audience was full of local musicians, so there were plenty of interesting people to talk to, even if my favorite bartender was absent (but then I knew he would be).
From tree wraiths to the Boss in eight hours. What a strange, full evening it's been.
Barboursville Winery was doing the pouring (always a good thing) so the crowd sipped as we investigated the new exhibit.
Because of the shift in how people view public art over the past forty or so years, there has been a change in what is being created and the line between art and architecture has blurred; artistic conventions have been questioned, resulting in a melding of the two.
From public squares to playgrounds, the exhibit showed how we've come to see architecture as art.
"Your Black Horizon Art Pavilion" was a fascinating installation consisting of a slotted entrance (overlooking water) to a pavilion which created patterns of natural light through which a visitor walks in order to get to the black box where a band of light mimicked the rhythms of the natural light patterns.
The art and architecture were read as one element. and it was very cool.
My other favorite was a proposal for last year's InLight exhibition.
Called "Tree Wraith," it appeared to be the shadow of a tree on the facade of the Greater Richmond Convention Center.
Solar cells delineated the tree and were used to collect energy during the day and emit it at night.
The name comes from the fact that an actual tree could not grow in this spot up against the building; in some ways, it suggested a memory of the trees lost to the construction of the convention center.
I wish it had been executed because it added a humanistic element to that behemoth of a building on Broad Street.
Afterwards, I met up with a a friend and we walked over to Bistro 27 for a meal because she had a craving for their calamari with polenta.
A handsome nearby barsitter was eating a Caesar salad with grilled shrimp and it looked so appealing (as did he) that I ordered it.
It's not something I ever order, as evidenced by Dave bringing it over and setting it down in front of my friend.
When we pointed out the mix-up, he glared at me. "Since when do you order a salad for dinner?"
Never, I had to admit, but that doesn't mean that I can't change things up occasionally. It happens.
Our primary purpose in getting together had been to hear live music at Six Burner tonight and we weren't the only ones.
My bar stool of choice was occupied when we arrived, so we made do with a table until the bar cleared out some and then moved over, the better to chat with the staff and not be blown out by the speakers.
Bartender Josh delivered the CDs he'd promised me last weekend, told me why I'd like them and guaranteed a good show.
The crowd started out noisy, chatting over opener Kevin, but quieting down for singer/songwriter Eric Manwiller; he had an excellent singing voice which seemed to capture the audience's attention, even with all the beer being poured.
Favorite lyric: "I ain't running with scissors no more."
Personally, I haven't made that commitment yet (perhaps that's part of my problem).
But Josh, Eric's producer, had been right on the money about this guy and we couldn't resist leaving with the CD.
We made one final stop at Balliceaux because Amazing Ghost was playing and they never disappoint.
I'm happy to say we arrived in time to hear them cover "Born in the USA" and while it's a few days past Flag Day, it was rousing (and unexpected) nonetheless.
As usual, the audience was full of local musicians, so there were plenty of interesting people to talk to, even if my favorite bartender was absent (but then I knew he would be).
From tree wraiths to the Boss in eight hours. What a strange, full evening it's been.
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