But Is It Art?

"You're not going to see the bedpans?"a friend asked as I walked past her car on my way to Tompkins-McCaw Library.

Of course I was, I told her, and wasn't she?

"I'd rather read about it on your blog," she said diplomatically.

Not me; I wanted to see the photographs and objects themselves.

After all, how many bedpan exhibits can I hope to see in my lifetime?

"Bedpan Elegance: Celebrating the Beauty of an Everyday Object" included not only thirty large-format photographs of bedpans, but also the Tompkins-McCaw Library's collection of bedpans.

And I don't want to brag, but in addition to the beauties displayed out front, I was taken into the back room to see those that had not made the cut and were sitting forlornly on a cart.

I chatted with the artist William Dubois (Billy) who acquired his first bedpan in 1977 for fifty cents.

Since then he's added five dozen or so antique and contemporary bed pans and urinals to his collection.

Some of them hang in the bathrooms of his home; the guest bathroom has the female urinals lined up along the door.

Now that's a place I'd like to relieve myself.

There was so much to learn about bedpans from the big, beautiful photographs Dubois had taken.

Perfection #1 was patented in June 1900.

The Blue Speckle Relax model reminded me of my mother's turkey roasting pan. 

The Ideal Boots model was labeled a "Bed and Douche Slipper."

The English Slipper had instructions scripted inside: "Slipper should be put under the patient and between the legs."

I'll leave the rest to the imagination.

Despite the number of colorful bedpans (dark blue, coarse brown, smooth gold, caramel, chocolate), along about the 19th century, the medical community realized that patients expected  bright white sterile-looking surroundings in hospital settings and were perhaps jarred to see decorative patterns on such unsavory items.

And yet, current models are pink injection-molded plastic. Go figure.

Leaving the exhibit (which runs until June 30) with visions of ceramic and porcelain bed pans and urinals (including a feminine urinal that closely resembled a teapot) in my head, I knew there'd be no way to top such an uncomfortably fascinating exhibit any time soon.

But there was more art to be had.

Ghostprint Gallery was doing their monthly preview (my favorite way to really see a show sans the First Friday mob scene) and Adam Juresko's new show "Tomorrow Will Be Worse" was full of pictorial and graphic images with a sly humor to them.

The dozens of framed 8 x 10" mixed media pieces showed Juresko's knack for combining vintage print images with bold text to convey an entirely different meaning.

Although I already own a Juresko, I was very tempted to buy another because these were so different.

I went up to the artist and asked him why I should buy another of his pieces when I already had one and, in his understated way, he confirmed that these were different enough to warrant it.

So we were in agreement on that.

There were a bunch of good people to talk to while I was there - the sculptor, the labor organizer, the print maker, the tattoo artist, the gallery owner.

One of the many pleasures of the public previews is actually being able to have a conversation of substance when you run into someone.

Well, that and getting first crack at buying the art, no small benefit at a show where the art is so affordably priced.

I walked out with one of the pieces, leaving a gap in the display, but that's also part of the plan for the exhibit.

It's a conceptual piece, don't you know.

Secco was next and I walked in to find a full bar, but a favorite chef at the end of the bar and motioning me toward him and a friend.

I gave him a European-style kiss, leaving lip prints on both cheeks which he refused to remove, despite having to leave for the airport shortly to collect a friend ("He will say, 'Ooh, I like Richmond! I want to stay!' when he sees this.").

Luckily for me, he was on a boys' night out excursion, so he left behind a friend to entertain me.

Oh, boy, stranger conversation!

A wine recommendation from the master led me to Domaine Henry Pelle Menetou-Salon Morogues.

Meanwhile I ordered the housemade salt cod, roasted red bliss potatoes, and fried leeks in an olive oil emulsion.

I shared one bite of this succulent fish with the stranger, but only because he'd shared a bite of his grilled scallops and mushrooms first.

I mean, fair is fair.

Besides, I'd learned that he was a Jackson-Ward homesteader, having bought into my beloved 'hood back in the 80s.

That's like catnip to J-Ward Girl, as were his stories of Crossroads, my neighborhood hangout.

It was amazing how many of the same people we know in this town, but we also moved to Richmond just about the same time.

Dessert was stinky cheese, this time the bleu d'Auvergne, a briny, piney and creamy delight of the type which, had I been on a date, we both would have had to have eaten it to make it a fair fight.

Or a fair whatever.

I finished out my night chatting up a storm with Secco's queen, Julia, and ogling the Restaurant Week menu.

In fact, we were so busy talking about the juicy stuff that I didn't even remember to tell her about the urinals I'd seen.

Come to think of it,  maybe she'd rather just read about it on the blog, too.

Not everybody needs to actually see a Perfection #2 (the most comfortable bedpan in the world).

For whatever reason, I do.

Judge away.

So You Think You Know Me? Okay, You Do.

What I don't know if my friends even realize is that it's not the gifts they give that I truly appreciate (although of course I do), it's what their gifts say to me about how they see me that is my favorite part.

A friend gave me two tickets to any production at Barksdale. Upon seeing the two, I made a joke about such optimism (like I'm going to be able to scare up a date for the theater?). "Well, you'd be just as happy seeing two plays by yourself anyway," she said. "So shut up." Nothing I can say to that argument.

From a long-time friend I got a gift certificate to Chop Suey. Since you get to choose the paperback cover that the gift certificate comes on, she'd specifically chosen Dickens' Hard Times, knowing I'd get a kick out of the reference.

After all the conversations we've had about my hard times of the past two years, it felt like an inside joke. Besides, she assured me that 2011 will be much better for me and I believe her. They don't call me Pollyanna for nothing.

As much as I love collecting local art, I couldn't have been more thrilled to receive a piece by a a little known Richmond calligrapher from a friend. I told him that for me, the true pleasure comes with deciding where to hang it. Maybe near the Adam Juresko? Or over the Chris Milk Hulbert? This may take an enjoyable while, deciding where its place of honor will be.

Then there was one of my favorite musicians and conversationalists, who gave me a digital holiday present, an end-of-the-year mix featuring some of his favorite music of 2010 and a brand new song of his. I wasn't surprised at Spoon or The Books (he knows I will always give him crap for going to see The Books without me), but Benoit Pioulard and Marni Stern? Be still my musical heart.

One of my very favorite people in the entire world gave me a book called Bad Girls: The Most Powerful, Shocking, Amazing, Thrilling and Dangerous Women of All Time. As a huge fan of non-fiction, I know it'll be right up my alley. Even better was the inscription:

To my favorite "bad girl" - Keep up the good work! Love you with all my heart!

That's the kind of Christmas gift that makes a girl feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Even a bad girl.

Six Hours, Six Stops

The cancellation of February's First Friday Art walk because of the weekly weekend storm meant that it didn't take much to get me gallery-hopping tonight.

Adding in a few other activities, I planned an evening that began in Carytown, swung through the Fan then up to Church Hill and ended back a half mile from my house.

Tres convenient.

Any good Friday evening starts with a wine tasting and tonight River City Cellars was also doing a (Gearhart's) chocolate tasting in honor of St. Valentine's Day.

The place was packed, but I needed a bottle of wine for an upcoming dinner, so it wasn't just about quaffing wine and scarfing good chocolate.

Okay, it was mostly about that, but they were pouring, among others, the Innocent Bystander Pink Moscato, which paired divinely with the dark chocolate.

I got the wine I came for and a little of those heavenly Charlottesville-made chocolates.

At Chop Suey, I checked out Adam Juresko's latest show, "Flight of the Rat."

As an added attraction, Adam had also painted a mural on the wall of the staircase leading up to the second floor, which added some personality to the trip upstairs.

I already own one of his works and I was curious to see how the new work differed from what I had.

As always, he'd found fresh imagery to use throughout his collages; he may be eccentric, but the work is always interesting.

And then for something completely different, I went to Glave-Kocen Gallery on Main Street to see the "Click" Invitation Photography exhibit, showcasing local photographers like Scott Elmquist, Jay Paul and Ash Daniel.

The problem was navigating the gallery: clearly this was a see-and-be-seen event and chatty, well-dressed cliques impeded the progress of those of us there to actually see the photographs, some of which were well worth seeing.

By the time I'd finished looking at everything, I couldn't wait to escape that crowd.

Starving by now, I stopped at Pie for pizza and was greeted by the owner.

My first choice, the Cured Meat pie (garlic, Fontina, mozzarella and soprasetta) was sold out, so I ordered it with sausage instead of soprasetta.

There was some mis-communication, though, because I got a red, not white pizza, but the red sauce was so thinly spread that even I couldn't object.

The thickly sliced sausage was excellent and more than made up for the tomato presence.

And best of all, a nearby table was discussing a local food blogger's rants. Delicious!

Then I drove up the big hill to Eric Schindler Gallery for "z-black series," acrylic paintings by Scott Phillips.

The man wields paint densely and color lavishly.

There was a sense of vibrancy in his brushstrokes that made every object, every sky, everything undulate, almost van Gogh-like.

I fell particularly hard for probably the least colorful painting in the show, but unfortunately, although well-priced, it just wasn't in my budget.

My final stop of the evening was at Ipanema for some wine and girl talk; my friend had suggested I come by so that we could dish about her work life (crushing at the moment) and my social life (having a really good time lately).

She kindly pointed out that it was way more satisfying to hear about what I was up to face to face rather than just reading it on the blog, especially for the edited material.

And lest I make it sound like all we did was gab, we did discuss my local art collection; like me, she appreciates how much talent there is in this town.

So it wasn't a true First Friday since there was driving involved and I'd never have seen that Glave-Kocen crowd in J-Ward, but tonight had all the components of an art-driven evening with enough wine, food and conversation to keep me from complete art immersion.

Not that that's necessarily a bad thing, but a Friday night calls for considerably more, especially for us innocent bystander types.

Of Readers, Drum Circles and Guerilla Art Shows

Not that I ever need an excuse to buy local art, but given the beautiful September weather, how could I resist a trip to Byrd Park for the Guerrilla Art show Terry Rea was hosting this afternoon?

When my dog and I arrived, Barker Field was crawling with canines so there was no shortage of company for him to play with.

And at the ripe old age of 14 and being a beagle, he really just wants to sniff and mark territory anyway.

As we strolled past the Dogwood Dell stage, I noticed a guy sitting on the edge of the stage reading a book.

Why hadn't I ever seen the potential of this excellent reading spot before?

Duly noted; I'll be back with my book.

By now we were hearing the sounds of the drum circle nearby.

Multiple drummers and a flutist were providing the accompaniment for hula dancers and anyone else moved by the music.

They had a prime space under a huge old shade tree not far from the stage.

It's clearly a very popular gathering; drummers were still joining the group over an hour later when the beagle and i finally left.

When we arrived at the Ha'Penny stage, it was alive with art: paintings, prints, posters, and ceramics.

Next to it, a man was carving the most beautiful walking sticks and he tried to talk me into one, but I'm still getting around fine on these two legs.

I took my time perusing Terry Rea's offerings because I've been wanting to add one of his pieces to my collection for a while.

I've known Terry for a decade at least; our relationship goes back to when I was an editor and he was writing for us.

Then there's also a fair number of conversational nights at the Bean in our shared history.

Terry is a walking encyclopedia of RVA and has had his hand in many pots over the years, so I always enjoyed being an audience for his stories.

After much vacillating, I finally chose an original piece called "Zism," which I plan to have framed and hang in the same room with my Brandon Peck and Adam Juresko.

It's about time I added some old-school local artistry to my walls.

It makes me happy that it's Terry who will provide the representation.