An Inventory of My Night

According to the artist, if there's not wine, he's not interested.

So I knew that I'd find an abundance of grape at the Anderson Gallery for Myron Helfgott's talk about his retrospective, "An Inventory of My Thoughts."

The audience was a who's who of Richmond's art scene of the past 40 years along with all of us Johnny-come-latelys who'd met Myron since the turn of the last century.

As if to prove the point, gallerist Ashley began by announcing that although it's not usually the Anderson's policy to allow wine in the downstairs galleries, "This is Myron Helfgott!"

'Nuff said.

Myron began the talk by saying that his daughter had called, not to check on what he'd be saying at the talk, but to question what he was wearing. When he told her, she asked if those were the pants that were too short and if so, to wear matching socks. He had.

Are there any straight men alive who can dress themselves properly?

"I rarely go to gallery talks," Myron went on, "Because they're so damn boring. So if you decide to leave in the middle of my talk, feel good about it. If there's nothing you can steal from my lecture, see you later!"

That's his charm. It may sound like humor but Myron really means it.

From there, he went on in his typical irascible way to say that people use the word "beauty" when they mean pretty and "form" only to refer to three dimensional objects. And don't get him started on "composition" in art.

"I don't care if it looks like crap. I want it to be powerful!" That led into an analogy about New Yorker theater critic John Lahr (son of Cowardly Lion Bert Lahr) and his book "Astonish Me" about going to the theater expecting to be dazzled.

Myron saw a parallel. "We ought to demand to be astonished at art shows," he insisted. "Unless there's free wine." He was kidding, of course. Sort of.

"You, the viewer, should have to work to make art whole. You should learn something from the piece."

His tangent about Cezanne was brilliant, explaining how the master's works were meant to reveal themselves  slowly over a lifetime, not immediately. He likened it to his own process. If he likes a piece the minute he finishes it, he destroys it. If he doesn't then but still likes it 3 weeks later, it may be a keeper.

Citing his influences as literature and music, he name-checked Nabokov' "The Gift" (I thought I'd read all of Nabokov's work, but apparently not) as his favorite because criticism of the book is woven into the body of the work.

Myron had tried to accomplish this once, providing his own criticism of his work for a friend's wife to read as part of the work. She refused because the wording was so unkind.

No one is harder on himself than Myron is on his work and that's the way he likes it.

Listening to his talk was really no different than having a conversation with him - something I've done many times - except that he was dressed better and had on a microphone.

His strong intellect, self-deprecating humor and crotchety personality were the perfect addition to a gallery full of his work, including three busts on a pedestal behind him silently keeping watch over him.

Because he's Myron, he finished with a Jessie Ventura quote ("Win if you can, lose if you must, but always cheat") and dismissed us all to go downstairs and drink wine with him.

Had he even noticed that no one had walked out on his talk despite his permission to do so? Probably not.

I've been in the Anderson plenty of times but always playing by the rules, so it was different to be sipping in the gallery as people mingled and admired the work.

There were lots of familiar faces - the glamorous artist who's about to celebrate her one year elope-aversary, the painter who recently friended me on Facebook 15 years after we met, the photographer who'd had a beer in the car on the way over, the dean who was smiling from the gallery's wall in a photograph of Myron's, the globe-trotting musician who'd been at my house yesterday - milling about and, yes, sipping wine in his honor.

The man himself sat at a table signing copies of the exhibition's catalog, his cup of red wine within easy reach. When I handed him my copy of the gorgeous book, he threatened to sign it, "From one old codger to another," but thought better of it.

I told him all I wanted was for him to astonish me. He did and I bade him and his short pants farewell.

Of all the unlikely places for me to head next, I was going to a dinner party in the condo directly underneath Myron's studio/condo in Carver. Complete coincidence.

While not as large as his unit, the condo was spectacular, with 11-foot carved wooden doors, a record collection display rack and the same impressively deep windows.

Hosted by a musician who used to run track, the party was small enough that I could remember the other guests' names from the first introduction.

The delicious smell emanating from the oven was courtesy of the host's Puerto Rican mother's recipe, a classic we were told Mom had always served for Thanksgiving.

Just as inviting was the music, starting with "Somethin' Else," a seminal Blue Note album of Cannonball Adderley's featuring Miles Davis as a sideman. In the high-ceilinged condo, the warm sound of jazz on vinyl set the party tone in a way that no digital recording could ever do.

Wine was poured as people got to know each other, eventually even talking about things they were working on. I admit to being fascinated to hear about one involving collecting oral histories, much the way the WPA did during FDR's tenure, in this case about school integration in Chesterfield County.

Two of us who try to do as little cooking as possible bonded over how we'd both unexpectedly made pots of stew and chili during last week's snow.

While we were all chatting and munching on guacamole scooped up with Red Hot Blues, our host slipped out to run across the street to Kroger for a forgotten herb, back before we'd even finished our first glasses of vino.

Shortly thereafter, a voice from the kitchen called out, polling us all, asking, "Internal temperature for chicken, 170, right?" which launched a discussion of meat thermometers, something only the host and I had ever bothered to use. Everyone else admitted to being afraid of them or at least too unsure to know what to do with them.

Half a dozen candles adorned the table when we sat down to dinner about 9:30, everyone pleasantly lubricated and far more comfortable with (and knowledgeable about) the others than when we'd arrived.

Only the host and I coveted the dark meat (fine with me, more for us), but everyone loved the herbed vegetables that had been cooked along with the yard bird: carrots, parsnips, onions, turnips, you know, all the usual Puerto Rican suspects to sauce up the fowl and rice.

The dark bread for tonight's meal had come from Sub Rosa and our host explained that it was the house custom to truly "break bread," that is, not to cut it into slices, but to tear off hunks and the bread lover in me appreciated the primal nature of this method.

While we devoured multiple plates of food, the high school teacher regaled us with stories of prom-planning ("There's an all-night after-party to keep them from drinking and fornicating") and student Halloween costumes (her favorite was the fuzzy bunny from "Donny Darko").

Everyone except me was a rabid podcast listener (Mr. Fine Wine is my sole podcast and that's just music), with raves for "Love and Radio" and thumbs down for a bro-centric edition of "StarTalk" with Seth Meyers.

Dessert was twofold: flourless dark chocolate bourbon brownies were homemade and the other treat came in a white bag from Williamsburg's Black Bird Bakery. Dubbed "toffee cinder blocks," two bricks of honeycomb-like toffee were covered in a thick coat of the darkest chocolate, stuck one on top of the other at an angle.

It came close to astonishing me.

We immediately discerned that there was no good way to cut into this without shattering the toffee, so the Williamsburger began breaking off pieces with her bare hands, Sub Rosa-style. It was completely unique, sort of a giant piece of candy being shared as dessert.

One of the guests who'd learned enough about me to know a little, said, "At least you got to taste something new to you tonight."

Lingering over bits of chocolate and wine, we realized that hours had passed and for some people, it was a school night.

Even the lure of more wine didn't win them over. All I can say is, they're no Myron. But then, who is?

What Will Be, Will Be

Let's spend Friday night looking at life, shall we?

In the case of the Anderson Gallery's new exhibit "Myron Helfgott: An Inventory of My Thoughts," it was a wide-ranging retrospective covering the 45-year artistic career of one of my favorite curmudgeons. I can say that because I've known Myron for 15 years and besides, he'd say it about himself.

Despite the multiple hours and afternoons spent in his studio interviewing him for my profile, here, in Style Weekly, I'd only seen a fraction of the work that made it into the show. So tonight's three-level exhibit was as much a surprise to me as to the rest of the world.

In 1971's "Salute," hands cast in lead were captured in a box with a lead flag on top. Lead, so different a material than the plywood and paper pieces he's been creating the past few years. Pieces such as "Windows" from 2013, a segmented view of the Kroger parking lot from his condo.

I was captivated by "We Share the Same Interests," a mixed media piece from 1981-82, comprised of a metal figure of a woman that Myron had taken all around town - Monument Avenue, MCV, VMFA - and had himself photographed with. The dated photos were part of the piece and provided a glimpse into Myron long before I met him in 2000.

Immediately recognizable was "Waterfall after Duchamp" from 1990 because it had been in the foyer of his condo when I'd first interviewed him. Here the motorized waterfall took its place among the many pieces powered by small motors.

"33 years and 6 months" was another lead piece, this one from 1970, showing a pair of men's underwear. "Don't look at that too long. People will talk!" a man stage-whispered in my ear as I gazed at it.

Listening to reactions from the ever-growing crowd, I overheard, "Phenomenal work" and "This is the shit, man. The shit!" High praise, indeed.

I went through all three floors of Myron's art twice, knowing full well I'll need to come back when the crowds are gone to enjoy it all without the socializing distractions. And they were many tonight, with all that old '70s VCU art crowd in attendance.

When I finally made it back to the tent, there was Myron, wine in hand, holding court. He pinched my cheek, he hugged me and he thanked me profusely for my article, especially thrilled that I hadn't talked about his work.

Who needs to try to describe astonishing art when there's a crabby old man with a lifetime's worth of opinions to share instead? Not that the work doesn't tell an amazing story of a man who never stopped evolving, but anyone with eyes can see that.

People were still pouring in to the gallery when I left to meet my theater date for dinner at Bistro 27, finding him at the bar with a Cosmopolitan in hand. The hostess raved about how cute my tights were and seated us with a great view of Adams Street. I kept my meal simple - Caesar salad with grilled shrimp - to offset a decadent chocolate torte for dessert.

Over dinner, we covered the multiple months' worth of life that had happened since we'd last gone to a play together. We compared notes on "Mame," made plans to see "Sister Act," exchanged Christmas vacation trip stories and restaurant gossip. Then we high-tailed it to Richmond Triangle Players for another kind of look at life.

It was opening night for 5th Wall's production of "The Lyons," a black comedy I'd first seen a sample of at the 5th Wall preview party last August. Even that snippet had been enough to see the potential of the play about nothing more than family relations, which is to say, everything.

But what a family! In a magnificent brown curly wig, Jacqueline Jones chewed up the scenery and spit it out as Rita, the matriarch of the Lyons family. This is an actress I've seen in all kinds of roles and never have I seen her so completely inhabit a character. She will be undoubtedly be honored come awards time next year for this part.

When her dying husband (the always excellent Alan Sader) muses that he may go to hell, she shoots him down succinctly. "What have you ever done to go to Hell? Who are you?" Nobody in this family seems to have a kind word for anyone.

The first act was mesmerizing as the parents had their adult children (a gay writer and recovering alcoholic mother with two kids) come to the hospital room to learn that their father was dying. Despite the seriousness of it, the family immediately devolves into bickering and bringing up old family issues. Meanwhile, Rita peruses decorating magazines, planning to redo their tawdry living room once husband Ben is dead.

No one feels comfortable when they're intimate. 
Your mother used to vomit a lot.

Watching this family argue - the father endlessly cursing because he has nothing to lose, listening to Rita criticize her dying husband and messed-up children - was like eavesdropping on a majorly dysfunctional family. Awkward but utterly compelling.

Significantly, playwright Nicky Silver even weaves in the particular bond of siblings; they may not like each other or respect each other's choices, but they share secrets that Mom and Dad were never privy to. That's real life.

Romance is a treacherous arena.

At intermission, my friend and I discussed how director B.C. Maupin had created a tightly wound production that never ceased to elicit reaction from the audience, whether we were squirming in our seats, anticipating discomfort, embroiled in embarrassment or mortified at how this family treated each other.

Meanwhile, a cadre of black-clad crew miraculously turned the hospital room set into a much, larger studio apartment, as big a set change as I've seen at RTP, a feat only believable if you saw the transformation.

After the first act, my friend had commented on the robust laughter coming from the back of the room and, sure enough, the Man About Town (the source of that laugh) stopped by to discuss Myron's show and our enjoyment of the play we were seeing.

Writing short stories is like selling Victrolas.

If the first act had set some people's teeth on edge, the second began with a scene uncomfortable in about a dozen more ways. As it unfolded with missed signals, over-reactions and brutality, little of the dark humor remained.

The set was again changed back to the hospital room, this time without an intermission, but it was accomplished briskly and efficiently while the audience listened to "Que Sera, Sera." It was so impressively done that the crowd broke out in spontaneous applause for the crew.

Since when do you talk like a character from "Cagney and Lacey"?

The final scene begins with the father dead, but the remaining members no less unhappy or rude to each other. Hello, real life.

Watching the widow tell her son and daughter that she's decided to go on with her life in a manner that appalls them becomes one of the most satisfying moments in the play. Changing from power pumps to pink slides before a flight to Aruba, Jones makes a compelling case for delayed happiness after a loveless marriage that's almost worth standing up to cheer for.

Some people are happy, some people are lonely, some people are mean and sad. That's the way of the world.

As 5th Wall's production so ably demonstrates, it's every person's choice to decide which of those people they want to be. As if I weren't already in the first category, a superbly-executed production such as this one makes me even happier because Carol Piersol is back at the helm of a cutting edge theater company in Richmond.

Here's to long, artistic lives. Fortunately, they seem to thrive in this town.