Snow be damned, we were going to go out.
The plan was to go to the Firehouse for a grade B movie and some comic commentary, a la Mystery Science Theater.
Looking out the window over the white-covered rooftops of Jackson Ward, it was tempting to just stay in.
"Let's go," I was directed. "It'll be an adventure."
True that and the worst that could happen would be that the event had been cancelled and we'd still have had a snowy walk.
Only one problem. Leaving the Ward at that point in the snowfall meant the roads were kind of a mess. We drove one block and canned that idea.
With reinforcements of an extra layer of wool and gloves, we set out for the Firehouse. There were a surprisingly large number of cars on the road for 8:30 on a Sunday night.
Pre-holiday snowy bar seekers perhaps?
The snow was more of a sleet at this point, but we made it to our destination only to find the cancellation sign on the door that I'd anticipated all along.
Time for Plan B: dessert and wine at Ipanema.
We arrived with my feet soaking wet and cold (wrong boot choice and a bad call on my part) to a cozy, warm and welcoming room.
The bartender looked glad for more company. We got a bottle of Analisa Primitivo and considered the sweets.
A girl walked in with a skirt and tights on. As she and her date stood there looking at the chalkboard, I commented, "What kind of person wears a skirt and tights out on a night like this?"
She turned around, saw my dress and tights and laughed. "Thanks for the validation!" she said pointing at me as her date rolled his eyes.
For dessert, I got blueberry pie a la mode and my partner-in-crime got the almond apricot cake. We both thought we'd made the best choice.
There just isn't a better late night dessert bar than Ips.
As we sat there savoring our puddings (as my Scottish friend would say), one of the servers walked up and started looking for music.
"All I have is stupid world music on my iPod," he grumbled.
We weren't sure if that meant that his iPod was full of world music of the stupid variety or if perhaps he had been in a different kind of mood (say, pop or folk or metal) and was realizing that all he had was world music available.
In any case, his music began with post-rock and moved forward most agreeably from there.
There weren't a lot of people in Ipanema, but little clutches of them kept arriving as we lingered over our Primitivo, enjoying the warmth.
I saw several friends, one of whom claimed she wished she were at home in her jammies.
By the time we left there, the sleet had returned to snow and we had a lovely stroll home with much more hushed streets.
Once we got back to the Ward, we began hearing the distinctive sounds of fireworks popping and whistling a few blocks away.
Doesn't every neighborhood celebrate a fine snow with pyrotechnics?
And while some people might have been longing for the their pajamas by that point, we decided to go listen to some '90s mixes made by a young man I once knew.
Because, after music from a cave, young man music is my very favorite kind. Such passion! Such energy! Such hopefulness!
Even more so when I knew the young man who had put it together.
Such a perfect soundtrack to sit in front of the windows and admire the incredibly bright midnight light that comes with a good nighttime snow.
Snow be damned, it was nice to be in after all.
Showing posts with label analissa primitivo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label analissa primitivo. Show all posts
Monday, February 20, 2012
Sunday, February 19, 2012
What Lack of Love Does
Somehow I must have seemed like a good sipping partner.
Wine date #1: Cafe Caturra with a glass of Santa Julia Torrontes, a friend and her Baltimore beau and a roaring fire despite the open door and 50-degree temperature outside.
Suggested soundtrack: Animal Collective ("Walking around in our summertime clothes, nowhere to go while our bodies glow").
Wine date #2: The Belvidere at Broad with a glass of Prosecco, hordes of people headed to see "The Lion King" and a DJ telling me about his glorious walk in today's sunshine.
Suggested soundtrack: The XX ("Wanna find myself by the sea, in another's company").
Wine date #3: Ipanema with a glass of Analissa Primitivo, a friend in the cutest earrings and a discussion of being an independent woman when given no other choice.
Suggested soundtrack: The Helio Sequence ("Lately, I don't think of you at all, or wonder what you're up to or how you're getting on").
The evening concludes at Strange Matter for music and a light show.
The crowd is good-sized but not packed, probably because there are several other good shows going on tonight.
First up is Airstrip out of North Carolina and when I ask a musician friend what they sound like, he responds, "You know that North Carolina indie band sound? Yea, that's what they sound like."
Damn if he wasn't right on. The Chapel Hill foursome's music covered the 80s and the 90s despite issues with broken guitar strings and being out of tune.
During the break, Matt of Snowy Owls asked me to help him carry shots to the stage and the imbibing of those shots began their set.
They covered Superdrag (a nod to Matt's Knoxville roots) and fuzzed out hard while continuing to win the crowd away from their drinking and talking.
The Cinnamon Band played last and they had a bunch ofdrunken die hard fans in the room singing along to almost every song.
They covered Nick Lowe's "What Lack of Love Has Done" as well as doing both the A and B sides of their upcoming single.
"Easy does it doesn't cut it when you want someone."
Hey, they said it, not me.
After their set, I chatted with friends, one of whom inquired what I thought of the Cinnamon Band.
"Her answer has nudity in it," my girlfriend said to much laughter.
Because I first saw the Cinnamon Band unplugged, I still get a kick out of hearing them full-on electric and I said so.
I did not so much as mention naked anything.
There was some discussion of which instrument can win a person's heart; I heard a case for pedal steel guitar and I know someone else who would say sax.
I'd be inclined to go with the vox as the irresistible instrument for me.
Words. It always comes down to words.
Wine date #1: Cafe Caturra with a glass of Santa Julia Torrontes, a friend and her Baltimore beau and a roaring fire despite the open door and 50-degree temperature outside.
Suggested soundtrack: Animal Collective ("Walking around in our summertime clothes, nowhere to go while our bodies glow").
Wine date #2: The Belvidere at Broad with a glass of Prosecco, hordes of people headed to see "The Lion King" and a DJ telling me about his glorious walk in today's sunshine.
Suggested soundtrack: The XX ("Wanna find myself by the sea, in another's company").
Wine date #3: Ipanema with a glass of Analissa Primitivo, a friend in the cutest earrings and a discussion of being an independent woman when given no other choice.
Suggested soundtrack: The Helio Sequence ("Lately, I don't think of you at all, or wonder what you're up to or how you're getting on").
The evening concludes at Strange Matter for music and a light show.
The crowd is good-sized but not packed, probably because there are several other good shows going on tonight.
First up is Airstrip out of North Carolina and when I ask a musician friend what they sound like, he responds, "You know that North Carolina indie band sound? Yea, that's what they sound like."
Damn if he wasn't right on. The Chapel Hill foursome's music covered the 80s and the 90s despite issues with broken guitar strings and being out of tune.
During the break, Matt of Snowy Owls asked me to help him carry shots to the stage and the imbibing of those shots began their set.
They covered Superdrag (a nod to Matt's Knoxville roots) and fuzzed out hard while continuing to win the crowd away from their drinking and talking.
The Cinnamon Band played last and they had a bunch of
They covered Nick Lowe's "What Lack of Love Has Done" as well as doing both the A and B sides of their upcoming single.
"Easy does it doesn't cut it when you want someone."
Hey, they said it, not me.
After their set, I chatted with friends, one of whom inquired what I thought of the Cinnamon Band.
"Her answer has nudity in it," my girlfriend said to much laughter.
Because I first saw the Cinnamon Band unplugged, I still get a kick out of hearing them full-on electric and I said so.
I did not so much as mention naked anything.
There was some discussion of which instrument can win a person's heart; I heard a case for pedal steel guitar and I know someone else who would say sax.
I'd be inclined to go with the vox as the irresistible instrument for me.
Words. It always comes down to words.
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.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Suitor Lessons Now Available
How much can fit into a twelve-hour escapade?
A scenic drive down Route 5 on a monochromatic day with the most sublime silvers, greens and browns coloring the landscape.
The final hour of the forty-painting exhibit "Seeing Colors: Secrets of the Impressionists" at the Muscarelle Museum at William and Mary.
French highlight: Pissarro's "Snowscape with Cows at Montfoucalt" for its ability to convey cold and capture the exquisite winter light.
I get chilled when it drops below 65 degrees and I wanted nothing more than to be standing on the street in front of the house in the painting.
American highlight: John Singer Sargent's "Portrait of Ralph Curtis on the Beach at Scheveningen" because he was such a fascinating man and it shows in his every beautiful brushstroke, no matter who he's painting.
And grains of sand in the painting? That's my kind of intensity.
Must-see companion show at the Muscarelle: "Modern Masterworks on Paper: Cezanne, Munch, Bonnard and Friends," a show of prints every bit as interesting.
By the time we finished, the show was officially closed at its only mid-Atlantic venue.
And we still had that beautiful drive back through winter fields and forests.
A supper of seafood chowder and wine at an undisclosed location.
The final night of the Israeli Film Festival at the JCC.
"The Matchmaker," a coming-of-age story set in Israel during the Six Day War, showed love and lust of several age groups: teens, dwarfs, middle-aged Holocaust survivors.
Favorite reference: "suitor lessons" where men seeking matches were given coaching by a woman to make them better at wooing others.
Question: could we still use such an instructor? Discuss amongst yourselves.
The last course: Analissa Primitivo with double chocolate cake and chile chocolate cinnamon pie at Ipanema.
Because after feeding the eyes and ears, it was essential to feed the nose and mouth.
Finishing up with a new mix, a "Goodbye Mix," that includes everything from Jeff Buckley's "Last Goodbye" to the Beatles "Hello/Goodbye."
Biggest surprise/most eclectic choice: Petula Clark's "Kiss Me Goodbye."
And then you look up when the mix ends and it's been half a day.
Twelve hours and all you've done is take a road trip through the fog, see a departing exhibit of tradition-bending art, take in a 2010 film nominated for seven Israeli Academy Awards, make dessert and wine your evening meal and listen to a swan song of a mix.
Funniest line of the day: "People live like this?"
Rhetorical, of course.
A scenic drive down Route 5 on a monochromatic day with the most sublime silvers, greens and browns coloring the landscape.
The final hour of the forty-painting exhibit "Seeing Colors: Secrets of the Impressionists" at the Muscarelle Museum at William and Mary.
French highlight: Pissarro's "Snowscape with Cows at Montfoucalt" for its ability to convey cold and capture the exquisite winter light.
I get chilled when it drops below 65 degrees and I wanted nothing more than to be standing on the street in front of the house in the painting.
American highlight: John Singer Sargent's "Portrait of Ralph Curtis on the Beach at Scheveningen" because he was such a fascinating man and it shows in his every beautiful brushstroke, no matter who he's painting.
And grains of sand in the painting? That's my kind of intensity.
Must-see companion show at the Muscarelle: "Modern Masterworks on Paper: Cezanne, Munch, Bonnard and Friends," a show of prints every bit as interesting.
By the time we finished, the show was officially closed at its only mid-Atlantic venue.
And we still had that beautiful drive back through winter fields and forests.
A supper of seafood chowder and wine at an undisclosed location.
The final night of the Israeli Film Festival at the JCC.
"The Matchmaker," a coming-of-age story set in Israel during the Six Day War, showed love and lust of several age groups: teens, dwarfs, middle-aged Holocaust survivors.
Favorite reference: "suitor lessons" where men seeking matches were given coaching by a woman to make them better at wooing others.
Question: could we still use such an instructor? Discuss amongst yourselves.
The last course: Analissa Primitivo with double chocolate cake and chile chocolate cinnamon pie at Ipanema.
Because after feeding the eyes and ears, it was essential to feed the nose and mouth.
Finishing up with a new mix, a "Goodbye Mix," that includes everything from Jeff Buckley's "Last Goodbye" to the Beatles "Hello/Goodbye."
Biggest surprise/most eclectic choice: Petula Clark's "Kiss Me Goodbye."
And then you look up when the mix ends and it's been half a day.
Twelve hours and all you've done is take a road trip through the fog, see a departing exhibit of tradition-bending art, take in a 2010 film nominated for seven Israeli Academy Awards, make dessert and wine your evening meal and listen to a swan song of a mix.
Funniest line of the day: "People live like this?"
Rhetorical, of course.
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