My life is based on a true story.
No, I didn't come up with that, I saw it on some kid's t-shirt while pounding the pavement for First Fridays with a friend from the county in tow. He'd accompanied my hired mouth to dinner before we set out in search of culture.
What we also found were scads of art walkers including plenty of fresh-faced students holding forth on the art they were seeing, the friends they'd just run into or where the party later on was going to be.
They blather, therefore they are.
Our first stop was at ADA Gallery for Rachel Hayes' "Straight Tipsy," which shared a lot in common with her 2011 show I'd seen there, "Chutes and Tears," done not long after the Japanese tsunami. Both relied on fabric -especially denim - and colored acrylic for bright coloring of the geometrically-inclined collages.
Overheard: "I like the less garishly-colored ones." Apparently, florescent pink is an acquired taste in art.
Replacing the departed Ghostprint Gallery was Unkindness Art and here's where I learned something tonight. A gathering of ravens is called an unkindness, much like a group of crows is a murder.
Art is so educational.
The new gallery had taken a page from Ghostprint's book, installing a tattoo artist in the back (I saw a person in the chair and heard the whirring of the needle) and showing bird-centric art up front, including a stuffed bird in an antique cage.
We'll call it a funky addition to the arts district.
Candela Gallery was mobbed (and as cold as a meat locker) for Louvier + Vanessa's show "Resonantia," gorgeous abstract photographs over gold leaf dibond.
The hook was how they were made and even after Vanessa herself explained the process to me, I'm still not 100% sure I get it.
Sound waves are sent through water which is then photographed with different results because various notes make different patterns. Sort of like seeing something invisible. Those photos were then somehow converted to soundscapes. Resonantia means echo, if that helps.
I listened, I really tried to understand, but it was above my head and I admitted as much to Vanessa, asking her how they'd ever conceived of such a thing.
"He's a scientist," she said, pointing at Louvier. Had to be, because only a scientific mind could come up with such an artistic concept.
There were twelve panels depicting the 12 basal notes of music (another teachable moment for me) as well as other images made from the sounds produced by, oh, hell, I don't know. Just go see and hear the striking gold and black images (yes, they also made an album of the sounds of the photographs and no, I can't explain that either) and then come explain it to me.
My partner in art and I briefly slid into the vintage consignment shop Souleil when we heard a voice singing but we were at the back of the store, so we could barely even see the guy with the gorgeous voice and eventually we gave up and left.
And if we thought that place was crowded, we found out what crowded really was at Gallery 5 where NYC artists Johnston Foster and Jimmy Joe Roche's show "Dirty Work Dirt Dogs" made for one big sweat fest as people moved between Roche's videos being shown on monitors and Foster's sculptures made using the detritus of a consumer culture.
His "Catch and Release" lay sprawled on the floor, a sculpture of a bloody shark split open with baby sharks spilling from its body. My favorites were "Pony Up," two horse heads made from such things as telephone cables, vinyl flooring and garden hose mounted to the wall facing opposite directions.
As many times as I've been upstairs at G5, this was the first time that the windows were gone, hidden behind a wall from which hung a large monitor showing Roche's "Homelands" video.
With all the people, I lost track of my companion while running into other people I knew and dodging roving bands of art students oblivious to anyone but their posse. Back downstairs, I talked to the dulcitar player, the former coworker (who'd also seen Cornel West yesterday) and the apron-clad dessert chef before going outside in search of my disappearing date.
He's not a small person, so I couldn't imagine how I'd lost him.
Eventually, the heat sent me outside for air where a line was beginning to form to get into the gallery, but I waited around, sure he'd come out any moment.
Going back in was problematic because of the line, so after 15 minutes, I crossed the street to Atlas to see "Performing Statistics," only realizing once I was there that I'd already seen the show - really more of an activist statement about stopping the school to prison pipeline - at 1708 Gallery back in June.
When I got back to G5, the line was even longer, so I staked out my territory as I listened to Dave Watkins begin playing inside. After years of watching him play, it wasn't hard to imagine the dumbfounded looks on first timers' faces watching as he built up layers of sound, playing and looping until he sounded like much more than one musician.
Still, my friend was nowhere to be found.
A group of young women (would it be wrong for me to think of them as an unkindness?) stood near me, trying to decide what to do next. They knew of no parties, but they wanted to have some fun. "I was too drunk to be in there with all those people," one whined. "I was just, like, I gotta go."
One of her friends said they needed to go elsewhere, so I watched as they began unlocking their bikes to leave. Maybe it was time for me to give up on finding my friend, too.
Walking down Marshall Street, I heard the girls coming up behind me on their bikes and I resisted an impulse to shout at them, "It's a sidewalk not a sideride!" because then I might as well tell them to get off my grass and do I really want to be that person? No.
As they turned onto Madison Street and hit the cobblestones, one of the girls wobbled precariously and another shouted gaily, "Embrace the cobbles!" without even looking back.
It was the most profound thing I'd heard anyone say all night.
Embrace the Cobbles: the perfect title for the true story of my life.
Showing posts with label art 180. Show all posts
Showing posts with label art 180. Show all posts
Friday, September 4, 2015
Saturday, March 1, 2014
Dear Me, Life Gets Real
A kind woman began my day with a message telling me how happy I'd looked last night.
That's a lovely thing to wake up to.
On this cold morning, I also woke up to two other missives, one telling me "You ROCK" and another asking to join me on my morning walk.
Since my ability to rock is a purely subjective thing, I addressed the second. Happily.
It was noon by the time I ate and dressed, but the photographer didn't seem to mind and we set out on a brisk walk that all but froze our faces off.
The beauty was that it ended at Art 180 where we viewed the exhibit "Dear Me," a series of mixed media collages and letters written by local people to their 15-year old selves.
It was fascinating to see the difference in what a 26-year old writes to his younger self and what a 45-year old writes. It's all about experience and perspective.
Leaving, my friend said that our unexpected art adventure had scratched an itch for him and I felt the same, going home to work for the afternoon instead of play.
But eventually, a girl's got to get out and about, so I cleaned up and headed uphill to Dutch & Co. for dinner.
There were three seats open at the bar but two were reservations so I slid into the only available one.
The bartender was a familiar face and he expressed surprise I hadn't been at the Acacia sous chef dinner last weekend, but understood completely when I told him that day had been given over to Palladio and Lake Street Dive.
Since I had plans later, I dove right into eating, beginning, as I always do, with Anderson's Neck oysters with mignonette and chives.
It was about then that I noticed the man on the other side of me, the chef from Citizen, all the favorite lunch place of downtown worker bees and occasionally me, too.
He remembered me and brought me up to date on how what's been going on with the building he's in may affect his business and about the upcoming changes in his menu.
Give me a month or so to get the new menu in place and come back down, he suggested. Will do.
Then we got down to the good stuff: eating. He and his beloved had ordered many of the same dishes I had so he gave me his all favorable takes on them, cracking wise that the soup was cold (it was vissychoise).
Most interesting were his recommendations for southside eating and shopping and he clued me in to a Polish grocery, a crowded but worth it Salvadorean chicken place and his favorite Asian market. "You have to go!" he enthused.
Oh, I will.
Then my salmon tartare arrived with three perfect blini to enfold it, and you can be sure I scooped in the shaved botargo and chive creme fraiche to top them, making for an exquisitely balanced combination of flavors.
The chef and his honey left to go watch TV and they were replaced by a couple with their own wine who'd come solely because they'd read about the restaurant in Richmond Magazine.
I talked to them anyway.
They oohed and ahhed over my duck confit with fingerling potatoes and miso vinaigrette, soon ordering one of their own.
But it was the pig face terrine with pickled mushrooms between Sub Rosa bread on a plate of horseradish yogurt that really got their attention.
Because it arrives vertical, looking like a sandwich standing at attention in a pool of white, they were flummoxed so I explained the taste delights involved.
When I got ready to leave, he stopped me to ask about restaurants. What did I think of his favorite, Mama Zu?
It's a bit one note for me, but as long as you're in the mood for garlic and salt, nobody does it better, I told him. He asked my opinion on a few other places before I excused myself for music.
Crossroads' main room was already full when I arrived but I borrowed a chair from the little back room and brought it up front.
A woman soon joined me, introducing herself as a teacher and asking how I'd discovered the band, so now I had company to talk to until the music began.
Fado is not loud music so it's nice to be close to hear the sad songs of longing for the Portuguese men who go off to sea leaving their women behind.
I'd seen Fado Nasso several times so I knew how lovely Bernadette's voice is, and tonight in addition to an upright bass, she also had a mandolin player and guitarist backing her up.
From my perch in the back, I heard songs like "I Heard You Forgot Me," an ode to a guitar, a song about a woman who tells fortunes using sea shells (all fado revolves around Lisbon and the sea) and one song advising young men to hold on to a good woman if you can find her, probably good advice for men of all ages.
A song about a woman named Maria exemplifying Lisbon with the oil of tug boats and the seagulls of the oceanfront was particularly passionate.
"Things are about to get real," Bernadette warned us. Saying that fado music is sad music, she pointed out that so far they'd been doing songs that sounded somewhat happy even if the lyrics weren't. And how would we know anyway since she was singing in Portuguese?
The next set was full of the slow, mournful sounding fado that is more typical of the genre, like "Seagull," a song she introduced by saying, "If you're far from home and missing it, this one's for you."
She sang about the wee, small hours when you miss the one you love and she sang about the one that got away.
If it hadn't been for the trio gabbing non-stop near me, I could have been in a dark and intimate fado house in Lisbon, getting lost in sad songs.
On the other hand, I'm looking mighty happy these days, so sadness is more of an entertainment than part of who I am.
And maybe that's what I'd have written to my 15-year old self if I'd been asked to participate in that Art 180 show.
Dear Young Karen,
Remember to always be happy. Two indescribably sad things are going to happen to you as an adult, but you will find your way through both and come out surer of who you are and stronger for having made your way through them. Smiling and laughing are the best ways to remind yourself that you always have reasons to be happy, so practice both every day.
Love,
Karen the Elder
That's a lovely thing to wake up to.
On this cold morning, I also woke up to two other missives, one telling me "You ROCK" and another asking to join me on my morning walk.
Since my ability to rock is a purely subjective thing, I addressed the second. Happily.
It was noon by the time I ate and dressed, but the photographer didn't seem to mind and we set out on a brisk walk that all but froze our faces off.
The beauty was that it ended at Art 180 where we viewed the exhibit "Dear Me," a series of mixed media collages and letters written by local people to their 15-year old selves.
It was fascinating to see the difference in what a 26-year old writes to his younger self and what a 45-year old writes. It's all about experience and perspective.
Leaving, my friend said that our unexpected art adventure had scratched an itch for him and I felt the same, going home to work for the afternoon instead of play.
But eventually, a girl's got to get out and about, so I cleaned up and headed uphill to Dutch & Co. for dinner.
There were three seats open at the bar but two were reservations so I slid into the only available one.
The bartender was a familiar face and he expressed surprise I hadn't been at the Acacia sous chef dinner last weekend, but understood completely when I told him that day had been given over to Palladio and Lake Street Dive.
Since I had plans later, I dove right into eating, beginning, as I always do, with Anderson's Neck oysters with mignonette and chives.
It was about then that I noticed the man on the other side of me, the chef from Citizen, all the favorite lunch place of downtown worker bees and occasionally me, too.
He remembered me and brought me up to date on how what's been going on with the building he's in may affect his business and about the upcoming changes in his menu.
Give me a month or so to get the new menu in place and come back down, he suggested. Will do.
Then we got down to the good stuff: eating. He and his beloved had ordered many of the same dishes I had so he gave me his all favorable takes on them, cracking wise that the soup was cold (it was vissychoise).
Most interesting were his recommendations for southside eating and shopping and he clued me in to a Polish grocery, a crowded but worth it Salvadorean chicken place and his favorite Asian market. "You have to go!" he enthused.
Oh, I will.
Then my salmon tartare arrived with three perfect blini to enfold it, and you can be sure I scooped in the shaved botargo and chive creme fraiche to top them, making for an exquisitely balanced combination of flavors.
The chef and his honey left to go watch TV and they were replaced by a couple with their own wine who'd come solely because they'd read about the restaurant in Richmond Magazine.
I talked to them anyway.
They oohed and ahhed over my duck confit with fingerling potatoes and miso vinaigrette, soon ordering one of their own.
But it was the pig face terrine with pickled mushrooms between Sub Rosa bread on a plate of horseradish yogurt that really got their attention.
Because it arrives vertical, looking like a sandwich standing at attention in a pool of white, they were flummoxed so I explained the taste delights involved.
When I got ready to leave, he stopped me to ask about restaurants. What did I think of his favorite, Mama Zu?
It's a bit one note for me, but as long as you're in the mood for garlic and salt, nobody does it better, I told him. He asked my opinion on a few other places before I excused myself for music.
Crossroads' main room was already full when I arrived but I borrowed a chair from the little back room and brought it up front.
A woman soon joined me, introducing herself as a teacher and asking how I'd discovered the band, so now I had company to talk to until the music began.
Fado is not loud music so it's nice to be close to hear the sad songs of longing for the Portuguese men who go off to sea leaving their women behind.
I'd seen Fado Nasso several times so I knew how lovely Bernadette's voice is, and tonight in addition to an upright bass, she also had a mandolin player and guitarist backing her up.
From my perch in the back, I heard songs like "I Heard You Forgot Me," an ode to a guitar, a song about a woman who tells fortunes using sea shells (all fado revolves around Lisbon and the sea) and one song advising young men to hold on to a good woman if you can find her, probably good advice for men of all ages.
A song about a woman named Maria exemplifying Lisbon with the oil of tug boats and the seagulls of the oceanfront was particularly passionate.
"Things are about to get real," Bernadette warned us. Saying that fado music is sad music, she pointed out that so far they'd been doing songs that sounded somewhat happy even if the lyrics weren't. And how would we know anyway since she was singing in Portuguese?
The next set was full of the slow, mournful sounding fado that is more typical of the genre, like "Seagull," a song she introduced by saying, "If you're far from home and missing it, this one's for you."
She sang about the wee, small hours when you miss the one you love and she sang about the one that got away.
If it hadn't been for the trio gabbing non-stop near me, I could have been in a dark and intimate fado house in Lisbon, getting lost in sad songs.
On the other hand, I'm looking mighty happy these days, so sadness is more of an entertainment than part of who I am.
And maybe that's what I'd have written to my 15-year old self if I'd been asked to participate in that Art 180 show.
Dear Young Karen,
Remember to always be happy. Two indescribably sad things are going to happen to you as an adult, but you will find your way through both and come out surer of who you are and stronger for having made your way through them. Smiling and laughing are the best ways to remind yourself that you always have reasons to be happy, so practice both every day.
Love,
Karen the Elder
Friday, October 7, 2011
No Two Ways About It
Everyone has days when they hate their life and I'm lucky that mine are mostly few and far between.
But I got so low today that a close friend advised, "It may be time to curl up with a good book and some relaxation time."
She was telling me to look after myself but I knew if I stayed in I'd just wallow in my maudlin mood.
So I went out and everywhere I went, random people saying nice things kept me occupied.
A gallery owner told me that my "Style Weekly" article about a painter had enticed a reader to come in to the gallery and he ended up buying two pieces of the artist's work.
Satisfaction.
An editor came up and said that she not only reads my blog but also my "Belle" column and has discovered interesting stuff she didn't know about there.
Flattery.
A musician I know stopped to introduce me to his fiance who, upon hearing my name, said, "Someone was just mentioning your name this afternoon, talking about what a supporter of the arts you are."
Renown.
A non-profit director asked me to consider being on their board because I am such a cheerleader for RVA.
Compliment.
For that matter, a handsome man got down on one knee and kissed my hand, saying that the moon was now shining brighter because of my arrival.
Charming bullshit.
And while all that was happening and I was strolling First Fridays, maudlin mercifully moved to the back burner.
Art 180 had taken over the empty space next to the Visual Arts Gallery with a series of large panels created by kids.
The theme was "What I Stand For" and on the front was their painted depiction of that and on the back, a written statement about the work.
Making my way around the colorful works, I was asked to give my own thoughts on what I stand for to a camerawoman.
I did my best spontaneous explanation of what matters to me, but it probably wasn't the ideal day to put me on the spot.
At Metro Gallery, Wade Mickley's assemblages addressed the unpredictability of life, underscoring my mood.
"An Undulating Mess" was a whimsical creature crafted from cut-up 45s with a cloud for a face.
A square picture of a bird was surrounded by nesting material and (again) clouds, making for a square nest in "Widespread and Abundant."
At Gallery 5, Abigail Larson's drawings and watercolors showed a definite nod to the macabre and the illustrative qualities of an Edward Gorey with lots of fluid lines and bizarre details.
In the Craft Gallery, the "Pin Pals" exhibit was a series of buttons made by artists and mounted on fabric swatches on woodblocks.
There were some talented names on display (Noah Scalin, Ryan McLennan) and many I'd never heard of, but the array of miniature art was impressive.
It might be the way to own an artist I couldn't otherwise afford.
That was all the art I had time for before high-tailing it to the Byrd for the bone-crushing organ skills of Cameron Carpenter.
The benefit for the theater (we will get new seats in my lifetime...I hope) was really well attended considering tickets were not cheap.
On the other hand, Carpenter is the world-renowned bad boy of organ playing, right down to his glittery wardrobe (silver lame suit and shoes with lights) and offbeat programs.
And speaking of programs, he never announces his in advance. The program has no, well, program.
Tonight he began with fast and loud (Chopin) with his lighted feet almost dancing on the pedals before going to slow and soft ("Colonial Song").
He did Bach before switching to Gershwin ("The Bach of American pop music," he opined), Henry Mancini and Kate Bush's "Cloudbusting" ("She's right up there with Tom Waits and Schubert").
Impressive.
Carpenter is not your mother's organist, but his mad organ skills make even the stuffiest classical music fans sit up and take notice.
Early on he'd announced, "I'm going to have a grand old time playing this marvelous monster," and that he'd only had twenty minutes of practice on it this afternoon.
Talking about where he might go with the musical selections, he said, "I've no more desire to hear serious organ music than you do."
But by the same token, he acknowledged that "Nobody wants to hear Lady Gaga on a pipe organ."
I'll do him one better. I don't want to hear Lady Gaga at all. And still haven't (a source of personal pride).
By the time the performance was over, the evening's distractions had traded places with the back burner's contents and there it all was again.
Lonely. Profoundly lonely.
But I got so low today that a close friend advised, "It may be time to curl up with a good book and some relaxation time."
She was telling me to look after myself but I knew if I stayed in I'd just wallow in my maudlin mood.
So I went out and everywhere I went, random people saying nice things kept me occupied.
A gallery owner told me that my "Style Weekly" article about a painter had enticed a reader to come in to the gallery and he ended up buying two pieces of the artist's work.
Satisfaction.
An editor came up and said that she not only reads my blog but also my "Belle" column and has discovered interesting stuff she didn't know about there.
Flattery.
A musician I know stopped to introduce me to his fiance who, upon hearing my name, said, "Someone was just mentioning your name this afternoon, talking about what a supporter of the arts you are."
Renown.
A non-profit director asked me to consider being on their board because I am such a cheerleader for RVA.
Compliment.
For that matter, a handsome man got down on one knee and kissed my hand, saying that the moon was now shining brighter because of my arrival.
Charming bullshit.
And while all that was happening and I was strolling First Fridays, maudlin mercifully moved to the back burner.
Art 180 had taken over the empty space next to the Visual Arts Gallery with a series of large panels created by kids.
The theme was "What I Stand For" and on the front was their painted depiction of that and on the back, a written statement about the work.
Making my way around the colorful works, I was asked to give my own thoughts on what I stand for to a camerawoman.
I did my best spontaneous explanation of what matters to me, but it probably wasn't the ideal day to put me on the spot.
At Metro Gallery, Wade Mickley's assemblages addressed the unpredictability of life, underscoring my mood.
"An Undulating Mess" was a whimsical creature crafted from cut-up 45s with a cloud for a face.
A square picture of a bird was surrounded by nesting material and (again) clouds, making for a square nest in "Widespread and Abundant."
At Gallery 5, Abigail Larson's drawings and watercolors showed a definite nod to the macabre and the illustrative qualities of an Edward Gorey with lots of fluid lines and bizarre details.
In the Craft Gallery, the "Pin Pals" exhibit was a series of buttons made by artists and mounted on fabric swatches on woodblocks.
There were some talented names on display (Noah Scalin, Ryan McLennan) and many I'd never heard of, but the array of miniature art was impressive.
It might be the way to own an artist I couldn't otherwise afford.
That was all the art I had time for before high-tailing it to the Byrd for the bone-crushing organ skills of Cameron Carpenter.
The benefit for the theater (we will get new seats in my lifetime...I hope) was really well attended considering tickets were not cheap.
On the other hand, Carpenter is the world-renowned bad boy of organ playing, right down to his glittery wardrobe (silver lame suit and shoes with lights) and offbeat programs.
And speaking of programs, he never announces his in advance. The program has no, well, program.
Tonight he began with fast and loud (Chopin) with his lighted feet almost dancing on the pedals before going to slow and soft ("Colonial Song").
He did Bach before switching to Gershwin ("The Bach of American pop music," he opined), Henry Mancini and Kate Bush's "Cloudbusting" ("She's right up there with Tom Waits and Schubert").
Impressive.
Carpenter is not your mother's organist, but his mad organ skills make even the stuffiest classical music fans sit up and take notice.
Early on he'd announced, "I'm going to have a grand old time playing this marvelous monster," and that he'd only had twenty minutes of practice on it this afternoon.
Talking about where he might go with the musical selections, he said, "I've no more desire to hear serious organ music than you do."
But by the same token, he acknowledged that "Nobody wants to hear Lady Gaga on a pipe organ."
I'll do him one better. I don't want to hear Lady Gaga at all. And still haven't (a source of personal pride).
By the time the performance was over, the evening's distractions had traded places with the back burner's contents and there it all was again.
Lonely. Profoundly lonely.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Leaping into the Jonny Z Fest
Here's the beauty of the annual Jonny Z Fest.
It's a tribute to a guy who gave back to the community.
It's small, only one city block long. It's full of talented folks selling their wares. It's got local music.
And I always run into scads of people I know, inevitably including some I haven't seen in far too long.
Even with two brief bursts of rain, the enthusiasm of the crowd couldn't be dampened.
In fact, most of us agreed that the raindrops felt pretty wonderful.
I bought a bag of fresh figs from City Garden, all but four of which disappeared before I got home.
Fig season is to be savored and I find it hard to use restraint.
Allison Self was providing the big voice that filled the block with her vintage Americana sound accompanied by ukulele.
She said later that she was sweating like mad but it didn't show in her beautiful singing.
There were several vintage clothing booths, including one that had a plaid cotton bathing suit circa 1950, the old-school kind my grandmother wore until her dying day.
To do my part, I bought Art 180 raffle tickets to support their worthwhile cause.
If I should win something, that would just be gravy.
I stopped by the Richmond Zine Fest table to talk to a friend and ended up making a donation (I go to the Zine Fest every year anyway) and walking away with the work of another friend, "Manifesto, Baby: Poems by Liz Canfield."
madam, a pair of silk stockings is not a leap into space
what people did they are going to do
~from "Surrealist Manifesto (Andre Breton, 1924)"
Lamplighter had a cart and I tasted their ginger snap iced tea which honestly tasted just like a ginger snap, pungent and sweet.
Stopping at a vegan cupcake and doughnut table, I was treated to mini- chocolate cake donuts to die for.
They had chocolate icing and chocolate sprinkles.
I'm not going vegan in this lifetime, but those little donuts were damn good.
Maybe the cosmos heard my rant about cake donuts the other day and provided.
I ran into a book store friend and got his thoughts on a book I'd been considering reading for months.
The last time I'd checked with him, he hadn't gotten into it but today he wanted to share his thoughts as a reader.
"Night of the Hunter," here I come.
After three passes through to make sure I saw everything I wanted to and everyone (countless musicians, tons of restaurant people, DJs, gallery people, wine reps, music lovers) I knew, I was finished.
Satisfied, I left, only to run into the Boka Truck tucked away on Hanover Avenue.
What was this?
Seems that they'd been coming back from the St. Stephens Market and happened on the festival. Dumb luck.
They weren't part of the plan, but the organizer invited them to stay after spotting their truck.
But after a busy morning at the market, they were about out of several items, so I was going to be the last customer of the day I was told.
Looking at their brunch menu, my choice was made in a nanosecond: duck egg taco with Chorizo, cheese, onion, cilantro and Sriracha sauce.
When I asked, owner Patrick said that the duck eggs were from Tan-A and often came with feathers on them.
That was good enough for me.
We chatted about the people at that market, how incredibly busy they'd been and how much prep he was going to have to do come Monday to make up for selling out of so many things.
And he wasn't kidding about me being the last customer.
Moments before my taco was finished, he started up the truck in order to make a quick getaway after handing off to me.
When he gave me my plate, I thanked him for letting me be the last and started to leave with my impressive-looking plate of food.
"Wait, Karen!" he called. "Take napkins. You're going to need them when that yolk breaks."
He wasn't kidding. That big yolk oozed its rich goodness over everything and provided a dipping sauce for the whole taco (I wanted to say enchilada).
I wanted to lick the plate when I finished, but licking a paper plate isn't aesthetically satisfying.
Not that anyone I knew at the Jonny Z Fest would have judged me for it.
What people did, they are going to do.
Or not do.
It's a tribute to a guy who gave back to the community.
It's small, only one city block long. It's full of talented folks selling their wares. It's got local music.
And I always run into scads of people I know, inevitably including some I haven't seen in far too long.
Even with two brief bursts of rain, the enthusiasm of the crowd couldn't be dampened.
In fact, most of us agreed that the raindrops felt pretty wonderful.
I bought a bag of fresh figs from City Garden, all but four of which disappeared before I got home.
Fig season is to be savored and I find it hard to use restraint.
Allison Self was providing the big voice that filled the block with her vintage Americana sound accompanied by ukulele.
She said later that she was sweating like mad but it didn't show in her beautiful singing.
There were several vintage clothing booths, including one that had a plaid cotton bathing suit circa 1950, the old-school kind my grandmother wore until her dying day.
To do my part, I bought Art 180 raffle tickets to support their worthwhile cause.
If I should win something, that would just be gravy.
I stopped by the Richmond Zine Fest table to talk to a friend and ended up making a donation (I go to the Zine Fest every year anyway) and walking away with the work of another friend, "Manifesto, Baby: Poems by Liz Canfield."
madam, a pair of silk stockings is not a leap into space
what people did they are going to do
~from "Surrealist Manifesto (Andre Breton, 1924)"
Lamplighter had a cart and I tasted their ginger snap iced tea which honestly tasted just like a ginger snap, pungent and sweet.
Stopping at a vegan cupcake and doughnut table, I was treated to mini- chocolate cake donuts to die for.
They had chocolate icing and chocolate sprinkles.
I'm not going vegan in this lifetime, but those little donuts were damn good.
Maybe the cosmos heard my rant about cake donuts the other day and provided.
I ran into a book store friend and got his thoughts on a book I'd been considering reading for months.
The last time I'd checked with him, he hadn't gotten into it but today he wanted to share his thoughts as a reader.
"Night of the Hunter," here I come.
After three passes through to make sure I saw everything I wanted to and everyone (countless musicians, tons of restaurant people, DJs, gallery people, wine reps, music lovers) I knew, I was finished.
Satisfied, I left, only to run into the Boka Truck tucked away on Hanover Avenue.
What was this?
Seems that they'd been coming back from the St. Stephens Market and happened on the festival. Dumb luck.
They weren't part of the plan, but the organizer invited them to stay after spotting their truck.
But after a busy morning at the market, they were about out of several items, so I was going to be the last customer of the day I was told.
Looking at their brunch menu, my choice was made in a nanosecond: duck egg taco with Chorizo, cheese, onion, cilantro and Sriracha sauce.
When I asked, owner Patrick said that the duck eggs were from Tan-A and often came with feathers on them.
That was good enough for me.
We chatted about the people at that market, how incredibly busy they'd been and how much prep he was going to have to do come Monday to make up for selling out of so many things.
And he wasn't kidding about me being the last customer.
Moments before my taco was finished, he started up the truck in order to make a quick getaway after handing off to me.
When he gave me my plate, I thanked him for letting me be the last and started to leave with my impressive-looking plate of food.
"Wait, Karen!" he called. "Take napkins. You're going to need them when that yolk breaks."
He wasn't kidding. That big yolk oozed its rich goodness over everything and provided a dipping sauce for the whole taco (I wanted to say enchilada).
I wanted to lick the plate when I finished, but licking a paper plate isn't aesthetically satisfying.
Not that anyone I knew at the Jonny Z Fest would have judged me for it.
What people did, they are going to do.
Or not do.
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