When I'm 94, I want to be as cool as Willie Anne Wright.
Back before I left for Dubrovnik, I'd been invited to a Candela Gallery luncheon for the painter-turned-photographer and even though I knew this week would be crazy busy getting back into the work flow, I'd accepted for fear I may not get another invitation to meet a talented, working nonagenarian.
I'd seen her new exhibit as part of the group show "Channels" at September's First Friday opening and been wildly impressed with her photograms combining a vintage set of tarot cards (it didn't hurt that I'd been to a tarot card reading in May) and Brugmansia flowers from her garden.
Although I was among the first to arrive, a fact attributable to Candela being a five-block walk while most people had to find parking, the galleries soon filled up with a who's who of local gallerists and curators, including Seth Feman, curator of exhibitions at the Chrysler Museum in Norfolk.
When I spotted the manager of Quirk Gallery, my first question was where he'd been at the Artsies, since I hadn't seen him but knew he had to be there since his actress wife was not only up for an award, but a presenter. "Up in the balcony, away from it all," he joked before we began reminiscing about how much saner the awards program has become compared to its early years as an alcohol-fueled four-hour extravaganza.
Where gallery people gather, there's always talk of installing and de-installing shows.The director of 1708 was lamenting how short she and her staff are - all under 5'5" - when it comes to mounting and taking down exhibits, leading to a discussion of how short people manage at music shows. I shared that my favorite place at the National is at the apex of the floor, directly in front of the sound board.
"I'm so short, I just find a tall person and stand directly in front of them," one woman said. Another admitted to passive-aggressively giving tall people who stood in front of her "the look" until they got the hint and moved.
Eventually, Candela's owner Gordon herded us to the tables for lunch - sandwiches, a green salad and fruit salad from Lift Cafe next door - so we could hear what Willie Anne had to share about her latest work. I made sure to take a seat facing where she sat, eager to learn from my elder.
"Willie Anne and I have known each other for 25 or 30 years," Gordon began before Willie Anne piped up, saying, "I'm only 35!" And while it was a joke, everyone agreed she looked and acted far younger than her years.
He told us how she'd begun as a painter and only taken a photography class so she could document her paintings. "She's going to talk as long as she likes and I'll sit here happily," Gordon concluded. He wasn't the only one.
Explaining that she'd been given the deck of Pamela Coleman Smith-designed tarot cards in 1970, she gestured to the man on her right, saying that he'd been the one to give them to her. "1966," he corrected her and she smiled, looking surprised.
"My kids were into being hippies and I rolled my eyes and said, far out!" she recalled, before admitting that it wasn't until she was given Brugmansia plants, which are known for their mystic qualities, that the mystic Art Deco-inspired tarot cards from 1909 inspired her to combine the 22 major arcana of the deck with the blooms.
Holding up several plastic sleeves of pressed Brugmansia flowers, she explained that she exposed them directly to the sun using conventional darkroom paper. "So they should be black and white images," Gordon interjected, but as anyone could see by the images on the wall, they were instead rendered in shades of pumpkin and raisin.
"Okay, that's the way I did it!" she announced cheerfully, before going on to explain that she intentionally arranged the pendulous flowers the way they grew, trumpets down. This she pointed out on one of the prints where a figure with a horn mirrored the angle of the flower next to it, pointing down.
Looking around at her finished pieces framed and hanging on the walls, Willie Anne observed, "I'd never seen these arranged in sequence. Looking at them I saw that it works. Maybe I got something here!"
Never was self-deprecation so charming.
Someone asked her how long it took to get the images and she said it ranged from half an hour to three hours, depending on how strong and constant the sun was, admitting that she often went on to do something else while they sat on her front porch. "It's not the most efficient way to work, but it works for me."
Who doesn't have their own peculiar way of doing things?
Her enthusiasm for her work was evident and her self-effacing demeanor made her even more of an artistic champion. "I wish you could all come to my backyard and see my Brugmansia. They're all in bloom!"
You better believe I'll still be crowing about my moonflowers when I'm 94. Now whether or not I'll still be cranking out blog posts remains to be seen, but I expect I'll still have plenty to say.
The challenge may be finding people who'll sit happily while I talk as long as I want. Willie Anne is my hero.
Showing posts with label candela gallery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label candela gallery. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 10, 2018
Tuesday, September 11, 2018
Everyday I (try to) Write the Book
As days turn to nights with zero time for blogging, it's probably best to think of these as postcards.
Greetings from First Fridays...
You know it's going to be a great evening when the owner of Chez Foushee asks how close you'd like to sit to the bossa nova band. We put just enough distance between the music and our conversation to enjoy both.
Meanwhile, we took our time with crab bisque, olives and Marcona almonds in herbed oil and a couple of Foushee market salads loaded with cannellini beans, craisins, toasted almonds and red onions over peppery arugula with green goddess dressing. The salad choice was a matter of necessity once I found out that their long-standard brussels sprouts salad (the one with bacon, red onions and bleu cheese) has been put out to pasture. I may never recover from the loss, though a dense dark chocolate mousse helped ease the pain somewhat.
Our art fix was taken at the main library with "Herald 4- Drawing from the Knew," an exhibit of seven regional artists working in vastly different styles. At 1708, we took in "Yo, Bruce: Gerald Donato + Bruce Wilhelm" because the playful nature of Donato's work never gets old. At Black Iris for the "Sink or Swim" show, my favorite was the drawing that incorporated Popeye, Olive Oil and Wimpy into one image (and probably unrecognizable to a younger viewer). Candela Gallery's group show, "Channels" of work by Willie Anne Wright, Courtney Johnson and Lisa Kokin was compelling, none more so than Kokin's mixed media sewn collages using old black and white photographs of people sewn together.
Because we're all connected, right?
Greetings from Peaches, home to 45s
Even if there had been no crate of surprises, the meal would have been memorable. Holmes, Beloved and I ventured out of their usual comfort zone for a meal taken at the corner of Nota Bene's bar. Holmes went in looking for the cauliflower that had changed his opinion about cauliflower, only to find it (like the brussels sprout salad at Chez Foushee) M.I.A. Where he scored points was in suggesting we get the brocaletti with red peppers and anchovy breadcrumbs instead.
Since when does Holmes suggest a vegetable he can't even pronounce? Or, more to the point, who was I with and what had he done with Holmes?
Bottles of Rosabella Rose (unfortunately, they were out of the Arianna Occhipinti Grillo we'd requested) accompanied the brocaletti, along with an arugula salad with red onion, fennel and sweety drops. One of the servers told us she'd been so enamored of the sweety drops that she'd ordered an entire jar for herself. I have to say, Holmes, Beloved and I were mighty taken with the teardrop-shaped cross between a cherry tomato and a jalapeno that managed to taste both sweet and tart at once.
Next we went on a fungi bender, first with a wild mushroom, roasted garlic, caramelized onion and Fontina pizza (with crust to die for) and then with a special of tagliarini with an array of mushrooms in a cream sauce. The tagliarini was so tender, it all but melted in your mouth.
Dessert was an extravaganza, with tiramisu (Beloved's first ever), lemon buttermilk zeppole with dark chocolate dipping sauce and the dessert du jour, a fig crostata. We paired the latter two with Barolo Chinato, as lovely an accompaniment to a sweet course as could be hoped for. And that rustic fig crostata, well, its thick, barely sweet crust was worthy of the figs and that's saying a lot coming from a fig fanatic.
The evening's soundtrack came courtesy of Holmes' buddy who'd been downsizing. Seems Holmes stopped by and scooped up an old Peaches crate filled with 45s. Granted, you have to be pretty seasoned to remember what Peaches was and that they sold crates for records, but none of us had any trouble.
There was loads of Elvis Costello, only a couple from the Beatles, plus the Jam, the Stranglers, B52s and a host of other '80s bands. We spent the evening working our way through the 45s, occasionally going to an album (can you ever hear too much Brass Ring, really?) for a side just to give Holmes a break on the turntable.
Greetings from the land of secession
When the day is spent driving to and from Norfolk, where signs with dire warnings of "High tide gate testing Tuesday 1 a.m." foreshadow the impending hurricane, it's best if the evening involves no car time. Fortunately, Conch Republic was no more than a brief stroll for a view of skulling boats, setting sun and a photo shoot for the restaurant at a nearby table.
In what was no doubt early preparation for Florence's arrival, all the umbrellas had been taken off the deck, unfortunate since the sun continues to shine until the weather system arrives. I made do by sitting with my back to the sun, but given that it's (sadly) nearly mid-September, it slid behind the trees before too long.
Broadbent Vino Verde washed down conch chowder, a wedge salad ("What kind of dressing do you want on that?" our young server asks. Um, bleu cheese because it wouldn't be a true wedge salad without it?) and a California Cobb. Over at the Boathouse, we saw tiki torches burning on their deck, although I can no longer think of them without thinking of last year's white supremacy march at UVA. Damn neo-Nazis spoil everything for the whole group. What's next, beach umbrellas?
I know, I know, I'm leaving out an awful lot for someone with lots to say who hasn't blogged in days, but you know what? It's going to get worse before it gets better. Depending on how Flo decides to behave, things could get even crazier next week. And the week after? Forget about it.
When you throw your lot in with a planner, there's bound to be too much adventure to document it all. All I can tell you is that my aim is true.
Greetings from First Fridays...
You know it's going to be a great evening when the owner of Chez Foushee asks how close you'd like to sit to the bossa nova band. We put just enough distance between the music and our conversation to enjoy both.
Meanwhile, we took our time with crab bisque, olives and Marcona almonds in herbed oil and a couple of Foushee market salads loaded with cannellini beans, craisins, toasted almonds and red onions over peppery arugula with green goddess dressing. The salad choice was a matter of necessity once I found out that their long-standard brussels sprouts salad (the one with bacon, red onions and bleu cheese) has been put out to pasture. I may never recover from the loss, though a dense dark chocolate mousse helped ease the pain somewhat.
Our art fix was taken at the main library with "Herald 4- Drawing from the Knew," an exhibit of seven regional artists working in vastly different styles. At 1708, we took in "Yo, Bruce: Gerald Donato + Bruce Wilhelm" because the playful nature of Donato's work never gets old. At Black Iris for the "Sink or Swim" show, my favorite was the drawing that incorporated Popeye, Olive Oil and Wimpy into one image (and probably unrecognizable to a younger viewer). Candela Gallery's group show, "Channels" of work by Willie Anne Wright, Courtney Johnson and Lisa Kokin was compelling, none more so than Kokin's mixed media sewn collages using old black and white photographs of people sewn together.
Because we're all connected, right?
Greetings from Peaches, home to 45s
Even if there had been no crate of surprises, the meal would have been memorable. Holmes, Beloved and I ventured out of their usual comfort zone for a meal taken at the corner of Nota Bene's bar. Holmes went in looking for the cauliflower that had changed his opinion about cauliflower, only to find it (like the brussels sprout salad at Chez Foushee) M.I.A. Where he scored points was in suggesting we get the brocaletti with red peppers and anchovy breadcrumbs instead.
Since when does Holmes suggest a vegetable he can't even pronounce? Or, more to the point, who was I with and what had he done with Holmes?
Bottles of Rosabella Rose (unfortunately, they were out of the Arianna Occhipinti Grillo we'd requested) accompanied the brocaletti, along with an arugula salad with red onion, fennel and sweety drops. One of the servers told us she'd been so enamored of the sweety drops that she'd ordered an entire jar for herself. I have to say, Holmes, Beloved and I were mighty taken with the teardrop-shaped cross between a cherry tomato and a jalapeno that managed to taste both sweet and tart at once.
Next we went on a fungi bender, first with a wild mushroom, roasted garlic, caramelized onion and Fontina pizza (with crust to die for) and then with a special of tagliarini with an array of mushrooms in a cream sauce. The tagliarini was so tender, it all but melted in your mouth.
Dessert was an extravaganza, with tiramisu (Beloved's first ever), lemon buttermilk zeppole with dark chocolate dipping sauce and the dessert du jour, a fig crostata. We paired the latter two with Barolo Chinato, as lovely an accompaniment to a sweet course as could be hoped for. And that rustic fig crostata, well, its thick, barely sweet crust was worthy of the figs and that's saying a lot coming from a fig fanatic.
The evening's soundtrack came courtesy of Holmes' buddy who'd been downsizing. Seems Holmes stopped by and scooped up an old Peaches crate filled with 45s. Granted, you have to be pretty seasoned to remember what Peaches was and that they sold crates for records, but none of us had any trouble.
There was loads of Elvis Costello, only a couple from the Beatles, plus the Jam, the Stranglers, B52s and a host of other '80s bands. We spent the evening working our way through the 45s, occasionally going to an album (can you ever hear too much Brass Ring, really?) for a side just to give Holmes a break on the turntable.
Greetings from the land of secession
When the day is spent driving to and from Norfolk, where signs with dire warnings of "High tide gate testing Tuesday 1 a.m." foreshadow the impending hurricane, it's best if the evening involves no car time. Fortunately, Conch Republic was no more than a brief stroll for a view of skulling boats, setting sun and a photo shoot for the restaurant at a nearby table.
In what was no doubt early preparation for Florence's arrival, all the umbrellas had been taken off the deck, unfortunate since the sun continues to shine until the weather system arrives. I made do by sitting with my back to the sun, but given that it's (sadly) nearly mid-September, it slid behind the trees before too long.
Broadbent Vino Verde washed down conch chowder, a wedge salad ("What kind of dressing do you want on that?" our young server asks. Um, bleu cheese because it wouldn't be a true wedge salad without it?) and a California Cobb. Over at the Boathouse, we saw tiki torches burning on their deck, although I can no longer think of them without thinking of last year's white supremacy march at UVA. Damn neo-Nazis spoil everything for the whole group. What's next, beach umbrellas?
I know, I know, I'm leaving out an awful lot for someone with lots to say who hasn't blogged in days, but you know what? It's going to get worse before it gets better. Depending on how Flo decides to behave, things could get even crazier next week. And the week after? Forget about it.
When you throw your lot in with a planner, there's bound to be too much adventure to document it all. All I can tell you is that my aim is true.
Sunday, March 11, 2018
The Almighty Dollar
I didn't want to go out, but I knew I needed to.
By that I mean I needed to get back to interacting with people besides my innermost circle of friends (3 women, with one non-alpha male attached to one of them) even when I don't feel like it (for some time now), but also I needed to go be exposed to something I could learn from (beyond my daily reading) because doing so inevitably makes me feel better.
When I ran into a photographer I know on my way over, she said seeing me headed there meant that it was the place to be tonight. If only she knew how untrue that was these days.
For the past two days, Candela Gallery's exterior has been draped in a giant flag reading, "Puerto Rico is dying," in an effort to remind people that it is day 156 for Puerto Ricans without any return to normalcy. As part of the 3-day event, artist Steven Casanova had illuminated the chandelier he'd made out of a collection of the type of small solar lights that were handed out to islanders with no power.
Even grouped, it wasn't a lot of light. What it was, was a powerful reminder. Ditto the bottled waters handed out to each audience member as the film began playing. Looking at the bright side, at least we didn't have rolls of paper towels being thrown at us.
Tonight's main event was a screening by the Bijou of "Harvest of an Empire" about the history of Latino immigration to the U.S., beginning with Puerto Rico, although, of course, that's not immigration since they're U.S. citizens.
But it was a good starting point to teach us how the U.S. meddles in the affairs of other countries, always for financial gains, and once the country is destabilized, people flee it for opportunities or asylum here.
I needed to be reminded that Mexico once extended as far north as California and Utah and that while we were technically two countries, it was very much one economy and we desperately needed the labor supplied by Mexico. Or we did until the economy went south and then those workers were easily expendable. And re-hirable at our convenience.
The filmmakers methodically showed how our government had used greed to motivate meddling in the governments of El Salvador, Guatemala, Nicaragua, the Dominican Republic, Cuba and Mexico, moves that drove thousands of people to flee brutal wars and regimes and land here.
Where the movie shone was in using accomplished immigrants - a Pulitzer prize winner, a brain surgeon, renowned writers and musicians, a Nobel Peace Prize winner, Geraldo Rivera - to explain their path here. What came through time and time again was how many immigrants fought for this country, were dedicated employees for decades and raised children here to give them a better life.
No one expected a handout, but they did hope for a chance.
Learning all this history was disturbing enough - old colonial habits die hard - but then there's the other side of the coin that we're dealing with today. If it's our government's fault that life in these countries has become intolerable, shouldn't we have a moral obligation to accept people trying to flee it?
I can't hear you, immigrant haters. How can we turn our backs on people who are suffering because of our unlawful actions in their country?
Turns out I didn't get a whole lot of social interaction after all. But I did go out, I chatted with a few familiar faces and I learned a lot.
It's not progress exactly, but I am trying.
By that I mean I needed to get back to interacting with people besides my innermost circle of friends (3 women, with one non-alpha male attached to one of them) even when I don't feel like it (for some time now), but also I needed to go be exposed to something I could learn from (beyond my daily reading) because doing so inevitably makes me feel better.
When I ran into a photographer I know on my way over, she said seeing me headed there meant that it was the place to be tonight. If only she knew how untrue that was these days.
For the past two days, Candela Gallery's exterior has been draped in a giant flag reading, "Puerto Rico is dying," in an effort to remind people that it is day 156 for Puerto Ricans without any return to normalcy. As part of the 3-day event, artist Steven Casanova had illuminated the chandelier he'd made out of a collection of the type of small solar lights that were handed out to islanders with no power.
Even grouped, it wasn't a lot of light. What it was, was a powerful reminder. Ditto the bottled waters handed out to each audience member as the film began playing. Looking at the bright side, at least we didn't have rolls of paper towels being thrown at us.
Tonight's main event was a screening by the Bijou of "Harvest of an Empire" about the history of Latino immigration to the U.S., beginning with Puerto Rico, although, of course, that's not immigration since they're U.S. citizens.
But it was a good starting point to teach us how the U.S. meddles in the affairs of other countries, always for financial gains, and once the country is destabilized, people flee it for opportunities or asylum here.
I needed to be reminded that Mexico once extended as far north as California and Utah and that while we were technically two countries, it was very much one economy and we desperately needed the labor supplied by Mexico. Or we did until the economy went south and then those workers were easily expendable. And re-hirable at our convenience.
The filmmakers methodically showed how our government had used greed to motivate meddling in the governments of El Salvador, Guatemala, Nicaragua, the Dominican Republic, Cuba and Mexico, moves that drove thousands of people to flee brutal wars and regimes and land here.
Where the movie shone was in using accomplished immigrants - a Pulitzer prize winner, a brain surgeon, renowned writers and musicians, a Nobel Peace Prize winner, Geraldo Rivera - to explain their path here. What came through time and time again was how many immigrants fought for this country, were dedicated employees for decades and raised children here to give them a better life.
No one expected a handout, but they did hope for a chance.
Learning all this history was disturbing enough - old colonial habits die hard - but then there's the other side of the coin that we're dealing with today. If it's our government's fault that life in these countries has become intolerable, shouldn't we have a moral obligation to accept people trying to flee it?
I can't hear you, immigrant haters. How can we turn our backs on people who are suffering because of our unlawful actions in their country?
Turns out I didn't get a whole lot of social interaction after all. But I did go out, I chatted with a few familiar faces and I learned a lot.
It's not progress exactly, but I am trying.
Friday, March 3, 2017
You're So Columbo
Like it or not, I am a product of my time.
You can lead a 20th century woman to digitally-manipulated photographs, but you can't stop her from looking for reality where none exists.
Tonight was the opening of "Chop Shop" at Gandela Gallery, a show of seven artists transforming photographic images through digital manipulation, with four of the artists talking to kick things off.
One of the photographers, Tom Chambers, referred to the pieces as a "distortion of the truth. Call them alternative facts, that's me and Donny."
Please don't remind us.
Nadine Boughton's works used cut-out magazine photographs from the 40s, '50s and early '60s to comment on gender issues and raise a cloud of ambiguity, while Peter Leighton combined elements from different vintage photos into a wholly new image. Blythe King used women from the pages of the Montgomery Ward catalog to reinterpret women's roles and filter it through a haze of divinity, as only a millennial can do.
My problem is my brain forgets to adjust for the 21st century, so it looks at these images and tries to find the reality there and no such thing exists. I'm looking for evidence of collage and mixed media and these photographs reflect a world that never was.
Desperately seeking a way to ground these pictures in what my mind recognizes, I have to finally accept them as shaping their own design independent of truth.
A metaphor, perhaps, for this cowardly, new world we live in.
Likewise, you can go see Heritage Ensemble Theatre Company's "Choirboy" at Richmond Triangle Players and find yourself mulling the same hard truths that defined the Oscar-winning film "Moonlight": it's not easy to be gay and out in the black community, much less at a tony black prep school.
Besides the pleasure of watching talented young actors I'd not seen before, the play was also a showcase for gospel music and multiple-part harmonies that could make the hair on your arms stand up when they sang a capella (for the most part, the only accompaniment was snapping fingers and stomping feet, sometimes from backstage) just opening their mouths.
It was another in the Acts of Faith Festival that dances around issues of faith in ways that even full-blown heathens like me can digest and appreciate.
Which is more than I can say for the dinner my hired mouth, favorite walking companion and I began the night with. Ah, well.
As Meat Loaf the philosopher would say, two out of three ain't bad.
You can lead a 20th century woman to digitally-manipulated photographs, but you can't stop her from looking for reality where none exists.
Tonight was the opening of "Chop Shop" at Gandela Gallery, a show of seven artists transforming photographic images through digital manipulation, with four of the artists talking to kick things off.
One of the photographers, Tom Chambers, referred to the pieces as a "distortion of the truth. Call them alternative facts, that's me and Donny."
Please don't remind us.
Nadine Boughton's works used cut-out magazine photographs from the 40s, '50s and early '60s to comment on gender issues and raise a cloud of ambiguity, while Peter Leighton combined elements from different vintage photos into a wholly new image. Blythe King used women from the pages of the Montgomery Ward catalog to reinterpret women's roles and filter it through a haze of divinity, as only a millennial can do.
My problem is my brain forgets to adjust for the 21st century, so it looks at these images and tries to find the reality there and no such thing exists. I'm looking for evidence of collage and mixed media and these photographs reflect a world that never was.
Desperately seeking a way to ground these pictures in what my mind recognizes, I have to finally accept them as shaping their own design independent of truth.
A metaphor, perhaps, for this cowardly, new world we live in.
Likewise, you can go see Heritage Ensemble Theatre Company's "Choirboy" at Richmond Triangle Players and find yourself mulling the same hard truths that defined the Oscar-winning film "Moonlight": it's not easy to be gay and out in the black community, much less at a tony black prep school.
Besides the pleasure of watching talented young actors I'd not seen before, the play was also a showcase for gospel music and multiple-part harmonies that could make the hair on your arms stand up when they sang a capella (for the most part, the only accompaniment was snapping fingers and stomping feet, sometimes from backstage) just opening their mouths.
It was another in the Acts of Faith Festival that dances around issues of faith in ways that even full-blown heathens like me can digest and appreciate.
Which is more than I can say for the dinner my hired mouth, favorite walking companion and I began the night with. Ah, well.
As Meat Loaf the philosopher would say, two out of three ain't bad.
Friday, January 6, 2017
Is Good Enough?
Well, I certainly didn't see that coming.
The stated game plan was to discuss our 2017 resolutions. But, like every other get-together I've had this week, it was more about re-establishing contact after two weeks of holiday interruption, and if there were unstated goals, well, no one was talking about that.
Deferring to me to come up with a game plan ("I haven't looked at what's happening this week. If you know about something good - you've had great suggestions before - I'm happy to let you select"), I shared what I'd intended to do before hearing from him: go to Susan Worsham's opening at Candela Gallery.
Just like that, we had a plan. I was standing in front of one of Susan's multi-layered and metaphoric photographs when I felt a presence next to me and the evening was off and running as we made our way through the crowded galleries to talk about each picture.
My attraction to Susan's work is all about the attitude. Even the name of the show - "By the Grace of God" - is a testament to her sunny disposition and willingness to stop every single time she sees the makings of a photograph in nature or life. Not later, not come back to it. Now.
Miss an opportunity and it may be missed for good.
Like me, she doesn't hesitate to approach strangers, ask questions and press until she gets the affirmative answer she wants, a strategy that works as well with friendships as art.
By the time we'd made the rounds discussing what attracted us about the work, it was time to claim our seats in the overflowing room for the artist's talk.
Susan is such a disarming speaker and she quickly charmed the room with stories of how she got photos, how nerdy she could be begging people to let her take their image and stressing just how few photography classes she took before setting off to document the beautiful moments in life.
Because that, quite simply, is her goal.
To a student or aspiring photographer of any age, she had to have been positively inspiring with her message of making the time and effort to shoot no matter how indolent or uninspired they might feel.
"Photography is the only thing that keeps me from being lazy," she insisted with a huge red-lipsticked smile on her face.
Suitably artfully inspired - not that I wasn't already constantly on the lookout for the beauty in life or as Pru likes to say, "You and your flippin' silver linings!" - we made our way to My Noodle & Bar, which was packed despite the cold weather.
I'd say scoring one of the tiki huts there as our lair for dinner counts as a good thing, while using both the curtain separating us from the next booth as well as hanging our coats on hooks next to us to create the proper level of privacy provided an ideal setting for the latest installment of our ongoing conversation.
And because our booth was in the direct line of the door and the masses of cold air that poured in every time it opened and, let's get real here, I am so not built for winter.
Since it was his first time, I was pleased at how much he enjoyed his My Noodle dish while I got my standard broccoli and chicken order from my favorite server, who didn't even let me get the words out before she parroted back the rest of my order in a familiar, sing song voice.
There's a lot to be said for being a regular and having people know you.
In some ways, that was the topic of our wide-ranging conversation as he shared his adventures down south and I mine out west and we dug deep into what we hope to accomplish in 2017. His to-do list is longer, but we also had some overlap in one category, which could make things interesting.
By the time we left there, we'd both dropped some surprising news, had our usual back and forth ribbing about why he always feels the need to remind me he can't stay out late and decided we needed to make one more stop anyway.
Graffiato's won the imaginary toss.
Whistlepig Rye ignited a lively conversation with our affable bartender, who was more than happy to discuss brown spirits and distinctive distillation methods with my friend while I took mental notes. A girl never knows when whiskey knowledge will come in handy.
By the time they'd reached a consensus on what my date would drink, he got his pour and the bartender headed up the bar to assist others. Several minutes later, he returned, looking stricken because he'd never so much as inquired what I might want.
Accompanying his sincere-sounding apology was an overly generous pour of Barboursville Rose, his solicitous attention to my water glass for the remainder of the night and, when I inquired about last call half pours, his willingness to accommodate both brown and pink.
Willingness was in the air as the nature of friendships was parsed, advice about the opposite sex was offered and new boundaries were tentatively approached. Forward progress seems to be the natural result of the best ongoing conversations.
Miss an opportunity and it may be missed for good.
The stated game plan was to discuss our 2017 resolutions. But, like every other get-together I've had this week, it was more about re-establishing contact after two weeks of holiday interruption, and if there were unstated goals, well, no one was talking about that.
Deferring to me to come up with a game plan ("I haven't looked at what's happening this week. If you know about something good - you've had great suggestions before - I'm happy to let you select"), I shared what I'd intended to do before hearing from him: go to Susan Worsham's opening at Candela Gallery.
Just like that, we had a plan. I was standing in front of one of Susan's multi-layered and metaphoric photographs when I felt a presence next to me and the evening was off and running as we made our way through the crowded galleries to talk about each picture.
My attraction to Susan's work is all about the attitude. Even the name of the show - "By the Grace of God" - is a testament to her sunny disposition and willingness to stop every single time she sees the makings of a photograph in nature or life. Not later, not come back to it. Now.
Miss an opportunity and it may be missed for good.
Like me, she doesn't hesitate to approach strangers, ask questions and press until she gets the affirmative answer she wants, a strategy that works as well with friendships as art.
By the time we'd made the rounds discussing what attracted us about the work, it was time to claim our seats in the overflowing room for the artist's talk.
Susan is such a disarming speaker and she quickly charmed the room with stories of how she got photos, how nerdy she could be begging people to let her take their image and stressing just how few photography classes she took before setting off to document the beautiful moments in life.
Because that, quite simply, is her goal.
To a student or aspiring photographer of any age, she had to have been positively inspiring with her message of making the time and effort to shoot no matter how indolent or uninspired they might feel.
"Photography is the only thing that keeps me from being lazy," she insisted with a huge red-lipsticked smile on her face.
Suitably artfully inspired - not that I wasn't already constantly on the lookout for the beauty in life or as Pru likes to say, "You and your flippin' silver linings!" - we made our way to My Noodle & Bar, which was packed despite the cold weather.
I'd say scoring one of the tiki huts there as our lair for dinner counts as a good thing, while using both the curtain separating us from the next booth as well as hanging our coats on hooks next to us to create the proper level of privacy provided an ideal setting for the latest installment of our ongoing conversation.
And because our booth was in the direct line of the door and the masses of cold air that poured in every time it opened and, let's get real here, I am so not built for winter.
Since it was his first time, I was pleased at how much he enjoyed his My Noodle dish while I got my standard broccoli and chicken order from my favorite server, who didn't even let me get the words out before she parroted back the rest of my order in a familiar, sing song voice.
There's a lot to be said for being a regular and having people know you.
In some ways, that was the topic of our wide-ranging conversation as he shared his adventures down south and I mine out west and we dug deep into what we hope to accomplish in 2017. His to-do list is longer, but we also had some overlap in one category, which could make things interesting.
By the time we left there, we'd both dropped some surprising news, had our usual back and forth ribbing about why he always feels the need to remind me he can't stay out late and decided we needed to make one more stop anyway.
Graffiato's won the imaginary toss.
Whistlepig Rye ignited a lively conversation with our affable bartender, who was more than happy to discuss brown spirits and distinctive distillation methods with my friend while I took mental notes. A girl never knows when whiskey knowledge will come in handy.
By the time they'd reached a consensus on what my date would drink, he got his pour and the bartender headed up the bar to assist others. Several minutes later, he returned, looking stricken because he'd never so much as inquired what I might want.
Accompanying his sincere-sounding apology was an overly generous pour of Barboursville Rose, his solicitous attention to my water glass for the remainder of the night and, when I inquired about last call half pours, his willingness to accommodate both brown and pink.
Willingness was in the air as the nature of friendships was parsed, advice about the opposite sex was offered and new boundaries were tentatively approached. Forward progress seems to be the natural result of the best ongoing conversations.
Miss an opportunity and it may be missed for good.
Friday, September 2, 2016
Doing the Right Thing
There is no pleasure for me in turning the calendar to September.
Oh, I did it today, rearranging my perpetual calendar to reflect the change, but it's pulling out the four-month block - September, October, November, December - knowing that that's what I have to look forward to that signals the beginning of the end for summer fans like me.
And just as the month changes, so does the tone of local culture. We're more serious, more earnest, it seems, immediately.
I don't have to look any further than the opening of "Stump," the new photography show at Candela Gallery, for proof. I recently mentioned to a friend that never in all my years as a registered voter have I felt as appalled as at this election cycle.
Apparently on the exact same page as me is Candela Gallery's owner, who deals with it creatively by mounting a show of work addressing big issues, the scarred political landscape and what a general mess we now have on our hands.
Women's concerns, the Black Lives Matter Movement, the Presidential election, consumerism, Guantanamo Bay, immigration, environmentalism, it's all laid out in an array of photographic processes for Richmond to consider.
Best of all, they also have voter registration (and changes to your status) going on every single day the gallery is open. It's a brilliant way of starting a dialog and engaging the community in a bigger conversation after being motivated by the artistic reminders on the wall of all that still needs addressing.
It is most definitely not a show you'd see during the lazy days of a goof-off summer. Nope, it's serious September all right.
The same could be said for the Virginia Historical Society's Created Equal Film series, which started tonight with a crowd that pulled from their noontime Banner lectures as well as attracting those specifically interested in the film "Rosenwald" about the Jewish Sears & Roebuck exec who'd established challenge grants to build 5,000 schools for black children across the south (you know, just a little hobby of a white man during the Jim Crow era).
That diversity meant there were maxi dresses, hearing aids, hippie types, grand dames and everyone in between. So much to see and eavesdrop on.
Sit anywhere. This is one place where anywhere you sit, the sound is great.
I can't help but notice a woman in her thirties passing the time reading a magazine, not a device.
Susan! How's retirement treating you?
A 20-something reads a hardback book, at least until her man arrives and then they both take out phones and address their attention to the outer world, not each other.
Do you have a good sight line?
Doesn't matter. Cataracts.
Are you any closer to addressing that?
I have to wait for Charlie to get better first.
Amazingly, the auditorium is filling completely up for a documentary about a rich Jewish man who gave away his fortune in the form of building YMCAs and schools for blacks, and then issuing grants and fellowships.
She's so busy with herself, she probably didn't even notice her husband wasn't there. That's my catty comment for the night.
The seats next to me were taken by a couple of history buffs who'd driven down from Stafford because of the subject matter.
Talking about race, his wife nudged him to share some of his memories, things like not being able to try on clothes at J.C. Penney, or always having to sit upstairs at movie theaters and not being allowed to eat at lunch counters.
She recalled being shocked at the difference in how history was taught when she moved from Ohio to Virginia in 1968. "In Ohio, the history books said the Civil War ended, but here..." she shrugged.
Let's just say it was the kind of audience who got excited and started murmuring when it was announced that at the next film in the series, Mary Sue Terry would be speaking.
Actually, when the speaker said that the Rosenwald schools were still in use all the way up until the Brown decision in 1960, many of them were just as vocal and a chorus of knowing "mmm-hmms" ran through the room.
My meager knowledge of Julius Rosenwald came from a book talk in this very same room a few years back, so about all I was sure of was that he'd been a terrific businessman and an early Civil Rights activist.
What came across loud and clear in the film was how much his Jewish faith shaped how he used his Sears fortune for good, mainly due to the Jewish commitment to philanthropy and charity as well as his fascination with Booker T. Washington's "Up from Slavery" and his revulsion over the pogroms going on in Russia at the time.
Early on in his success, his goal was to have $15,000: $5K to save, $5K to spend and $5K to give away. But he didn't just hand over cash; instead he expected the black community to come up with a third of the cost of a school, the white populace another third and he'd do the final third.
Fair is fair.
Needless to say, the communities raised the money and helped build the modern, light-filled schools, always built to be south-facing with high windows, probably familiar to the dozens of Rosenwald Schools graduates in the room tonight
Since most of the audience was of an age, they got a big laugh out of the film explaining the cultural significance of the Sears catalog with its endless, exotic and myriad choices.
"It was like what Amazon is today," some obviously millennial writer had penned. Thanks for the clarification, kid.
We learned that the Sears catalog was made specifically to be smaller than the Montgomery Ward catalog so it would always rest on top in a stack. How's that for marketing genius?
One woman summed up her allegiance to the catalog by saying, "You wished on it, then you could recycle it." Um, sure could.
But it was even more than YMCAs, schools and grants, though everyone from the "busboy poet" Langston Hughes to Ralph Ellison to James Baldwin to Gordon Parks benefited from those grants.
He'd also built an enormous apartment complex in Chicago, the Michigan Boulevard Garden Building so middle class blacks had a safe and handsome place to raise a family. People in the film spoke glowingly of the "village" that covered an entire city block, offering stores, apartments and a huge enclosed garden where children spent entire days and summers safely.
The film made a case for Rosenwald's philanthropy being based on a shared sense with blacks of being part of a "despised race." Someone called him a man of righteous action, a label I think he'd have been fine with.
No man of righteous action would be able to accept our current state of racial progress, meaning if old Julius were still here, he'd be trying to do something about it. Seriously.
Especially now that it's September.
Oh, I did it today, rearranging my perpetual calendar to reflect the change, but it's pulling out the four-month block - September, October, November, December - knowing that that's what I have to look forward to that signals the beginning of the end for summer fans like me.
And just as the month changes, so does the tone of local culture. We're more serious, more earnest, it seems, immediately.
I don't have to look any further than the opening of "Stump," the new photography show at Candela Gallery, for proof. I recently mentioned to a friend that never in all my years as a registered voter have I felt as appalled as at this election cycle.
Apparently on the exact same page as me is Candela Gallery's owner, who deals with it creatively by mounting a show of work addressing big issues, the scarred political landscape and what a general mess we now have on our hands.
Women's concerns, the Black Lives Matter Movement, the Presidential election, consumerism, Guantanamo Bay, immigration, environmentalism, it's all laid out in an array of photographic processes for Richmond to consider.
Best of all, they also have voter registration (and changes to your status) going on every single day the gallery is open. It's a brilliant way of starting a dialog and engaging the community in a bigger conversation after being motivated by the artistic reminders on the wall of all that still needs addressing.
It is most definitely not a show you'd see during the lazy days of a goof-off summer. Nope, it's serious September all right.
The same could be said for the Virginia Historical Society's Created Equal Film series, which started tonight with a crowd that pulled from their noontime Banner lectures as well as attracting those specifically interested in the film "Rosenwald" about the Jewish Sears & Roebuck exec who'd established challenge grants to build 5,000 schools for black children across the south (you know, just a little hobby of a white man during the Jim Crow era).
That diversity meant there were maxi dresses, hearing aids, hippie types, grand dames and everyone in between. So much to see and eavesdrop on.
Sit anywhere. This is one place where anywhere you sit, the sound is great.
I can't help but notice a woman in her thirties passing the time reading a magazine, not a device.
Susan! How's retirement treating you?
A 20-something reads a hardback book, at least until her man arrives and then they both take out phones and address their attention to the outer world, not each other.
Do you have a good sight line?
Doesn't matter. Cataracts.
Are you any closer to addressing that?
I have to wait for Charlie to get better first.
Amazingly, the auditorium is filling completely up for a documentary about a rich Jewish man who gave away his fortune in the form of building YMCAs and schools for blacks, and then issuing grants and fellowships.
She's so busy with herself, she probably didn't even notice her husband wasn't there. That's my catty comment for the night.
The seats next to me were taken by a couple of history buffs who'd driven down from Stafford because of the subject matter.
Talking about race, his wife nudged him to share some of his memories, things like not being able to try on clothes at J.C. Penney, or always having to sit upstairs at movie theaters and not being allowed to eat at lunch counters.
She recalled being shocked at the difference in how history was taught when she moved from Ohio to Virginia in 1968. "In Ohio, the history books said the Civil War ended, but here..." she shrugged.
Let's just say it was the kind of audience who got excited and started murmuring when it was announced that at the next film in the series, Mary Sue Terry would be speaking.
Actually, when the speaker said that the Rosenwald schools were still in use all the way up until the Brown decision in 1960, many of them were just as vocal and a chorus of knowing "mmm-hmms" ran through the room.
My meager knowledge of Julius Rosenwald came from a book talk in this very same room a few years back, so about all I was sure of was that he'd been a terrific businessman and an early Civil Rights activist.
What came across loud and clear in the film was how much his Jewish faith shaped how he used his Sears fortune for good, mainly due to the Jewish commitment to philanthropy and charity as well as his fascination with Booker T. Washington's "Up from Slavery" and his revulsion over the pogroms going on in Russia at the time.
Early on in his success, his goal was to have $15,000: $5K to save, $5K to spend and $5K to give away. But he didn't just hand over cash; instead he expected the black community to come up with a third of the cost of a school, the white populace another third and he'd do the final third.
Fair is fair.
Needless to say, the communities raised the money and helped build the modern, light-filled schools, always built to be south-facing with high windows, probably familiar to the dozens of Rosenwald Schools graduates in the room tonight
Since most of the audience was of an age, they got a big laugh out of the film explaining the cultural significance of the Sears catalog with its endless, exotic and myriad choices.
"It was like what Amazon is today," some obviously millennial writer had penned. Thanks for the clarification, kid.
We learned that the Sears catalog was made specifically to be smaller than the Montgomery Ward catalog so it would always rest on top in a stack. How's that for marketing genius?
One woman summed up her allegiance to the catalog by saying, "You wished on it, then you could recycle it." Um, sure could.
But it was even more than YMCAs, schools and grants, though everyone from the "busboy poet" Langston Hughes to Ralph Ellison to James Baldwin to Gordon Parks benefited from those grants.
He'd also built an enormous apartment complex in Chicago, the Michigan Boulevard Garden Building so middle class blacks had a safe and handsome place to raise a family. People in the film spoke glowingly of the "village" that covered an entire city block, offering stores, apartments and a huge enclosed garden where children spent entire days and summers safely.
The film made a case for Rosenwald's philanthropy being based on a shared sense with blacks of being part of a "despised race." Someone called him a man of righteous action, a label I think he'd have been fine with.
No man of righteous action would be able to accept our current state of racial progress, meaning if old Julius were still here, he'd be trying to do something about it. Seriously.
Especially now that it's September.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
Minimalistic Gallery Hopping
For a Jackson Ward resident, I've been woefully absent at recent First Fridays.
I fixed that tonight, managing to hit Candela Gallery for their mobbed Indie Photobook showcase, ADA Gallery for Geo Necro, where 86 artists collectively imagined a dungeon and Black Iris for the latest in their Tiny Bar series.
The Brian Jones Trio was set to play, the candles were lit and people filled the room to hear the piano, upright bass and drum combo expend some energy in pursuit of filling the multiple-story room with a tribute to the Purple One, a piece called "Ghost Hand" in which Brian usually plays piano but didn't and other fine examples of Friday night jazz.
Before long, pianist Daniel was unstoppable, scissoring his body to create sound, exploding off the bench with passionate playing, drummer Brian was mopping sweat off his face and head and bassist Russell was grinning with pleasure at defiant rhythmic change-ups.
The mostly young crowd bobbed their heads and yelled "Ow, ow, ow!" when things got especially good.
Not content to stop there, I went to Gallery 5 for the VCU Senior Communication Art student show, which was naturally mobbed with young VCU types.
Behind me, a man looking at Julia Moore's illustration of lizard limb regeneration asked the little girl with him, "Have you ever caught a salamander?' and when she answered in the negative, he told her that you could catch one, cut its foot off and it would grow back.
"Isn't that mean?" the child asked plaintively, but the man was already on to another piece of art. Bending down, I told her that yes, it was mean and that she should never do such a thing. Ever.
Forget stranger danger, how about Bad Dad syndrome?
But a theme for the show was emerging as I looked at Timothy Pfeiffer's "A Shooter's Mother," a haunting image of a woman hugging a hooded, black-cloaked figure holding two guns. On another wall was Alicia Wendling's Minimalistic Horror Poster series, the eyeless images staring out at the viewer. Smith's black and white-toned oil painting called "Suckers" depicted a group of WW II soldiers gambling away their earnings.
Bleak world aside aside, a few seniors had apparently escaped the doom and gloom of their nihilistic childhoods and it showed in their art, like Caroline Bivens' exquisite botanical illustrations of golden beets, which were positively life-affirming compared to limbs and murderers.
Downstairs, Atlanta's Hello Ocho's jazz-not-jazz psych rock was just getting cranked up, the vibes and synth ensuring I'd stay for their set, which meandered through all kinds of musical planes as they wove their spell through the room to end my evening.
First Friday, I was overdue to catch up with you.
I fixed that tonight, managing to hit Candela Gallery for their mobbed Indie Photobook showcase, ADA Gallery for Geo Necro, where 86 artists collectively imagined a dungeon and Black Iris for the latest in their Tiny Bar series.
The Brian Jones Trio was set to play, the candles were lit and people filled the room to hear the piano, upright bass and drum combo expend some energy in pursuit of filling the multiple-story room with a tribute to the Purple One, a piece called "Ghost Hand" in which Brian usually plays piano but didn't and other fine examples of Friday night jazz.
Before long, pianist Daniel was unstoppable, scissoring his body to create sound, exploding off the bench with passionate playing, drummer Brian was mopping sweat off his face and head and bassist Russell was grinning with pleasure at defiant rhythmic change-ups.
The mostly young crowd bobbed their heads and yelled "Ow, ow, ow!" when things got especially good.
Not content to stop there, I went to Gallery 5 for the VCU Senior Communication Art student show, which was naturally mobbed with young VCU types.
Behind me, a man looking at Julia Moore's illustration of lizard limb regeneration asked the little girl with him, "Have you ever caught a salamander?' and when she answered in the negative, he told her that you could catch one, cut its foot off and it would grow back.
"Isn't that mean?" the child asked plaintively, but the man was already on to another piece of art. Bending down, I told her that yes, it was mean and that she should never do such a thing. Ever.
Forget stranger danger, how about Bad Dad syndrome?
But a theme for the show was emerging as I looked at Timothy Pfeiffer's "A Shooter's Mother," a haunting image of a woman hugging a hooded, black-cloaked figure holding two guns. On another wall was Alicia Wendling's Minimalistic Horror Poster series, the eyeless images staring out at the viewer. Smith's black and white-toned oil painting called "Suckers" depicted a group of WW II soldiers gambling away their earnings.
Bleak world aside aside, a few seniors had apparently escaped the doom and gloom of their nihilistic childhoods and it showed in their art, like Caroline Bivens' exquisite botanical illustrations of golden beets, which were positively life-affirming compared to limbs and murderers.
Downstairs, Atlanta's Hello Ocho's jazz-not-jazz psych rock was just getting cranked up, the vibes and synth ensuring I'd stay for their set, which meandered through all kinds of musical planes as they wove their spell through the room to end my evening.
First Friday, I was overdue to catch up with you.
Friday, January 8, 2016
Sound and Vision
This town never lets me down.
Given the holiday/vacation haze of the past few weeks, it felt like forever since I'd done anything so normal and neighborhood-like as going to an art opening, which was my motivation for walking the five blocks to check out the one at Candela Gallery.
It would be too limiting to call Andreas Rentch's work photography, although obviously it is or a photography gallery like Candela wouldn't be showing it. But more correctly, it's part performance art, part drawing, part painting part photography and all pretty much intriguing.
A huge show - 57 pieces in all, almost all of them containing him - that covers years of Rentch's career, I moved through it a full three times just to take it all in.
Along the way I met a woman who was sure I looked familiar, only to discover that I'd interviewed her on the phone (but never met her). Once we took our seats for the artist's talk, I met the woman who'd introduced Candela's owner to the artist, setting in motion what I was seeing tonight..
Other than that, the only familiar face was the guy who shows up at every opening for free food and drink and I didn't even bother acknowledging him.
It was a crowd of photography devotees who showed up for the talk, evidenced by Rentch saying, "I assume some people here still know what slide film is. My students do not." Yikes. We need to understand the past to shape the future, kids.
Showing us one of the photographs from his "Sun Series," he explained that the result of the one-hour exposure was pure chance and that he'd had no clue how it might have turned out. Happy accidents, he said, characterized his work.
In a career-long attempt to explore what photography is - in its purest definition, it's working with light - Rentch did a series using hand-applied black and white photo chemicals on X-ray film, creating dazzling large-scale works of his overlapping form that looked nothing like any photo you've ever seen.
"I'm trying to expand the notion of photography," he said. "I want to push the boundaries of photography." After seeing his work, I'd have to say he's succeeded, but don't take my word for it 'till you've seen them for yourself.
I followed that with a show at the Camel because I couldn't pass up a chance to hear a David Bowie cover band, another hybrid, this one of performance art and music. It began with me overhearing two guys discussing the first time they ever wore makeup ("I've been dressing in drag since middle school") because Bowie.
Let's be clear, here, I wasn't a Bowie obsessive since the earliest days (amazingly, the late '60s). It was only when I started dating a guy in 1992 (we listened to a lot of "Black Tie White Noise") who thought the music pyramid peaked at Bowie that I gave serious attention to his oeuvre.
And, Martin, you were right. I should have been more than a casual Bowie listener sooner. So tonight was an opportunity to take in a career-spanning earful.
The unexpected bonus was the opener, Face Ship, who immediately aligned themselves with Captain Beefheart (not that I think for minute anyone in the audience besides me and the guy in the red vest got the reference) when the lead singer announced, "I think Captain Beefheart and David Bowie could've been friends. Thank you for eating your breakfast."
Theirs was a glorious and melodic freak folk sound and I'd be willing to bet they'd all been music students given their youth and the serious chops they demonstrated on their tunage, which was interspersed with non sequiturs such as, "What do you mean you're not drunk? I thought we were friends!" shouted at the audience.
Even better: "Captain Crunch and the cereal killers couldn't make it." Our loss surely.
Damn, they were funny. And talented.
Honestly, they deserved a better audience than a bunch of eager Bowie zealots like the bartender, who when a guy asked for his check during the break, looked at him incredulously and demanded, "You're not staying for Bowie?" as if the real thing was about to play.
I'd already secured a fine spot on the banquette because for the first time, there were no tables at the Camel, meaning more room for people to stand, but given how vertically-challenged I am, I wanted the assist of a bench given the rapidly growing crowd.
Five musicians took the stage but the blond, pale blue suit-clad lead singer of Life On Mars took his time getting up there, earning some screaming from the crowd when he did.
By the second song, "Rebel, Rebel," the lead guitarist (as opposed to the rhythm guitarist who was wearing a red feather boa at the time) had broken a string. It was a good indicator of just how solid the band was.
The singer patiently explained to the crowd that they weren't going to be able to do every Bowie song tonight - time constraints and all - but the most important thing was that the new Bowie album comes out tomorrow and we should all go out and buy it. "And it's his birthday!"
Let me be the first to say that I don't know of a better looking 69-year old on the planet.
"We're gonna go all the way back to 1983," the singer said to squeals. "Anyone here born in 1983?" More squeals. I assume his groaning response, "Jeez!" meant he was amazed at the crowd's youth.
Turns out one of the hands was born today in '83, and to that person he dedicated "Let's Dance," a song I heard daily for three months back in '83 when my downstairs neighbor in Dupont Circle got the album and played that song non-stop every day for hours when he got home from work.
It was after they did "China Girl" that someone in the audience called out a request for "Labyrinth," which, again, I'm not sure many people got.
What they did get was "The Man Who Sold the World," although judging by the mass singalong, I wouldn't be surprised if it was Nirvana's unplugged version that brought them to the song. "Fame" got the crowd dancing like crazy. There was a costume change and wig before the band did "Ziggy Stardust." You get teh idea: total immersion.
Standing on my banquette perch dancing and spotting a few familiar faces - the old rocker, the Cover to Cover guitarist, the washboard pro, the hairdresser to the stars - made one thing perfectly clear.
It was all great fun.
I'm happy
Hope you're happy, too
I've loved
All I've needed: love
Sordid details following...
Given the holiday/vacation haze of the past few weeks, it felt like forever since I'd done anything so normal and neighborhood-like as going to an art opening, which was my motivation for walking the five blocks to check out the one at Candela Gallery.
It would be too limiting to call Andreas Rentch's work photography, although obviously it is or a photography gallery like Candela wouldn't be showing it. But more correctly, it's part performance art, part drawing, part painting part photography and all pretty much intriguing.
A huge show - 57 pieces in all, almost all of them containing him - that covers years of Rentch's career, I moved through it a full three times just to take it all in.
Along the way I met a woman who was sure I looked familiar, only to discover that I'd interviewed her on the phone (but never met her). Once we took our seats for the artist's talk, I met the woman who'd introduced Candela's owner to the artist, setting in motion what I was seeing tonight..
Other than that, the only familiar face was the guy who shows up at every opening for free food and drink and I didn't even bother acknowledging him.
It was a crowd of photography devotees who showed up for the talk, evidenced by Rentch saying, "I assume some people here still know what slide film is. My students do not." Yikes. We need to understand the past to shape the future, kids.
Showing us one of the photographs from his "Sun Series," he explained that the result of the one-hour exposure was pure chance and that he'd had no clue how it might have turned out. Happy accidents, he said, characterized his work.
In a career-long attempt to explore what photography is - in its purest definition, it's working with light - Rentch did a series using hand-applied black and white photo chemicals on X-ray film, creating dazzling large-scale works of his overlapping form that looked nothing like any photo you've ever seen.
"I'm trying to expand the notion of photography," he said. "I want to push the boundaries of photography." After seeing his work, I'd have to say he's succeeded, but don't take my word for it 'till you've seen them for yourself.
I followed that with a show at the Camel because I couldn't pass up a chance to hear a David Bowie cover band, another hybrid, this one of performance art and music. It began with me overhearing two guys discussing the first time they ever wore makeup ("I've been dressing in drag since middle school") because Bowie.
Let's be clear, here, I wasn't a Bowie obsessive since the earliest days (amazingly, the late '60s). It was only when I started dating a guy in 1992 (we listened to a lot of "Black Tie White Noise") who thought the music pyramid peaked at Bowie that I gave serious attention to his oeuvre.
And, Martin, you were right. I should have been more than a casual Bowie listener sooner. So tonight was an opportunity to take in a career-spanning earful.
The unexpected bonus was the opener, Face Ship, who immediately aligned themselves with Captain Beefheart (not that I think for minute anyone in the audience besides me and the guy in the red vest got the reference) when the lead singer announced, "I think Captain Beefheart and David Bowie could've been friends. Thank you for eating your breakfast."
Theirs was a glorious and melodic freak folk sound and I'd be willing to bet they'd all been music students given their youth and the serious chops they demonstrated on their tunage, which was interspersed with non sequiturs such as, "What do you mean you're not drunk? I thought we were friends!" shouted at the audience.
Even better: "Captain Crunch and the cereal killers couldn't make it." Our loss surely.
Damn, they were funny. And talented.
Honestly, they deserved a better audience than a bunch of eager Bowie zealots like the bartender, who when a guy asked for his check during the break, looked at him incredulously and demanded, "You're not staying for Bowie?" as if the real thing was about to play.
I'd already secured a fine spot on the banquette because for the first time, there were no tables at the Camel, meaning more room for people to stand, but given how vertically-challenged I am, I wanted the assist of a bench given the rapidly growing crowd.
Five musicians took the stage but the blond, pale blue suit-clad lead singer of Life On Mars took his time getting up there, earning some screaming from the crowd when he did.
By the second song, "Rebel, Rebel," the lead guitarist (as opposed to the rhythm guitarist who was wearing a red feather boa at the time) had broken a string. It was a good indicator of just how solid the band was.
The singer patiently explained to the crowd that they weren't going to be able to do every Bowie song tonight - time constraints and all - but the most important thing was that the new Bowie album comes out tomorrow and we should all go out and buy it. "And it's his birthday!"
Let me be the first to say that I don't know of a better looking 69-year old on the planet.
"We're gonna go all the way back to 1983," the singer said to squeals. "Anyone here born in 1983?" More squeals. I assume his groaning response, "Jeez!" meant he was amazed at the crowd's youth.
Turns out one of the hands was born today in '83, and to that person he dedicated "Let's Dance," a song I heard daily for three months back in '83 when my downstairs neighbor in Dupont Circle got the album and played that song non-stop every day for hours when he got home from work.
It was after they did "China Girl" that someone in the audience called out a request for "Labyrinth," which, again, I'm not sure many people got.
What they did get was "The Man Who Sold the World," although judging by the mass singalong, I wouldn't be surprised if it was Nirvana's unplugged version that brought them to the song. "Fame" got the crowd dancing like crazy. There was a costume change and wig before the band did "Ziggy Stardust." You get teh idea: total immersion.
Standing on my banquette perch dancing and spotting a few familiar faces - the old rocker, the Cover to Cover guitarist, the washboard pro, the hairdresser to the stars - made one thing perfectly clear.
It was all great fun.
I'm happy
Hope you're happy, too
I've loved
All I've needed: love
Sordid details following...
Sunday, October 25, 2015
Fast, Loose and Oh-So Smart
I have discovered the Sunday morning holy grail and it's hash and dope.
The Afrikana Independent Film Fest and Feast RVA were doing a Movies and Mimosas family brunch and screening at Candela Gallery. Ticket in hand, I was practically the first guest to arrive, although it didn't hurt that it was four blocks from home, either.
Somehow, I'd never been to a Feast RVA event, 'though I was well aware of how they worked and their higher purposes (supporting up and coming start-ups). Today there was a Mimosa bar courtesy of Saison and a sumptuous brunch buffet that covered all the important bases.
Finding a good seat was paramount because we'd be watching a movie after brunch, so I staked out a front seat and was soon joined at my table by a fascinating woman who works at Tricycle Gardens and with whom I had loads to talk about.
Of the many things we agreed on, one was that we were both starving, so we made sure to get in line early to get the brunch ball rolling. Returning to the table, her handsome brother - another Tricycle Gardens staffer - joined us and I got to enjoy watching sibling banter after he asked me for some romantic places I liked to hang out in the evening.
No sister could hear that question and not wonder what woman her bro wants to romance, but after that tangent, I brought it back to laughter, which I always find romantic.
Having piled my plate high, I'd chosen from fried chicken from Lee's (if only there had been waffles), an absolutely killer hash of crispy Brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes and onions from Ellwood Thompson's (there was a buzz going around the room about that hash), fried fish and grits from Croaker's Spot, two kinds of quiche (I chose kale) and an assortment of sweet breads, cinnamon rolls and freshly-baked cookies, the latter courtesy of my new friend.
The three of us ate ourselves silly and then it was time for "Dope," a movie I hadn't even heard of, although it was apparently a darling at Sundance and played here briefly this summer.
Ridiculously funny, appealingly smart and with a casual attitude about three black high school geeks in the L.A. suburbs who only want to ace their SATs and move on to college, the movie dished up satire to dispel every black movie cliche.
Riffing on our time, one kids suggests, "How about small batch craft-brewed malt liquor?" How about it?
With the improbable name of Malcolm, complete devotion to '90s-era hip hop music and a flat top, our hero plays in a punk band (hilariously called Oreo) with his geeky friends, studies hard and is a virgin. Cheerfully irreverent, the film doesn't try to teach any hard lessons or point out any inequities, instead portraying a black coming of age story for geeks.
When the drug Molly unexpectedly enter Malcolm's circumscribed world, in his backpack, no less, he deals with the situation just as a smart kid would: with foresight, false bravado and the assurance that he can problem-solve his way out of it.
Humor was pervasive, like when Malcolm's gay buddy Diggy shares that her parents took her to church to "pray away the gay" or he defends his college application's personal statement with, "If Neil Degrasse Tyson was writing about Ice Cube, this is what it would be."
A protracted conversation between white and black characters about the usage of the "n" word was riveting for delving into the various connotations the word has to different people.
I don't know what I found more satisfying about "Dope," the atypical characters (who were undoubtedly more common than the media acknowledge) or the lack of moralizing about the situations they found themselves in. Life happens and you deal with it and hopefully you still get into Harvard.
Post-movie, the crowd had a lively discussion about it, with many people justifying not having seen it at the theater because of a mistaken perception of what "Dope" was about. Some thought it got little attention because it's not a view of blacks that whites want to see (I disagree) and others thought that blacks like to keep great black films like this on the down low.
Personally, all I cared about was that I got to see such an interesting movie on the big screen after stuffing myself silly at brunch and making a couple of new friends. And I really dug the hash.
If it's okay for white people to use the "d" word, I'd call that a pretty dope morning.
The Afrikana Independent Film Fest and Feast RVA were doing a Movies and Mimosas family brunch and screening at Candela Gallery. Ticket in hand, I was practically the first guest to arrive, although it didn't hurt that it was four blocks from home, either.
Somehow, I'd never been to a Feast RVA event, 'though I was well aware of how they worked and their higher purposes (supporting up and coming start-ups). Today there was a Mimosa bar courtesy of Saison and a sumptuous brunch buffet that covered all the important bases.
Finding a good seat was paramount because we'd be watching a movie after brunch, so I staked out a front seat and was soon joined at my table by a fascinating woman who works at Tricycle Gardens and with whom I had loads to talk about.
Of the many things we agreed on, one was that we were both starving, so we made sure to get in line early to get the brunch ball rolling. Returning to the table, her handsome brother - another Tricycle Gardens staffer - joined us and I got to enjoy watching sibling banter after he asked me for some romantic places I liked to hang out in the evening.
No sister could hear that question and not wonder what woman her bro wants to romance, but after that tangent, I brought it back to laughter, which I always find romantic.
Having piled my plate high, I'd chosen from fried chicken from Lee's (if only there had been waffles), an absolutely killer hash of crispy Brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes and onions from Ellwood Thompson's (there was a buzz going around the room about that hash), fried fish and grits from Croaker's Spot, two kinds of quiche (I chose kale) and an assortment of sweet breads, cinnamon rolls and freshly-baked cookies, the latter courtesy of my new friend.
The three of us ate ourselves silly and then it was time for "Dope," a movie I hadn't even heard of, although it was apparently a darling at Sundance and played here briefly this summer.
Ridiculously funny, appealingly smart and with a casual attitude about three black high school geeks in the L.A. suburbs who only want to ace their SATs and move on to college, the movie dished up satire to dispel every black movie cliche.
Riffing on our time, one kids suggests, "How about small batch craft-brewed malt liquor?" How about it?
With the improbable name of Malcolm, complete devotion to '90s-era hip hop music and a flat top, our hero plays in a punk band (hilariously called Oreo) with his geeky friends, studies hard and is a virgin. Cheerfully irreverent, the film doesn't try to teach any hard lessons or point out any inequities, instead portraying a black coming of age story for geeks.
When the drug Molly unexpectedly enter Malcolm's circumscribed world, in his backpack, no less, he deals with the situation just as a smart kid would: with foresight, false bravado and the assurance that he can problem-solve his way out of it.
Humor was pervasive, like when Malcolm's gay buddy Diggy shares that her parents took her to church to "pray away the gay" or he defends his college application's personal statement with, "If Neil Degrasse Tyson was writing about Ice Cube, this is what it would be."
A protracted conversation between white and black characters about the usage of the "n" word was riveting for delving into the various connotations the word has to different people.
I don't know what I found more satisfying about "Dope," the atypical characters (who were undoubtedly more common than the media acknowledge) or the lack of moralizing about the situations they found themselves in. Life happens and you deal with it and hopefully you still get into Harvard.
Post-movie, the crowd had a lively discussion about it, with many people justifying not having seen it at the theater because of a mistaken perception of what "Dope" was about. Some thought it got little attention because it's not a view of blacks that whites want to see (I disagree) and others thought that blacks like to keep great black films like this on the down low.
Personally, all I cared about was that I got to see such an interesting movie on the big screen after stuffing myself silly at brunch and making a couple of new friends. And I really dug the hash.
If it's okay for white people to use the "d" word, I'd call that a pretty dope morning.
Friday, September 4, 2015
Lost in the Night
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.
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.
Monday, February 16, 2015
Picture That
If there's anything tonight proved, it's that Richmond is not only a photography town but a film town.
Both intersected in Carytown tonight for the Richmond premiere of the Oscar-nominated documentary "Finding Vivian Maier" about the Chicago street photographer whose 150,000+ negatives weren't discovered until after her death.
I know I wasn't the only one who'd been wondering since last March if the documentary would ever play Richmond. And goodness knows, I was one of the scores who first saw a small part of the cache of Maier photographs online a few years ago and marveled at this unknown woman's eye and talent.
Like so many fantastic events that happen in Richmond, this one got its start in my neighborhood, Jackson Ward, at the only photography gallery in town. Gallerist Gordon wanted to bring the film to his Candela Gallery, hoping to draw maybe 40 artsy types. I can assure you I would have been one of them.
Seeing assistance to make it happen, he went to the film-obsessed guys who are trying to get the Bijou - a small 100-120 seat repertory theater - up and running here. They saw the potential to not only bring the film, but use it as a fundraiser for both the Bijou and Richmond's landmark movie palace, the venerable Byrd Theater.
That event alone would have made for a terrific Sunday evening, but things kept growing. Soon an after-party was planned with local legends Chez Roue planning to play their next-to-last show in Richmond at NY Deli immediately after the film.
Then Gordon arranged to have a dozen or so of Maier's prints on loan from a gallery in NYC for viewing at Portrait House before the screening. All of a sudden, it was all Vivian Maier, all the time. Or, at least, for 7 1/2 hours tonight.
I wouldn't have missed it for the world despite temperatures that felt like 11 degrees and the cruelest wind I can recall in years.
After meeting a friend for dinner (and a discussion of the word frigid and its now almost archaic use to describe women), I made a detour to Chop Suey Books to use a birthday gift certificate to pick up a new book I'd seen a review of last week. "1965: The Most Revolutionary Year in Music" sounded like just my kind of read and luckily for me, they had a copy in stock.
Book in hand, it was on to Portrait House where we were eager to see Maier prints in the flesh. The place was mobbed with others just as eager, so we waited our turn to get close enough to Gordon for him to flip through the large-format matted photographs, each as riveting as the last.
I don't care if this woman worked as a nanny for 40 or 400 years, she clearly had a photographer's eye.
Once we'd seen them, we stepped aside to allow others in for a viewing. In the back, we met a relative newcomer to Richmond, here only a year since moving down from Pennsylvania, and almost giddy with excitement about tonight's film.
The funny part was, he hadn't known about it until this morning when he'd seen a flyer at Globehopper while scoring coffee. I'd bought my ticket weeks ago so as to be sure I didn't miss out. And here we both were, equally thrilled about it.
Given the biting wind and frigid temperatures, it was far from the ideal night to have to stand in a line that ran to the end of the block and around the corner, but with no choice, we made for the end of the line. I soon heard my name called and a favorite couple (he's a photographer and she's a student of pop culture) appeared to join us.
For that matter, once we made it inside, the number of friends I saw was overwhelming. It seemed like everyone was at the Byrd tonight: history geeks, print-makers, prickly types, DJs, authors, Romans and countrymen.
Turns out there were 900+ people crowding the Byrd and overflowing up into the balcony. That's a nice chunk of fundraising and a solid testament to the community's interest in the film.
But the weather and wind had taken its toll not just on my freezing legs but also on the loading door behind the Byrd, which had blown off during a screening of "Annie" earlier. Richmond, we just don't do winter well.
Before the main event, they showed "The Critic," an Oscar-winning Mel Brooks animated short from 1963 with enough hilarious dialog to get everyone chuckling at his commentary about art and modernity.
I think I knew going in that I was going to be fascinated by the documentary because I could have been happy watching an hour and 24 minutes of just her photographs. But listening to the people who employed her as a nanny and the now grown children she'd watched just provided additional reasons to find the story so compelling.
How could she have been so driven to take thousands of pictures without making an effort to have them shown? How would she feel about her pictures being shared now? Why did she hoard newspapers? Was her pseudo-French accent an affectation?
For a documentary dork like me, as many questions were raised as were answered and that's fine, too.
Afterwards, my friends went home and I went next door to NY Deli to hear Chez Roue for the last time. It was packed in there, but the music was rollicking and everyone eager to talk about what we'd just seen.
Sharing a film in a public space has always been the bedrock of the American film experience. No one will ever convince me that watching a movie at home with stops for bathroom breaks and food runs is anything like a genuine film experience.
Which is exactly why we need the Bijou. I don't want to just read about amazing films, I want them to have a place to play in Richmond where I can watch them with 100 or so of my closest strangers (or people I know, I won't discriminate).
Because if 900 people come out on a blustery, nearly sub-zero work night to see a documentary about a dead nanny with a Rolleiflex, we are most definitely a film town.
Both intersected in Carytown tonight for the Richmond premiere of the Oscar-nominated documentary "Finding Vivian Maier" about the Chicago street photographer whose 150,000+ negatives weren't discovered until after her death.
I know I wasn't the only one who'd been wondering since last March if the documentary would ever play Richmond. And goodness knows, I was one of the scores who first saw a small part of the cache of Maier photographs online a few years ago and marveled at this unknown woman's eye and talent.
Like so many fantastic events that happen in Richmond, this one got its start in my neighborhood, Jackson Ward, at the only photography gallery in town. Gallerist Gordon wanted to bring the film to his Candela Gallery, hoping to draw maybe 40 artsy types. I can assure you I would have been one of them.
Seeing assistance to make it happen, he went to the film-obsessed guys who are trying to get the Bijou - a small 100-120 seat repertory theater - up and running here. They saw the potential to not only bring the film, but use it as a fundraiser for both the Bijou and Richmond's landmark movie palace, the venerable Byrd Theater.
That event alone would have made for a terrific Sunday evening, but things kept growing. Soon an after-party was planned with local legends Chez Roue planning to play their next-to-last show in Richmond at NY Deli immediately after the film.
Then Gordon arranged to have a dozen or so of Maier's prints on loan from a gallery in NYC for viewing at Portrait House before the screening. All of a sudden, it was all Vivian Maier, all the time. Or, at least, for 7 1/2 hours tonight.
I wouldn't have missed it for the world despite temperatures that felt like 11 degrees and the cruelest wind I can recall in years.
After meeting a friend for dinner (and a discussion of the word frigid and its now almost archaic use to describe women), I made a detour to Chop Suey Books to use a birthday gift certificate to pick up a new book I'd seen a review of last week. "1965: The Most Revolutionary Year in Music" sounded like just my kind of read and luckily for me, they had a copy in stock.
Book in hand, it was on to Portrait House where we were eager to see Maier prints in the flesh. The place was mobbed with others just as eager, so we waited our turn to get close enough to Gordon for him to flip through the large-format matted photographs, each as riveting as the last.
I don't care if this woman worked as a nanny for 40 or 400 years, she clearly had a photographer's eye.
Once we'd seen them, we stepped aside to allow others in for a viewing. In the back, we met a relative newcomer to Richmond, here only a year since moving down from Pennsylvania, and almost giddy with excitement about tonight's film.
The funny part was, he hadn't known about it until this morning when he'd seen a flyer at Globehopper while scoring coffee. I'd bought my ticket weeks ago so as to be sure I didn't miss out. And here we both were, equally thrilled about it.
Given the biting wind and frigid temperatures, it was far from the ideal night to have to stand in a line that ran to the end of the block and around the corner, but with no choice, we made for the end of the line. I soon heard my name called and a favorite couple (he's a photographer and she's a student of pop culture) appeared to join us.
For that matter, once we made it inside, the number of friends I saw was overwhelming. It seemed like everyone was at the Byrd tonight: history geeks, print-makers, prickly types, DJs, authors, Romans and countrymen.
Turns out there were 900+ people crowding the Byrd and overflowing up into the balcony. That's a nice chunk of fundraising and a solid testament to the community's interest in the film.
But the weather and wind had taken its toll not just on my freezing legs but also on the loading door behind the Byrd, which had blown off during a screening of "Annie" earlier. Richmond, we just don't do winter well.
Before the main event, they showed "The Critic," an Oscar-winning Mel Brooks animated short from 1963 with enough hilarious dialog to get everyone chuckling at his commentary about art and modernity.
I think I knew going in that I was going to be fascinated by the documentary because I could have been happy watching an hour and 24 minutes of just her photographs. But listening to the people who employed her as a nanny and the now grown children she'd watched just provided additional reasons to find the story so compelling.
How could she have been so driven to take thousands of pictures without making an effort to have them shown? How would she feel about her pictures being shared now? Why did she hoard newspapers? Was her pseudo-French accent an affectation?
For a documentary dork like me, as many questions were raised as were answered and that's fine, too.
Afterwards, my friends went home and I went next door to NY Deli to hear Chez Roue for the last time. It was packed in there, but the music was rollicking and everyone eager to talk about what we'd just seen.
Sharing a film in a public space has always been the bedrock of the American film experience. No one will ever convince me that watching a movie at home with stops for bathroom breaks and food runs is anything like a genuine film experience.
Which is exactly why we need the Bijou. I don't want to just read about amazing films, I want them to have a place to play in Richmond where I can watch them with 100 or so of my closest strangers (or people I know, I won't discriminate).
Because if 900 people come out on a blustery, nearly sub-zero work night to see a documentary about a dead nanny with a Rolleiflex, we are most definitely a film town.
Friday, November 21, 2014
The Deep and the Shallow
Brag about your neighborhood all you want, it can't top mine.
That's because I can walk out of my door at night (after spending the afternoon with a 78-year old artist in his enormous Carver studio laughing and talking about art and life) and find the most interesting things to do within a five block radius.
The first was the Noir Cinema series, a monthly opportunity to see a black-made short film and hear about it from the filmmaker, tonight being held at Candela Books & Art. Walking in, a gallerist mentioned my art piece in this week's Style Weekly, noting that his wife had decided after reading the piece that she wanted to buy one of the pieces at Ghostprint Gallery.
It's always thrilling to know that something I write spurs people into action, especially when an artist stands to make money off of it.
There were maybe 25 people there when I arrived, so I laid my bag on a chair with a good view and went next door to buy a hot chocolate at Lift. The guy frothing the milk made sure I knew they closed in five minutes, but I informed him it was for the movie next door. Suddenly he looks at me differently.
"Oh, you're going to the Noir Film at Candela?" he asks. "That's so cool."
Back in my seat for the movie, a guy I know from music shows approaches and we start talking about Candela. "I love this place," he says. "This is like a gallery you'd see in San Francisco or New York City." He should know; he moved here a couple of years ago after 20 years in San Fran.
People kept arriving and finally the film "Contamination" was introduced, with the information that it was its sixth film festival screening and the Virginia premiere.
The film was a brief but compelling look at obsessive compulsive disorder through the lens of a character who hasn't left her apartment in over a year for fear of germs and getting sick. She scrubbed her hands fastidiously, wore latex gloves and an air mask and generally did nothing beyond cleaning things.
When the movie stopped abruptly midway through due to technological difficulties, I was disturbed to see some people immediately pull out their phones. Soapbox: people have lost the ability to wait for anything without looking at a screen. It's tragic.
Once rolling again, we watched as the woman tried to deal with her mental illness while losing all contact with the outside world. Eventually she reached out and the film ended.
Director R. Shanea took the director's chair in front of the room and told us a bit about how she'd come to make the film, hoping to provide a voice for mental illness in the black community, apparently something often swept under the rug and ignored.
A question and answer period followed with as many questions about the making of the movie ($7,000 and two 13-hour days filming) as about the topic (she suffers from anxiety issues). When asked how she'd gotten the lead actress, she gave the expected 21st-century answer: Facebook.
One man's comment was, "The only problem I had with your short film was that it was too short." Many people expressed interest in seeing it developed into a feature film.
Honestly, I feel the same way about movie shorts as I do short stories. In the right hands, a masterful story can be told briefly and there's a distinct pleasure in the brevity. More is not necessarily always better.
The Q & A kept up for a good, long while, an indicator that the film had gotten to the audience. I liked that.
Afterwards, I only had to walk around the block to Gallery 5 for "An Evening Among Exiles," a night of speakers of all kinds. I arrived as the first guy was finishing his story (all I heard was the last line about his Dad losing his wallet), said hi to a friend and found a seat in the back row.
A comedian named Joshua was first for me and he began by telling us, "We've had a lot of deep shit. It's time for some shallow shit." A recent graduate with a (useless) degree in English, he said saying that was a fancy way of saying he's unemployed and in debt.
Seems he wanted to be a poet and instead he works at Target while honing his comedic skills at night. He may be a poet yet.
Mary was up next and said while she'd known for a month and a half that she had this gig, she'd done no preparation until today other than deciding what she'd wear (all black, brown belt).
Sometime today she'd decided to riff on lists, which led her to talking about all the online quizzes she takes ("Which Kardashian are you?"). The one that bothered her most was about which "Sex and the City" character she was because the internets kept saying she was Miranda and she was convinced she's Samantha.
Since I've never seen the show, I have no idea who she is beyond Mary. And, for all I know, that could have been an alias.
A big part of her spiel was about the "How Kinky are You?" quiz where, despite lying to the internets about cucumber usage, she came out a super freak. Her conclusion? "I'm okay with being a slutty cat woman." At least until her cat dies, she said.
In between speakers, we heard snippets of the unlikeliest music - Billy Joel, Simon & Garfunkle and perhaps most improbably, Tony Orlando and Dawn - as people made their way to the stage.
Host Shannon announced a break then so people could belly up to the bar, but I used the time to chat up a couple of friends, one of whom was a tad nervous because he was going on later. Another, looking professorial in a cardigan, told of a long day dealing with state and city employee types. I offered my condolences.
Shannon got the evening rolling again with a monologue about going to friends' weddings and returning to red wine bendering, something he'd moved away from with good reason (blackouts).
Kylin Ann took the stage next looking cute in a full skirt with tattoo-looking tights and read the speech she'd written for her grandfather's funeral as an introduction to a winding tale of her family's dysfunction.
Arriving at the family homestead after Grandpa's death, she found her relatives drinking and trying to figure out what quote to use on the old man's funeral card ("It looks like a baseball card laminated"). Once they found the perfect one and discovered it was by Helen Keller, the evening descended into Helen Keller jokes.
A year later, the family regrouped to scatter Grandpa's ashes except only half were being scattered and the rest were being divided up into Zip-Lock bags for family members. Her aunt planned to divvy with an ice cream scoop until someone expressed shock, at which time she realized Gramps' favorite food was soup (it was Uncle Jeff who loved ice cream) and switched to a soup ladle to dole out the ashes.
What I love about evenings like this is that you hear the craziest stuff. You couldn't make up this stuff because no one would believe it.
Quietly taking the stage, PJ began by saying, "If I bomb tonight, it's because I didn't listen to my wife." Unfortunately, she wasn't there to hear him say that, but he also said it would be on her if he didn't bomb. And he not only didn't, he was terrific.
You see, PJ takes photographs of bands as a hobby and tonight he shared some of his adventures in shooting bands.
Explaining that sometimes you need to write something to go with photos of bands in order to get press credentials, he'd managed to get them to talk to Henry Rollins (only one guy in the crowd admitted to not knowing who Rollins was).
Nervously setting up for his first interview, he was caught off guard when Rollins answered the phone himself after half a ring. "I asked him low-hanging fruit type questions," PJ said and while he'd been allotted 15 minutes to talk to the punk legend, he only used seven of them. Fear, pure fear.
His story of going to the Black Cat to interview and shoot Daniel Johnston was just as good because a local show, "Pancake Mountain," was also there filming - but with puppets - and Johnston kept screwing up each take on purpose by telling the puppets to go f*ck themselves.
Afterwards, they shot video of Johnston playing with the band and people, including PJ, dancing behind them. So now I know that PJ is sort of a celebrity because he's on YouTube.
At Merge's 20th anniversary festival, he shot Lambchop ("A f*cked-up country band, not punk, not my thing") and said it ended up being one of the best performances of his life. Even better, Lambchop liked one of his pictures so much they wanted to use it as an album cover
He got to shoot at a Foo Fighters concert (when he didn't want to fight the crowd to go down to the stage to shoot, his cute wife reminded him that he'd regret it if he didn't and she was, of course, right, so he went), something he'd gone on record as saying he wanted to do 7 or 8 years ago. The band ended up using one of his shots on their Twitter feed, a major thrill for him.
He closed with his advice for happiness. "Keep doing stuff that makes you feel awkward." I second that.
Last to take the stage was Kevin, a come-here who captains a canal boat and he'd brought three pages' (front and back) worth of Richmond's rich history to share with us, namely Elizabeth van Lew and Mary Bowser. He intended to weave a tale, he said.
And he did, talking about how van Lew freed her father's slaves, including little Mary, whom she educated in Philadelphia. The two then became the best spies in the south for General Grant, gleaning information from soldiers in Libbie Prison and sending it off to Grant in bouquets of flowers from her garden and eggs (yea, I still don't understand how she did that).
He seemed most impressed with Mary when she posed as a slow-witted, able-bodied slave in the house of Jefferson Davis, spying from within using her photographic memory. Brilliant.
Of course, after the war, both women were run out of town, but Kevin wanted us to know that Mary Bowser was badass.
Now, you tell me. Can you walk out of your house and see a provocative black-made film, hear a story of smoking pot with your Uncle Dave and learn a little espionage history, all within a matter of blocks of home?
FYI, that's a low-hanging fruit type of question. My guess? Probably not.
That's because I can walk out of my door at night (after spending the afternoon with a 78-year old artist in his enormous Carver studio laughing and talking about art and life) and find the most interesting things to do within a five block radius.
The first was the Noir Cinema series, a monthly opportunity to see a black-made short film and hear about it from the filmmaker, tonight being held at Candela Books & Art. Walking in, a gallerist mentioned my art piece in this week's Style Weekly, noting that his wife had decided after reading the piece that she wanted to buy one of the pieces at Ghostprint Gallery.
It's always thrilling to know that something I write spurs people into action, especially when an artist stands to make money off of it.
There were maybe 25 people there when I arrived, so I laid my bag on a chair with a good view and went next door to buy a hot chocolate at Lift. The guy frothing the milk made sure I knew they closed in five minutes, but I informed him it was for the movie next door. Suddenly he looks at me differently.
"Oh, you're going to the Noir Film at Candela?" he asks. "That's so cool."
Back in my seat for the movie, a guy I know from music shows approaches and we start talking about Candela. "I love this place," he says. "This is like a gallery you'd see in San Francisco or New York City." He should know; he moved here a couple of years ago after 20 years in San Fran.
People kept arriving and finally the film "Contamination" was introduced, with the information that it was its sixth film festival screening and the Virginia premiere.
The film was a brief but compelling look at obsessive compulsive disorder through the lens of a character who hasn't left her apartment in over a year for fear of germs and getting sick. She scrubbed her hands fastidiously, wore latex gloves and an air mask and generally did nothing beyond cleaning things.
When the movie stopped abruptly midway through due to technological difficulties, I was disturbed to see some people immediately pull out their phones. Soapbox: people have lost the ability to wait for anything without looking at a screen. It's tragic.
Once rolling again, we watched as the woman tried to deal with her mental illness while losing all contact with the outside world. Eventually she reached out and the film ended.
Director R. Shanea took the director's chair in front of the room and told us a bit about how she'd come to make the film, hoping to provide a voice for mental illness in the black community, apparently something often swept under the rug and ignored.
A question and answer period followed with as many questions about the making of the movie ($7,000 and two 13-hour days filming) as about the topic (she suffers from anxiety issues). When asked how she'd gotten the lead actress, she gave the expected 21st-century answer: Facebook.
One man's comment was, "The only problem I had with your short film was that it was too short." Many people expressed interest in seeing it developed into a feature film.
Honestly, I feel the same way about movie shorts as I do short stories. In the right hands, a masterful story can be told briefly and there's a distinct pleasure in the brevity. More is not necessarily always better.
The Q & A kept up for a good, long while, an indicator that the film had gotten to the audience. I liked that.
Afterwards, I only had to walk around the block to Gallery 5 for "An Evening Among Exiles," a night of speakers of all kinds. I arrived as the first guy was finishing his story (all I heard was the last line about his Dad losing his wallet), said hi to a friend and found a seat in the back row.
A comedian named Joshua was first for me and he began by telling us, "We've had a lot of deep shit. It's time for some shallow shit." A recent graduate with a (useless) degree in English, he said saying that was a fancy way of saying he's unemployed and in debt.
Seems he wanted to be a poet and instead he works at Target while honing his comedic skills at night. He may be a poet yet.
Mary was up next and said while she'd known for a month and a half that she had this gig, she'd done no preparation until today other than deciding what she'd wear (all black, brown belt).
Sometime today she'd decided to riff on lists, which led her to talking about all the online quizzes she takes ("Which Kardashian are you?"). The one that bothered her most was about which "Sex and the City" character she was because the internets kept saying she was Miranda and she was convinced she's Samantha.
Since I've never seen the show, I have no idea who she is beyond Mary. And, for all I know, that could have been an alias.
A big part of her spiel was about the "How Kinky are You?" quiz where, despite lying to the internets about cucumber usage, she came out a super freak. Her conclusion? "I'm okay with being a slutty cat woman." At least until her cat dies, she said.
In between speakers, we heard snippets of the unlikeliest music - Billy Joel, Simon & Garfunkle and perhaps most improbably, Tony Orlando and Dawn - as people made their way to the stage.
Host Shannon announced a break then so people could belly up to the bar, but I used the time to chat up a couple of friends, one of whom was a tad nervous because he was going on later. Another, looking professorial in a cardigan, told of a long day dealing with state and city employee types. I offered my condolences.
Shannon got the evening rolling again with a monologue about going to friends' weddings and returning to red wine bendering, something he'd moved away from with good reason (blackouts).
Kylin Ann took the stage next looking cute in a full skirt with tattoo-looking tights and read the speech she'd written for her grandfather's funeral as an introduction to a winding tale of her family's dysfunction.
Arriving at the family homestead after Grandpa's death, she found her relatives drinking and trying to figure out what quote to use on the old man's funeral card ("It looks like a baseball card laminated"). Once they found the perfect one and discovered it was by Helen Keller, the evening descended into Helen Keller jokes.
A year later, the family regrouped to scatter Grandpa's ashes except only half were being scattered and the rest were being divided up into Zip-Lock bags for family members. Her aunt planned to divvy with an ice cream scoop until someone expressed shock, at which time she realized Gramps' favorite food was soup (it was Uncle Jeff who loved ice cream) and switched to a soup ladle to dole out the ashes.
What I love about evenings like this is that you hear the craziest stuff. You couldn't make up this stuff because no one would believe it.
Quietly taking the stage, PJ began by saying, "If I bomb tonight, it's because I didn't listen to my wife." Unfortunately, she wasn't there to hear him say that, but he also said it would be on her if he didn't bomb. And he not only didn't, he was terrific.
You see, PJ takes photographs of bands as a hobby and tonight he shared some of his adventures in shooting bands.
Explaining that sometimes you need to write something to go with photos of bands in order to get press credentials, he'd managed to get them to talk to Henry Rollins (only one guy in the crowd admitted to not knowing who Rollins was).
Nervously setting up for his first interview, he was caught off guard when Rollins answered the phone himself after half a ring. "I asked him low-hanging fruit type questions," PJ said and while he'd been allotted 15 minutes to talk to the punk legend, he only used seven of them. Fear, pure fear.
His story of going to the Black Cat to interview and shoot Daniel Johnston was just as good because a local show, "Pancake Mountain," was also there filming - but with puppets - and Johnston kept screwing up each take on purpose by telling the puppets to go f*ck themselves.
Afterwards, they shot video of Johnston playing with the band and people, including PJ, dancing behind them. So now I know that PJ is sort of a celebrity because he's on YouTube.
At Merge's 20th anniversary festival, he shot Lambchop ("A f*cked-up country band, not punk, not my thing") and said it ended up being one of the best performances of his life. Even better, Lambchop liked one of his pictures so much they wanted to use it as an album cover
He got to shoot at a Foo Fighters concert (when he didn't want to fight the crowd to go down to the stage to shoot, his cute wife reminded him that he'd regret it if he didn't and she was, of course, right, so he went), something he'd gone on record as saying he wanted to do 7 or 8 years ago. The band ended up using one of his shots on their Twitter feed, a major thrill for him.
He closed with his advice for happiness. "Keep doing stuff that makes you feel awkward." I second that.
Last to take the stage was Kevin, a come-here who captains a canal boat and he'd brought three pages' (front and back) worth of Richmond's rich history to share with us, namely Elizabeth van Lew and Mary Bowser. He intended to weave a tale, he said.
And he did, talking about how van Lew freed her father's slaves, including little Mary, whom she educated in Philadelphia. The two then became the best spies in the south for General Grant, gleaning information from soldiers in Libbie Prison and sending it off to Grant in bouquets of flowers from her garden and eggs (yea, I still don't understand how she did that).
He seemed most impressed with Mary when she posed as a slow-witted, able-bodied slave in the house of Jefferson Davis, spying from within using her photographic memory. Brilliant.
Of course, after the war, both women were run out of town, but Kevin wanted us to know that Mary Bowser was badass.
Now, you tell me. Can you walk out of your house and see a provocative black-made film, hear a story of smoking pot with your Uncle Dave and learn a little espionage history, all within a matter of blocks of home?
FYI, that's a low-hanging fruit type of question. My guess? Probably not.
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Do the Hustle
All work and no play makes Karen a very dull girl.
So with my new thrift store dress on, I took my hired mouth out to eat, leaving me full but eager to engage the other senses.
Enter Gigi, my willing partner in crime for tonight.
Priority one was chilling some Rose, followed by a stroll to Broad Street and the Arts District, past bicycle cops and assorted cop cars for what amounted to the second Friday art walk. Because here's the thing: if they'd done it on first Friday- July 4th - who would have come?
Stop #1 was Ghostprint Gallery for Gene Coffey's "Ghosts," a fascinating show of works based on tombstone images gathered in Italy and transferred to canvas, over which vertical lines and drips of paint gave the impression of the past peering into the present.
Without even knowing that, it took me exactly two paintings to observe to my friend that the faces looked European rather than American. Right I was, as it turned out.
The second series was of skeleton images over scores of music with areas of color, images completely abstract up close and clearly showing skulls from a distance. We marveled at how challenging it must have been to create. Very cool.
Next door at stop #2, Candela Gallery, we saw "Unbound 3," the annual group show of an eclectic assortment of photography.
Some photographs were notable for their materials - handmade paper or photographs printed on plywood- while with others, it was the subject matter - a bird at rest close up, an odd-looking fat , freckled child, a shepherd's daughter with an animals head coming out of her back.
As always, I was pleased to see that some pieces had already sold. I only wish I had the funds to purchase.
Walking out of Candela, we abandoned plans to further gallery hop when a few fat raindrops hit us, choosing instead to return to my apartment and see if the Domaine du Pere Caboche Rose had achieved sufficient coolness to quench our thirst.
Oh, happy day, it had.
That was our cue to take glasses of the strawberry-tasting gem and sprawl out in my living room, music blaring - Jeremy Messersmith, Future Islands, Champs.
Sipping and looking outside, we couldn't help but marvel at the dusky light just outside the window, illuminating the roof and trees across the street in a way that doesn't happen at any other time of day.
I told Gigi that my favorite part of summer dusk is that when it happens, it's just the prelude to another 5 or 6 hours of evening entertainment.
It was some time after we opened another bottle of Rose that I suggested that we move on to Balliceaux for music. Playing tonight was Brooklyn's trans-global soul band Karikatura, touted as producers of life-affirming, body-shaking music.
Because who doesn't want to shake their body on a warm, Friday night?
I felt like Gigi and I not only only needed our bodies shaken, but our lives affirmed, but it was her response to my suggestion that we go out that had me rolling on the floor. "Now I wish I'd worn underwear," she said nonsensically since she was wearing a skort.
The place was already hopping when we arrived, so we slid into place a few people back from the stage and were immediately captivated by Karikatura's melange of influences: reggae, Cuban, funk and soul, shaking our groove things in a way only enhanced by a couple of bottles of pink.
But because we're both short women, within ten minutes, a tall, well-dressed man took up position directly in front of us.
I let it go for half a song before tapping him gently on the shoulder and raising an eyebrow. "I'm going to stand behind you," he announced with a smile. Good thinking, Paul Bunyan.
With him out of the way, we had no problem moving forward on to the dance floor, unable to resist so much rhythm.
I have to say, "New York Hustle" was killer, a riff on all things Latin and disco, making us just part of the sweaty masses dancing our asses off.
Most nights I'm in Balliceaux, it's overly cold, the air conditioning blasting frigid air, but tonight's Latin beats and non-stop dancing crowd made for a very warm room and lots of glistening faces.
Gigi and I solved that by moving closer to the stage where a vent poured out cooler air and we could dance without sticking to those around us.
Occasionally we'd slip off the dance floor long enough to down a glass of water before returning to where the action was.
Finally, she cried uncle, saying, "Okay, one more song and that's it."
As it happened, synchronicity ensued with the band then announcing that it was their last song and launching into a slow groove of Bill Withers' "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone," the perfect cover because it didn't mimic the original but paid homage to it while making it something uniquely new.
Choosing to bring the bump to the grind right through the introductions of the sax and trombone players, we hung on dancing until the band called it quits.
Sharing a final cup of water as we walked out, Gigi raved about how good the band had been and I told her I almost hadn't mentioned it, planning to go alone, knowing she'd had a long day at work.
"Why would you do that?" she challenged. "Why wouldn't I want to go hear a great band and dance?"
Truthfully - and maybe this is a personal flaw - I couldn't think of a single good reason.
So with my new thrift store dress on, I took my hired mouth out to eat, leaving me full but eager to engage the other senses.
Enter Gigi, my willing partner in crime for tonight.
Priority one was chilling some Rose, followed by a stroll to Broad Street and the Arts District, past bicycle cops and assorted cop cars for what amounted to the second Friday art walk. Because here's the thing: if they'd done it on first Friday- July 4th - who would have come?
Stop #1 was Ghostprint Gallery for Gene Coffey's "Ghosts," a fascinating show of works based on tombstone images gathered in Italy and transferred to canvas, over which vertical lines and drips of paint gave the impression of the past peering into the present.
Without even knowing that, it took me exactly two paintings to observe to my friend that the faces looked European rather than American. Right I was, as it turned out.
The second series was of skeleton images over scores of music with areas of color, images completely abstract up close and clearly showing skulls from a distance. We marveled at how challenging it must have been to create. Very cool.
Next door at stop #2, Candela Gallery, we saw "Unbound 3," the annual group show of an eclectic assortment of photography.
Some photographs were notable for their materials - handmade paper or photographs printed on plywood- while with others, it was the subject matter - a bird at rest close up, an odd-looking fat , freckled child, a shepherd's daughter with an animals head coming out of her back.
As always, I was pleased to see that some pieces had already sold. I only wish I had the funds to purchase.
Walking out of Candela, we abandoned plans to further gallery hop when a few fat raindrops hit us, choosing instead to return to my apartment and see if the Domaine du Pere Caboche Rose had achieved sufficient coolness to quench our thirst.
Oh, happy day, it had.
That was our cue to take glasses of the strawberry-tasting gem and sprawl out in my living room, music blaring - Jeremy Messersmith, Future Islands, Champs.
Sipping and looking outside, we couldn't help but marvel at the dusky light just outside the window, illuminating the roof and trees across the street in a way that doesn't happen at any other time of day.
I told Gigi that my favorite part of summer dusk is that when it happens, it's just the prelude to another 5 or 6 hours of evening entertainment.
It was some time after we opened another bottle of Rose that I suggested that we move on to Balliceaux for music. Playing tonight was Brooklyn's trans-global soul band Karikatura, touted as producers of life-affirming, body-shaking music.
Because who doesn't want to shake their body on a warm, Friday night?
I felt like Gigi and I not only only needed our bodies shaken, but our lives affirmed, but it was her response to my suggestion that we go out that had me rolling on the floor. "Now I wish I'd worn underwear," she said nonsensically since she was wearing a skort.
The place was already hopping when we arrived, so we slid into place a few people back from the stage and were immediately captivated by Karikatura's melange of influences: reggae, Cuban, funk and soul, shaking our groove things in a way only enhanced by a couple of bottles of pink.
But because we're both short women, within ten minutes, a tall, well-dressed man took up position directly in front of us.
I let it go for half a song before tapping him gently on the shoulder and raising an eyebrow. "I'm going to stand behind you," he announced with a smile. Good thinking, Paul Bunyan.
With him out of the way, we had no problem moving forward on to the dance floor, unable to resist so much rhythm.
I have to say, "New York Hustle" was killer, a riff on all things Latin and disco, making us just part of the sweaty masses dancing our asses off.
Most nights I'm in Balliceaux, it's overly cold, the air conditioning blasting frigid air, but tonight's Latin beats and non-stop dancing crowd made for a very warm room and lots of glistening faces.
Gigi and I solved that by moving closer to the stage where a vent poured out cooler air and we could dance without sticking to those around us.
Occasionally we'd slip off the dance floor long enough to down a glass of water before returning to where the action was.
Finally, she cried uncle, saying, "Okay, one more song and that's it."
As it happened, synchronicity ensued with the band then announcing that it was their last song and launching into a slow groove of Bill Withers' "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone," the perfect cover because it didn't mimic the original but paid homage to it while making it something uniquely new.
Choosing to bring the bump to the grind right through the introductions of the sax and trombone players, we hung on dancing until the band called it quits.
Sharing a final cup of water as we walked out, Gigi raved about how good the band had been and I told her I almost hadn't mentioned it, planning to go alone, knowing she'd had a long day at work.
"Why would you do that?" she challenged. "Why wouldn't I want to go hear a great band and dance?"
Truthfully - and maybe this is a personal flaw - I couldn't think of a single good reason.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Supporting the Sisterhood
My night was 50% art, 50% film and 50% food. 150% right up my alley.
Starting at Candela Gallery for the opening of "Louis Draper: A Retrospective," I found dozens of other lovers of mid-century African-American photography snacking on salmon cakes and looking at exquisite black and white pictures.
A street photographer for the most part, Richmond-born Draper had an unerring eye for an interesting shot and walking the galleries, I found myself drawn in by faces of everyday people, whether on the streets of Harlem or working in the fields.
I ran into an old friend there, one I almost always see at openings and inquired about her itinerary for the evening; for the gallery portion, it sounded much like mine but we were to detour after that because she was going to La Parisienne for dancing and I was going for something a little rougher.
"That's gonna be fun," she said when she heard my plans. I was counting on it.
But first I went to Quirk Gallery to see Andras Bality's "Scenes from Virginia," a show of scenes, many of which I recognized- Goshen Pass, Hollywood Rapids, Huguenot Bridge complete with construction crane- done in a way that was part Cezanne and part Monet.
"Virginia Beach Pier in Fog" was a large-scale study in taupes and grays, evocative of a damp day at the beach.
Even closer to home, "Belle Isle Bathers" evoked Seurat's "Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte," except with the bathers far less clothed and proper-looking.
The large composition included 20 people, one dog and one guitarist, a pretty fair approximation of an afternoon on Belle Isle with the exception of insufficient canine representation.
I particularly liked "Spare Room for Artist," a depiction of a small room with three windows, a bed and a phone on a nightstand - all the essentials an artistic soul could need when staying over.
The refined part of my evening over, I made my way to Lovebomb, a collective artists' space in Manchester run by three talented women, one of whom is Lily Lamberta, she who puts on the annual Halloween parade with her massive puppets every year.
Tonight the filmmakers of "CLAW," a documentary about female arm wrestling, were going to show us why their film won the People's Choice award at the Virginia Film Festival.
Walking in next to a woman I know from music shows, she sounded relieved, saying, "I almost forgot about this tonight. I would've hated to miss a movie about female empowerment."
I hadn't thought of it that way until she mentioned it.
Lovebomb was ready for the crowd, with candles lit for atmosphere, mulled cider for sipping and a crowd of people curious about something described as "50% theater, 50% sport, 50% fundraiser. 150% awesome."
Heide, one of Lovebomb's founders and an arm wrestler herself introduced the evening in a gold lame bodysuit that was particularly, ahem, snug in certain places. Her wrestling name was Camela Toe, if that tells you anything.
Filmmakers Billy Hunt and Brian Wimer had done a great job (and used up nearly five years of their lives) following the ladies' arm wrestling phenomena that began in, of all places, Charlottesville.
We saw the woman who'd conceived of it all after her husband had died unexpectedly and she was looking for an outlet for her grief and healing process.
She found that she could lose herself in a character by arm wrestling and it turned out a lot of women felt the same way.
As one woman put it, "I love having a reason to put on a rubber nurse's uniform and have it not be totally self-serving."
Don't we all?
So, sure there were impressive costumes, but they didn't hold a candle to the names these women took for wrestling. Copafeelia. Punky Bruiser. Pain Fonda. Tragedy Ann.
As one wrestler was adjusting her costume, she said, "I wanna make sure I don't have a camel toe," bringing a shriek of "what?' from Camela Toe at the back of Lovebomb.
The film detailed the development of arm wrestling first in Charlottesville and then the subsequent leagues that began forming all over the country in Chicago, Washington, D.C., New Orleans, Austin, Durham.
The women involved did it for all different kinds of reasons - something diametrically opposed to their day job, a desire to be onstage, a love of dancing and/or burlesque, personal strength- but most of them mentioned how empowering it was to do.
And, of course, all the money raised by betting on wrestlers and bribing the refs went to a woman-based charity at every match, another reason many women were involved.
So the film was going along in a rough trade but feel-good kind of way when all of a sudden we were watching a match and a wrestler's arm broke badly as she was wrestling.
The room got silent as we realized what had just happened.
Then it happened again at another match and this time we even heard the pop as her arm snapped and sagged at the shoulder.
Meetings ensued among CLAW (collective of lady arm wrestlers) members in several cities as they tried to decide what to do about this unexpected and heartbreaking issue. Many didn't want to go on wrestling knowing that they could do that to someone or have it happen to them.
They compromised by shortening the period of the match, but the effect of two broken arms sobered them as well as the room of movie watchers.
The film finished with a championship match that included a round of rock, paper, scissors, but far be it for me to ruin the surprise of who won But even with shorter match times, I couldn't have been the only one nervous about the possibility of another on-screen break.
By the time we started applauding, I'm guessing everyone in the room understood why the movie had been such an audience favorite.
We'd laughed, we'd cried, we'd been engrossed. Now I was starving.
I stopped by Dinamo on the way home, finding a butt in every seat, but a friendly server persuaded me to wait a few minutes for a seat.
Which I did because I was craving crostini with chicken liver and Montepulciano, but honestly, I felt guilty taking up a two-top when people arriving after me were standing around waiting for a table.
Not so guilty that I was willing to forgo dessert, a simple chocolate tort with whipped cream, but enough not to dally over it, either.
Fortunately by that point, I'd had my 150% of self-serving entertainment.
Sorry my friend, tonight CLAW beat dancing hands down.
Starting at Candela Gallery for the opening of "Louis Draper: A Retrospective," I found dozens of other lovers of mid-century African-American photography snacking on salmon cakes and looking at exquisite black and white pictures.
A street photographer for the most part, Richmond-born Draper had an unerring eye for an interesting shot and walking the galleries, I found myself drawn in by faces of everyday people, whether on the streets of Harlem or working in the fields.
I ran into an old friend there, one I almost always see at openings and inquired about her itinerary for the evening; for the gallery portion, it sounded much like mine but we were to detour after that because she was going to La Parisienne for dancing and I was going for something a little rougher.
"That's gonna be fun," she said when she heard my plans. I was counting on it.
But first I went to Quirk Gallery to see Andras Bality's "Scenes from Virginia," a show of scenes, many of which I recognized- Goshen Pass, Hollywood Rapids, Huguenot Bridge complete with construction crane- done in a way that was part Cezanne and part Monet.
"Virginia Beach Pier in Fog" was a large-scale study in taupes and grays, evocative of a damp day at the beach.
Even closer to home, "Belle Isle Bathers" evoked Seurat's "Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte," except with the bathers far less clothed and proper-looking.
The large composition included 20 people, one dog and one guitarist, a pretty fair approximation of an afternoon on Belle Isle with the exception of insufficient canine representation.
I particularly liked "Spare Room for Artist," a depiction of a small room with three windows, a bed and a phone on a nightstand - all the essentials an artistic soul could need when staying over.
The refined part of my evening over, I made my way to Lovebomb, a collective artists' space in Manchester run by three talented women, one of whom is Lily Lamberta, she who puts on the annual Halloween parade with her massive puppets every year.
Tonight the filmmakers of "CLAW," a documentary about female arm wrestling, were going to show us why their film won the People's Choice award at the Virginia Film Festival.
Walking in next to a woman I know from music shows, she sounded relieved, saying, "I almost forgot about this tonight. I would've hated to miss a movie about female empowerment."
I hadn't thought of it that way until she mentioned it.
Lovebomb was ready for the crowd, with candles lit for atmosphere, mulled cider for sipping and a crowd of people curious about something described as "50% theater, 50% sport, 50% fundraiser. 150% awesome."
Heide, one of Lovebomb's founders and an arm wrestler herself introduced the evening in a gold lame bodysuit that was particularly, ahem, snug in certain places. Her wrestling name was Camela Toe, if that tells you anything.
Filmmakers Billy Hunt and Brian Wimer had done a great job (and used up nearly five years of their lives) following the ladies' arm wrestling phenomena that began in, of all places, Charlottesville.
We saw the woman who'd conceived of it all after her husband had died unexpectedly and she was looking for an outlet for her grief and healing process.
She found that she could lose herself in a character by arm wrestling and it turned out a lot of women felt the same way.
As one woman put it, "I love having a reason to put on a rubber nurse's uniform and have it not be totally self-serving."
Don't we all?
So, sure there were impressive costumes, but they didn't hold a candle to the names these women took for wrestling. Copafeelia. Punky Bruiser. Pain Fonda. Tragedy Ann.
As one wrestler was adjusting her costume, she said, "I wanna make sure I don't have a camel toe," bringing a shriek of "what?' from Camela Toe at the back of Lovebomb.
The film detailed the development of arm wrestling first in Charlottesville and then the subsequent leagues that began forming all over the country in Chicago, Washington, D.C., New Orleans, Austin, Durham.
The women involved did it for all different kinds of reasons - something diametrically opposed to their day job, a desire to be onstage, a love of dancing and/or burlesque, personal strength- but most of them mentioned how empowering it was to do.
And, of course, all the money raised by betting on wrestlers and bribing the refs went to a woman-based charity at every match, another reason many women were involved.
So the film was going along in a rough trade but feel-good kind of way when all of a sudden we were watching a match and a wrestler's arm broke badly as she was wrestling.
The room got silent as we realized what had just happened.
Then it happened again at another match and this time we even heard the pop as her arm snapped and sagged at the shoulder.
Meetings ensued among CLAW (collective of lady arm wrestlers) members in several cities as they tried to decide what to do about this unexpected and heartbreaking issue. Many didn't want to go on wrestling knowing that they could do that to someone or have it happen to them.
They compromised by shortening the period of the match, but the effect of two broken arms sobered them as well as the room of movie watchers.
The film finished with a championship match that included a round of rock, paper, scissors, but far be it for me to ruin the surprise of who won But even with shorter match times, I couldn't have been the only one nervous about the possibility of another on-screen break.
By the time we started applauding, I'm guessing everyone in the room understood why the movie had been such an audience favorite.
We'd laughed, we'd cried, we'd been engrossed. Now I was starving.
I stopped by Dinamo on the way home, finding a butt in every seat, but a friendly server persuaded me to wait a few minutes for a seat.
Which I did because I was craving crostini with chicken liver and Montepulciano, but honestly, I felt guilty taking up a two-top when people arriving after me were standing around waiting for a table.
Not so guilty that I was willing to forgo dessert, a simple chocolate tort with whipped cream, but enough not to dally over it, either.
Fortunately by that point, I'd had my 150% of self-serving entertainment.
Sorry my friend, tonight CLAW beat dancing hands down.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
I Hear You're Looking for Someone to Love
"Is that porn?" was the question of the night.
Yes, it was, showing on a brick wall midway down Jefferson Street for all the world to see.
So it was that the First Fridays artwalk took a turn into the bare-breasted tonight.
I rounded up a willing girlfriend and we set out for some gallery hopping, beginning at Quirk.
Nelly Kate had the shop show, with a collection of small, framed drawings on one wall and an exquisite large-format painting/collage piece on the other.
I don't want to brag, but I already own a Nelly Kate piece.
My friend wanted to see the "Sparkle Plenty 8" show in the back and full of artsy jewelry the likes of which I'll never wear.
From there we went to Candela Gallery to see Linda Connor's photography show featuring photographs taken in such far-flung locations as Cambodia, India, Tibet and Egypt and capturing sacred and religious imagery as well as natural features like rocky landscapes.
I'd interviewed Connor earlier today and an hour into our talk, she'd looked at me and asked, "Are you an artist?"
When I asked her why she'd asked, she'd given me a wonderful compliment. "Because you get it." Hell, I admit it, I let her generous words go straight to my head.
Kind words aside, my friend agreed with me that her black and white photographs are a must-see.
Next up was Gallery 5 for Screens 'n Suds, a poster exhibit, one of my favorite kinds of works on paper.
Walking up Jefferson, my eye was immediately caught by the bouncing breasts high above my head on the side of a building.
My friend kept walking, but I kept looking, fascinated with some serious '70s sex action on the bricks.
Truth be told, I have seen very little porn in my life so I was curious.
Already playing when we got to Gallery 5 were Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat, so after looking at posters, we took in the rest of their set.
A musician friend came up to say hello and gestured to the crowd around us. "I love seeing their faces as they experience this band for the first time."
Seriously, they were rapt, no surprise given Junglebeat's lush sound and killer harmonies.
<
With a heads-up from the same friend not to miss the next band, a duo from Lynchburg, we set out to see some art during the breakdown and set-up period.
We got as far as the porn again before running into rocker Prabir.
General chit-chat ensued between the three of us while I watched the soft-core action of "The Pig Keeper's Daughter" over his shoulder.
After Prabir got over the shock of me not having a cell phone, something he should have known since we've known each other for five years now, I turned the topic to ways he could help my friend.
Back in 2009 when I was nursing a broken heart, Prabir had laid out a step-by-step plan for getting over my heartache, here.
Now that my friend was in that same sad position, I wanted him to advise her and once again, he suggested list-making, drinking and sex with strangers.
Since I hadn't tried out his plan, all I could do was nod and urge her to give it a shot. While I watched porn on the wall.
There may have been a suggestion about smoking weed and listening to Jefferson Airplane, but don't quote me on that.
Before she'd grasped the scope of what lies ahead for her, I heard music starting at Gallery 5, so our little trio made tracks for it.
As people walked around us, inevitably they turned back and asked, "Is that porn?" as if we were the experts, or maybe responsible for it.
Whether pleased or perplexed, they were smiling as they inquired.
Walking in to hear the Late Virginia Summers, I knew immediately that this was my sound.
Part shoegaze and all post-rock, they were creating the kind of textured soundscapes that needed no lyrics and qualify for what a musician friend describes as "night music."
Nathan was an amazing drummer, high energy, hitting hard and constantly doing five things at once. Joe's guitar playing was incredibly fast with hints of post-punk goodness.
After a couple of their songs, Nathan said, "This next one may or may not be a Matthew Sweet song."
By that, he meant it was an original song built around a riff from "Girlfriend," as recognizable a guitar line as any from the '90s.
Pure heaven.
They closed with a kick-ass song with a title that got the attention of all three of us: "Please Stop Loving Me."
Actually, the full title was "(I'm Not All of Those Things) Please Stop Loving Me."
Friend thought it was a hell of statement to tell someone to stop loving you. Prabir thought that telling someone don't stop loving me is even more of a nervy statement.
Personally, I prefer not to give instructions and hope to hear what I want to hear.
Afterwards, Nathan played tease, saying, "We only know one more song and we're not going to play it so you'll have us back."
We should only be so lucky to have them back for more mind-blowing post-rock.
By then my friend had to get going so I walked her back to my house where she'd parked and said goodnight so I could return to G5 for the crowd-pleasing, ever-energetic and grunge-y Hoax Hunters followed by Glass Twin, the band risen from the ashes of one of my long-time favorites, Marionette.
Technically, shows are supposed to end at G5 by midnight, but due to Glass Twin's sound problems causing a late start, they played on past the stroke of twelve, neighbors be damned.
They played so long that by the time I left, the porn wall had gone dark. Now I'll never know what happened to the pig keeper's daughter.
Although I have a sneaking suspicion it's a lot like #8 on Prabir's master list.
Yes, it was, showing on a brick wall midway down Jefferson Street for all the world to see.
So it was that the First Fridays artwalk took a turn into the bare-breasted tonight.
I rounded up a willing girlfriend and we set out for some gallery hopping, beginning at Quirk.
Nelly Kate had the shop show, with a collection of small, framed drawings on one wall and an exquisite large-format painting/collage piece on the other.
I don't want to brag, but I already own a Nelly Kate piece.
My friend wanted to see the "Sparkle Plenty 8" show in the back and full of artsy jewelry the likes of which I'll never wear.
From there we went to Candela Gallery to see Linda Connor's photography show featuring photographs taken in such far-flung locations as Cambodia, India, Tibet and Egypt and capturing sacred and religious imagery as well as natural features like rocky landscapes.
I'd interviewed Connor earlier today and an hour into our talk, she'd looked at me and asked, "Are you an artist?"
When I asked her why she'd asked, she'd given me a wonderful compliment. "Because you get it." Hell, I admit it, I let her generous words go straight to my head.
Kind words aside, my friend agreed with me that her black and white photographs are a must-see.
Next up was Gallery 5 for Screens 'n Suds, a poster exhibit, one of my favorite kinds of works on paper.
Walking up Jefferson, my eye was immediately caught by the bouncing breasts high above my head on the side of a building.
My friend kept walking, but I kept looking, fascinated with some serious '70s sex action on the bricks.
Truth be told, I have seen very little porn in my life so I was curious.
Already playing when we got to Gallery 5 were Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat, so after looking at posters, we took in the rest of their set.
A musician friend came up to say hello and gestured to the crowd around us. "I love seeing their faces as they experience this band for the first time."
Seriously, they were rapt, no surprise given Junglebeat's lush sound and killer harmonies.
<
With a heads-up from the same friend not to miss the next band, a duo from Lynchburg, we set out to see some art during the breakdown and set-up period.
We got as far as the porn again before running into rocker Prabir.
General chit-chat ensued between the three of us while I watched the soft-core action of "The Pig Keeper's Daughter" over his shoulder.
After Prabir got over the shock of me not having a cell phone, something he should have known since we've known each other for five years now, I turned the topic to ways he could help my friend.
Back in 2009 when I was nursing a broken heart, Prabir had laid out a step-by-step plan for getting over my heartache, here.
Now that my friend was in that same sad position, I wanted him to advise her and once again, he suggested list-making, drinking and sex with strangers.
Since I hadn't tried out his plan, all I could do was nod and urge her to give it a shot. While I watched porn on the wall.
There may have been a suggestion about smoking weed and listening to Jefferson Airplane, but don't quote me on that.
Before she'd grasped the scope of what lies ahead for her, I heard music starting at Gallery 5, so our little trio made tracks for it.
As people walked around us, inevitably they turned back and asked, "Is that porn?" as if we were the experts, or maybe responsible for it.
Whether pleased or perplexed, they were smiling as they inquired.
Walking in to hear the Late Virginia Summers, I knew immediately that this was my sound.
Part shoegaze and all post-rock, they were creating the kind of textured soundscapes that needed no lyrics and qualify for what a musician friend describes as "night music."
Nathan was an amazing drummer, high energy, hitting hard and constantly doing five things at once. Joe's guitar playing was incredibly fast with hints of post-punk goodness.
After a couple of their songs, Nathan said, "This next one may or may not be a Matthew Sweet song."
By that, he meant it was an original song built around a riff from "Girlfriend," as recognizable a guitar line as any from the '90s.
Pure heaven.
They closed with a kick-ass song with a title that got the attention of all three of us: "Please Stop Loving Me."
Actually, the full title was "(I'm Not All of Those Things) Please Stop Loving Me."
Friend thought it was a hell of statement to tell someone to stop loving you. Prabir thought that telling someone don't stop loving me is even more of a nervy statement.
Personally, I prefer not to give instructions and hope to hear what I want to hear.
Afterwards, Nathan played tease, saying, "We only know one more song and we're not going to play it so you'll have us back."
We should only be so lucky to have them back for more mind-blowing post-rock.
By then my friend had to get going so I walked her back to my house where she'd parked and said goodnight so I could return to G5 for the crowd-pleasing, ever-energetic and grunge-y Hoax Hunters followed by Glass Twin, the band risen from the ashes of one of my long-time favorites, Marionette.
Technically, shows are supposed to end at G5 by midnight, but due to Glass Twin's sound problems causing a late start, they played on past the stroke of twelve, neighbors be damned.
They played so long that by the time I left, the porn wall had gone dark. Now I'll never know what happened to the pig keeper's daughter.
Although I have a sneaking suspicion it's a lot like #8 on Prabir's master list.
Friday, May 3, 2013
Balancing Two Worlds
There's no telling where an evening's going to end up when I start out at a brewery.
Even with no interest in beer whatsoever, I got to see a favorite actor working the bar and ran into at least half a dozen friends.
Who knew all my friends were beer drinkers?
It's gotten so that if it's the day before First Fridays, it's a great art night.
Exhibit A: Candela Gallery's new show, "Louviere + Vanessa: Counterfeit," a mixed media show of unique beauty.
And highly unique materials: inkjet on Kozo paper, gold leaf, paint and resin on dibond (essentially a sandwich of thin aluminum sheets).
You know, just your usual run-of-the-mill art supplies.
The New Orleans duo's "photographs" were based on copies of world currency, much enlarged and made incredibly painterly with gold leaf, paint and resin.
It was striking texturally in places where you could see the overlay of the sheets of gold leaf or where it had been shaped into curves in a decorative manner.
Add to that hand-crafted frames that were almost as stunning as the works and I was in full art lust mode.
"Not Even a Princess Can Balance Two Worlds" had the image of a maiden, one hand on her hip and one holding a bucket on her head.
You couldn't miss "Until the Sky Around the Comet Tore Through Him" because of its odd frame- its victorious image of a knight on his horse, fist raised overhead, required the frame to be bumped out in an extension along the top of the frame.
I thought of Monet's "Reflections on the Thames" when I saw "With So Many Doorsteps Ruined, the Orphan Fled," a shimmering study of a building in blues and silvers.
The classic profile of "The Fog of Youth was Thicker than He Remembered" (probably the best title in show and that's saying a lot considering the quirky and poetic choices) was a striking one.
Come to think of it, that's as apt a description of the whole show as any: quirky and poetic, truly a feast for the eyes.
Exhibit B: Next door at Ghostprint Gallery was Andy Espinoza's "Another Life," with most pieces depictions of the figure and, as a bonus, I was handed a glass of French Rose on arrival.
Making my way around the room, I admired a large charcoal, "Alone in the Garden," thinking what a remarkable lushness it had.
Unsurprisingly, it had already been sold.
There were several oil nudes that recalled the Impressionists, like "Climbing into Bed" and "Morning," both of which showed female nudes from the back.
Faces didn't matter, curves did.
But the one that captured me and wouldn't let me go was "Blue and Yellow Blanket," an oil on panel of a figure reclining on the afore-mentioned blanket.
There was also a "Blue and Yellow Blanket 2" but somehow it didn't resonate the same with me.
Something about the body's shadow or the line where she met the blanket was absolutely stunning to me.
Now if only some generous friend would pay the artist $500, that painting could be mine.
I looked around for takers and, finding none, moved on to ADA Gallery for Mogan Herrin's "Ology."
Ever since I stumbled on the mythological-looking Herrin sculpture purchased by Lance Armstrong (back before he was disgraced) being loaded onto a U-Haul on Grove Avenue back in 2008, I have been a fan.
Tonight's mini-show reminded of the artist's deft touch with wood, in a skeletal figure taller than me and in a helmeted bust of the smoothest wood and the most intricate grains.
Good eye, Lance.
Tonight's music at Balliceaux was touted as "Bringing Iberia to the Fan" and featured a couple of ensembles that easily qualified as world music.
There was already a crowd in the back room when we arrived, but we asked two guys at a front table if we could join them and they welcomed us in.
One soon got up and left because, it turned out, he was the drummer for upcoming sextet Suenos Gitanos.
The guy remaining introduced himself as George and I asked why he'd come.
Used to work with the drummer, knew the guitarist as a high school friend, the usual musical incestuous nature of Richmond.
He brought up seven degrees of separation and how in Richmond it's more like two or three.
Explaining that we'd seen Fado Nosso play at Globehopper and had heard good things about Suenos Gitanos, I began pointing out band members I knew.
"See? We've only got two degrees of separation, too!" he said, slurring a bit.
Suenos Gitanos played flamenco-inspired Spanish music with congas, drums, bass, two classical guitars and trumpet.
And may I just say that the trumpet player had on the cutest espadrilles with the ribbons tied around her ankles.
Both guitarists looked pretty in long skirts, with one wearing a long white cotton skirt with a black tube top, the epitome of summer fashion circa 1077.
Adorable.
Unexpectedly, George looked a little green and said goodnight, clearing the way for two more music-lovers to join our ringside table.
Soon, a friend at the next table came over to say hello, asking me if S.G.'s lineup and sound didn't remind me a bit of Bio Ritmo.
Lots of talented musicians playing Latin-based music? Yep.
Their smooth rhythms soon had my friend and his date dancing while I enjoyed watching the conga player beat on things and the trumpet player blow.
Depending on the angle of her horn, at times the colored ceiling lights cast a shadow of her trumpet on her floral-patterned dress.
Their set was brief before Fado Nosso came up.
I'd seen them at Globehopper for their CD release party, so I knew to expect Portuguese blues, songs of yearning and love for the men who'd gone to sea.
Sadly, most of the audience couldn't have cared less.
While Bernadette sang songs of intrigue and love, saudade (longing), sadness and the one who got away, most of the room talked or shouted over her emotive voice.
It was a shame and made me glad I'd heard them in a listening room environment already or I'd never have been able to understand what I was hearing.
Honestly, I'll never understand why people are willing to pay $5 to get into the back room only to talk over the music when they could stay in the front room, not pay any money and talk and shout up there.
I'd be curious to know the answer.
To their credit, they soldiered on through one evocative Fado song after another, some traditional and some newer stuff, as if everyone was paying attention.
When their set ended, bass player Brian came over to chat.
"I was looking out at the crowd, wondering if there was anyone who wasn't talking and I looked around and saw you and thought, Karen's listening."
As a music fan, that's about the best compliment I could hope for.
It almost made up for my makeshift title of tonight's performance: The Fog of Drunken Chatter was Thicker than She Would have Liked.
If you want to appreciate longing, you've got to shut up and listen.
Or go have a beer in the front room.
Even with no interest in beer whatsoever, I got to see a favorite actor working the bar and ran into at least half a dozen friends.
Who knew all my friends were beer drinkers?
It's gotten so that if it's the day before First Fridays, it's a great art night.
Exhibit A: Candela Gallery's new show, "Louviere + Vanessa: Counterfeit," a mixed media show of unique beauty.
And highly unique materials: inkjet on Kozo paper, gold leaf, paint and resin on dibond (essentially a sandwich of thin aluminum sheets).
You know, just your usual run-of-the-mill art supplies.
The New Orleans duo's "photographs" were based on copies of world currency, much enlarged and made incredibly painterly with gold leaf, paint and resin.
It was striking texturally in places where you could see the overlay of the sheets of gold leaf or where it had been shaped into curves in a decorative manner.
Add to that hand-crafted frames that were almost as stunning as the works and I was in full art lust mode.
"Not Even a Princess Can Balance Two Worlds" had the image of a maiden, one hand on her hip and one holding a bucket on her head.
You couldn't miss "Until the Sky Around the Comet Tore Through Him" because of its odd frame- its victorious image of a knight on his horse, fist raised overhead, required the frame to be bumped out in an extension along the top of the frame.
I thought of Monet's "Reflections on the Thames" when I saw "With So Many Doorsteps Ruined, the Orphan Fled," a shimmering study of a building in blues and silvers.
The classic profile of "The Fog of Youth was Thicker than He Remembered" (probably the best title in show and that's saying a lot considering the quirky and poetic choices) was a striking one.
Come to think of it, that's as apt a description of the whole show as any: quirky and poetic, truly a feast for the eyes.
Exhibit B: Next door at Ghostprint Gallery was Andy Espinoza's "Another Life," with most pieces depictions of the figure and, as a bonus, I was handed a glass of French Rose on arrival.
Making my way around the room, I admired a large charcoal, "Alone in the Garden," thinking what a remarkable lushness it had.
Unsurprisingly, it had already been sold.
There were several oil nudes that recalled the Impressionists, like "Climbing into Bed" and "Morning," both of which showed female nudes from the back.
Faces didn't matter, curves did.
But the one that captured me and wouldn't let me go was "Blue and Yellow Blanket," an oil on panel of a figure reclining on the afore-mentioned blanket.
There was also a "Blue and Yellow Blanket 2" but somehow it didn't resonate the same with me.
Something about the body's shadow or the line where she met the blanket was absolutely stunning to me.
Now if only some generous friend would pay the artist $500, that painting could be mine.
I looked around for takers and, finding none, moved on to ADA Gallery for Mogan Herrin's "Ology."
Ever since I stumbled on the mythological-looking Herrin sculpture purchased by Lance Armstrong (back before he was disgraced) being loaded onto a U-Haul on Grove Avenue back in 2008, I have been a fan.
Tonight's mini-show reminded of the artist's deft touch with wood, in a skeletal figure taller than me and in a helmeted bust of the smoothest wood and the most intricate grains.
Good eye, Lance.
Tonight's music at Balliceaux was touted as "Bringing Iberia to the Fan" and featured a couple of ensembles that easily qualified as world music.
There was already a crowd in the back room when we arrived, but we asked two guys at a front table if we could join them and they welcomed us in.
One soon got up and left because, it turned out, he was the drummer for upcoming sextet Suenos Gitanos.
The guy remaining introduced himself as George and I asked why he'd come.
Used to work with the drummer, knew the guitarist as a high school friend, the usual musical incestuous nature of Richmond.
He brought up seven degrees of separation and how in Richmond it's more like two or three.
Explaining that we'd seen Fado Nosso play at Globehopper and had heard good things about Suenos Gitanos, I began pointing out band members I knew.
"See? We've only got two degrees of separation, too!" he said, slurring a bit.
Suenos Gitanos played flamenco-inspired Spanish music with congas, drums, bass, two classical guitars and trumpet.
And may I just say that the trumpet player had on the cutest espadrilles with the ribbons tied around her ankles.
Both guitarists looked pretty in long skirts, with one wearing a long white cotton skirt with a black tube top, the epitome of summer fashion circa 1077.
Adorable.
Unexpectedly, George looked a little green and said goodnight, clearing the way for two more music-lovers to join our ringside table.
Soon, a friend at the next table came over to say hello, asking me if S.G.'s lineup and sound didn't remind me a bit of Bio Ritmo.
Lots of talented musicians playing Latin-based music? Yep.
Their smooth rhythms soon had my friend and his date dancing while I enjoyed watching the conga player beat on things and the trumpet player blow.
Depending on the angle of her horn, at times the colored ceiling lights cast a shadow of her trumpet on her floral-patterned dress.
Their set was brief before Fado Nosso came up.
I'd seen them at Globehopper for their CD release party, so I knew to expect Portuguese blues, songs of yearning and love for the men who'd gone to sea.
Sadly, most of the audience couldn't have cared less.
While Bernadette sang songs of intrigue and love, saudade (longing), sadness and the one who got away, most of the room talked or shouted over her emotive voice.
It was a shame and made me glad I'd heard them in a listening room environment already or I'd never have been able to understand what I was hearing.
Honestly, I'll never understand why people are willing to pay $5 to get into the back room only to talk over the music when they could stay in the front room, not pay any money and talk and shout up there.
I'd be curious to know the answer.
To their credit, they soldiered on through one evocative Fado song after another, some traditional and some newer stuff, as if everyone was paying attention.
When their set ended, bass player Brian came over to chat.
"I was looking out at the crowd, wondering if there was anyone who wasn't talking and I looked around and saw you and thought, Karen's listening."
As a music fan, that's about the best compliment I could hope for.
It almost made up for my makeshift title of tonight's performance: The Fog of Drunken Chatter was Thicker than She Would have Liked.
If you want to appreciate longing, you've got to shut up and listen.
Or go have a beer in the front room.
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