So it's Labor Day weekend and the city is all but dead.
Parking spaces abound, businesses are closed and if you're one of the few left in town, good luck finding action.
With that in mind, I invited Holmes and his favorite gal to meet at Lunch for dinner.
No surprise, we were the only ones in the restaurant when we arrived.
A familiar and pretty server greeted us and brought our favorite Wolf Trap blend to ease us into happy hour.
Music was absent, so I asked our server to correct that.
Within seconds, the '70s and '80s arrived, courtesy of Pandora.
You know what I'm talking about: MJ's "Rock with You," Robbie Dupree's"Steal Away," Ambrosia's "Baby Come Back," " Ace's "How Long?" and more Hall and Oates than you could shake a stick at.
Songs I've heard too many times and know every word to.
Still, it made for terrific conversation, especially once Holmes and partner arrived and joined us at our window table.
They followed our Wolf Trap lead and everyone perused the menu eagerly.
Having had 80% of the menu, I couldn't help but go with one of the specials, fish tacos.
Three grilled tilapia, pineapple-mango salsa and shredded cabbage tacos were more than I needed to satisfy my hunger.
All around me, my companions, ordered pig: griddle cakes with pork, chicken with pork, a pork sampler.
The music provided lots of discussion, as did the black and white photographs of old Richmond.
Our server was quick to refill wine glasses and profess her love of Hall and Oates.
It was adorable.
The abundance of pig meant that no one at our table had enough room for dessert, so once again, I didn't taste the brownie with bacon.
Someday, my love.
I lost my date to northern Virginia while Holmes and his beloved agreed to meet me at Carytown Bistro for music.
Somehow, I arrived first, scoring a table far too near the wafting odor of sewer gas.
After a move closer to Chilled Mint, we settled in to enjoy music al fresco.
The restaurant was low on inventory, so we settled for a Close Robert chardonnay, the only white wine available.
Holmes advised the owner to change wine reps if that was the case.
When his love saw the bottle, she noted, "It's 13%. Good, we're not f**king around with a vinho verde.. That's a single serving in a bottle."
I found that a succinct and hilarious observation.
I'd seen Chilled Mint before and had much enjoyed their Latin take on jazz.
With a good friend on sax, jazz guitar, a drummer who only occasionally used anything but his hands to make sound and a bass player on an acoustic bass guitar, they created a smooth and eminently danceable sound.
Sadly, I had no one to dance with.
Even so, they delivered standards and originals, like "Delta Casbah," Dizzy Gillespie's "Night in Tunisia," and the standards, "Autumn Leaves" and "Song for My Father," both of which required the drummer to stand.
One song required the drummer to blow his whistle, conveniently located around his neck.
"I thought it was a crucifix," Holmes admitted once he began blowing.
"It's not just bling," his nearby girlfriend laughingly told us.
Scent of sewer gas and limited wine selection aside, we were more than happy to sit back and enjoy bossa novas and sambas in the warm August night.
When we left there, it was to go to Amour Wine Bistro for a nightcap.
What the hell?
It was a block away, we knew their wine selection would not be limited and there was always the opportunity for dessert.
While Holmes had no preference, his lady love and I immediately went for the Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace brut rose, a lovely pink sparkler that puts the rose in our cheeks.
As we enjoyed the soundtrack of gypsy jazz (mostly Django Reinhardt), the chalkboard listing the evening's sorbets caught our eye.
"They have fig sorbet," Holmes' beloved noted.
Given the all-too-brief fig season, how could we resist?
Both fig sorbet and a lovely plum sorbet arrived at our request and we savored the delicacy of the flavors.
Eventually, the other couple at the bar joined our conversation, unable to resist Holmes' comment, "Olli soprasetta smells like semen."
Seems they'd done a taste comparison between Boar's Head and Olli soprasetta and Olli had been disqualified for its distinctive scent.
It was a tough thing to even respond to.
Instead, we looked at art, namely that of Vicki Foster Miller, which hung on one wall of the dining room.
Recalling late 19th century post-impressionists, I immediately saw one I coveted.
But at $450 (a steal of a deal, no doubt), it was way beyond my budget.
Still, I can admire.
By the time we left,even the fro-yo customers had vacated the overly bright premises and it was just us on Cary Street.
Approaching my car parked in front of Babe's, I saw a line out the door and considered going in.
The bass was booming and several women gave me inviting looks.
Should I or shouldn't I?
Truth is, even on a holiday weekend, the city is only as dead as you want it to be.
Showing posts with label carytown bistro. Show all posts
Showing posts with label carytown bistro. Show all posts
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Delta Casbah at Dusk
They had me at bongos and congas.
Carytown Bistro was the unlikely location where a musician friend's side project was playing a show tonight.
I arrived shortly after they started, delighted to find that they'd set up on the patio for all the world to hear.
Every table was taken except the one closest to the band and what better position for a musical idiot like me than three feet from the bass player?
The couple next to me had friends join them, making for somewhat tight quarters but it also led to us getting to know each other.
Before long fireflies were flitting around, making for a worthy addition to the evening, while the revving motorcycles and screeching cars were less so.
But there's no reason to nitpick when you're sitting outside listening to live music on a mild June evening.
The band was Chilled Mint, a fairly recent ensemble, consisting of my friend Marshall (keyboard player for Marionette) on sax, Seth on guitar, Jeff on percussion and drums and Jacob on bass.
Although the show poster had called them world jazz, they were, more specifically, Latin-based rhythms of one kind or another.
You know, mambo, samba, rumba kind of songs.
I know that only because Marshall told me that during the set break as he ate a cheese danish and Mexican Coke while I had a diced rooster sandwich.
While ordering, the owner had recognized me, asking, "You're Herschel's friend, right? I remember you."
Funny how people file you away in their mind.
As we ate, Marshall admitted being distracted and of the perils of wearing your heart on your sleeve.
I knew exactly what he meant.
Back outside, I was starting to get a bit chilly in the clear night air but when I mentioned it, Marshall said how much he was digging the cooler temperature.
"But then I have on a polyester shirt," he grinned and indeed his patterned shirt was quite jazzy and no doubt plenty warm.
Chatting around, I learned that the girl next to me had given up on teaching high school and now goes to Tech.
She was amazed when I guessed that she was studying to be a vet.
But really, how many people wear a t-shirt with a woman's hand stuck down a cow's butt?
A smiling woman at that.
She agreed that it was getting cool so we asked the owner if we could temporarily help ourselves to the two sweaters hanging inside on the coat rack.
So it was that I began the second set in some unknown girl's burnt orange cable knit sweater with wooden buttons.
"That looks great on you," the vet's husband told me. "You should keep it."
I didn't. It was enough to use it for the remainder of my outdoor evening.
The set began with "The Girl from Ipanema," particularly appropriate since a girlfriend had messaged me moments before I'd left to suggest I join her at Ipanema.
And while she's great fun, had I gone there I'd have missed so much.
Like my first time seeing an acoustic bass, for instance, and tonight played by the extremely talented bandleader, Jacob ("This is as electrified as I get," he told a fan calling for more effects).
Like drummer Jeff's non-stop hands on those bongos, congas and cymbals, as well as timbale, chimes, cowbell and claves, which he told me he'd purchased ten years ago across the street at Ten Thousand Villages.
Personally, I have to appreciate a musician who supports third world craftsmanship.
They did a combination of music, some older like the Dizzy Gillespie-penned "Night in Tunisia," plus original compositions, such as "Mediterranean" and "Delta Casbah," which I thought brilliantly named.
As the evening wore on, people passed the patio, some stopping to listen for a song or longer and others joining the audience and ordering drinks and food.
Three hours in, the band tried to decide on their last piece, finally agreeing to do "Samba of Orpheus," from the movie "Black Orpheus."
Sitting on a wooden banquette in a borrowed sweater under a waxing gibbous moon listening to sambas on a Saturday night.
If that isn't the way to be distracted wearing your heart on your sleeve, I don't know what is.
Carytown Bistro was the unlikely location where a musician friend's side project was playing a show tonight.
I arrived shortly after they started, delighted to find that they'd set up on the patio for all the world to hear.
Every table was taken except the one closest to the band and what better position for a musical idiot like me than three feet from the bass player?
The couple next to me had friends join them, making for somewhat tight quarters but it also led to us getting to know each other.
Before long fireflies were flitting around, making for a worthy addition to the evening, while the revving motorcycles and screeching cars were less so.
But there's no reason to nitpick when you're sitting outside listening to live music on a mild June evening.
The band was Chilled Mint, a fairly recent ensemble, consisting of my friend Marshall (keyboard player for Marionette) on sax, Seth on guitar, Jeff on percussion and drums and Jacob on bass.
Although the show poster had called them world jazz, they were, more specifically, Latin-based rhythms of one kind or another.
You know, mambo, samba, rumba kind of songs.
I know that only because Marshall told me that during the set break as he ate a cheese danish and Mexican Coke while I had a diced rooster sandwich.
While ordering, the owner had recognized me, asking, "You're Herschel's friend, right? I remember you."
Funny how people file you away in their mind.
As we ate, Marshall admitted being distracted and of the perils of wearing your heart on your sleeve.
I knew exactly what he meant.
Back outside, I was starting to get a bit chilly in the clear night air but when I mentioned it, Marshall said how much he was digging the cooler temperature.
"But then I have on a polyester shirt," he grinned and indeed his patterned shirt was quite jazzy and no doubt plenty warm.
Chatting around, I learned that the girl next to me had given up on teaching high school and now goes to Tech.
She was amazed when I guessed that she was studying to be a vet.
But really, how many people wear a t-shirt with a woman's hand stuck down a cow's butt?
A smiling woman at that.
She agreed that it was getting cool so we asked the owner if we could temporarily help ourselves to the two sweaters hanging inside on the coat rack.
So it was that I began the second set in some unknown girl's burnt orange cable knit sweater with wooden buttons.
"That looks great on you," the vet's husband told me. "You should keep it."
I didn't. It was enough to use it for the remainder of my outdoor evening.
The set began with "The Girl from Ipanema," particularly appropriate since a girlfriend had messaged me moments before I'd left to suggest I join her at Ipanema.
And while she's great fun, had I gone there I'd have missed so much.
Like my first time seeing an acoustic bass, for instance, and tonight played by the extremely talented bandleader, Jacob ("This is as electrified as I get," he told a fan calling for more effects).
Like drummer Jeff's non-stop hands on those bongos, congas and cymbals, as well as timbale, chimes, cowbell and claves, which he told me he'd purchased ten years ago across the street at Ten Thousand Villages.
Personally, I have to appreciate a musician who supports third world craftsmanship.
They did a combination of music, some older like the Dizzy Gillespie-penned "Night in Tunisia," plus original compositions, such as "Mediterranean" and "Delta Casbah," which I thought brilliantly named.
As the evening wore on, people passed the patio, some stopping to listen for a song or longer and others joining the audience and ordering drinks and food.
Three hours in, the band tried to decide on their last piece, finally agreeing to do "Samba of Orpheus," from the movie "Black Orpheus."
Sitting on a wooden banquette in a borrowed sweater under a waxing gibbous moon listening to sambas on a Saturday night.
If that isn't the way to be distracted wearing your heart on your sleeve, I don't know what is.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
No Train, No Cry
It was an evening with some range, from honky tonk to Chateauneuf de Pape.
Starting at Carytown Bistro, I arrived to find a small crowd and Kent South playing inside while a speaker blasted him outside.
Which was convenient for the guy who had been asked to leave when he tried eating a Blowtoad pizza on the Carytown Bistro patio.
I think we all know better than to eat another restaurant's food somewhere other than that restaurant. At least now we do.
I'd been told to come hear Kent South for his country take on covers and original material.
That's exactly what I got.
Covers of songs by Lowell George, Guy Clark (South's fave) , McCartney, Paul Simon and even New Riders of the Purple Sage ("There must have been Original Riders of the Purple Sage," South observed) made up most of the set, with original material in between.
South showed his Texas leaning with stories of wildcatters (an oil well term I'd heard but didn't understand), trains and lost loves.
You know, songs like, "It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry."
My friend and I discussed whether or not honky-tonks as venues still existed or if that term had been reduced to a generic musical genre.
That is, when he wasn't texting about the pizza incident or talking about the banality of McCartney's songwriting.
When I left there, it was to stop at Amour Wine Bistro for a nibble and some wine.
But, oh, what wine.
I started with a two-ounce pour of Domaine du Beaurenard Red, a rich and tannic blend that spoke to me with its ripeness.
That ripeness would be equivalent to someone who's been playing guitar for decades and is not being willing to play with someone who only knows three chords.
This wine's rounded body and strong personality was not for neophytes.
I followed that with a bowl of their outstanding onion soup, not the gloppy mess that passes for French onion soup in a restaurant with no business having it on the menu, but a true exemplar of what inspired all the pale imitations.
I lucked into a landscaper from Bon Air who had brought not only a vintage '50s French restaurant postcard to share, but a Newsweek with a mention of RVA as an up and coming restaurant town.
Of note and mentioned were Acacia (naturally), Ronnie's Ribs (which I do like) and Black Sheep (of course).
Next up was another small pour of Crozes Hermitage Rouge 2007, fragrant with a long finish and enough spice to grab me.
New to the bar then was a delightful couple I had met at the Beaujolais Nouveau tasting back in November.
Once they had their wine, they turned to me for conversation.
"What have you done today?" she wanted to know.
Before I could answer, they laughed out loud.
"Look at that mischievous look on her face," she noted to him.
"We didn't ask who you'd done today," he clarified with a mile-wide grin.
Brunch, I answered. I'd had a delicious pancake and bacon and fruit brunch at Ettamae's Cafe today.
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
That exchange led to talk of a wake for the 100-watt incandescent bulb (150 people showed up), a piano bar in Savannah (my friend, the server, knew it well, as much for the pianist as for his pink drinks and thumbs up) and whether or not the concept would work here in a dark basement (I like to think it would).
Next up was one of the most unique desserts I've had, a cold fruit soup.
The small bowl of flavored cream with fruit at the bottom was wonderful for its rich take on a simple classic.
It required the most unlikely of wine choices at Amour, a Virginia wine.
The Thibaud Janisson Blanc de Chardonnay tasted of yeast and green apples and had the loveliest bubbles imaginable.
The couple and I agreed that to be enjoying it in a French bistro made it all the better.
It was as I was finishing that that I commented on the well-chosen music, which I learned was so fitting because it was Pandora set to Louis Armstrong.
If that's not a starting point for every good (and romantic) song I could hope to hear in a bistro, I'm not sure what is.
Hearing, "Karen?," I turned to find a handsome masseuse I know sitting behind me with a date named Karen.
What are the chances?
After introductions, we began discussing the beautiful bubbles we were drinking and the state of Virgina winemaking since he'd recently been disappointed by Barboursville's Octagon after years of finding it stellar.
On the other hand, it's exciting to see how many other wineries are making noteworthy wines these days besides the tried and true Big B.
For the final tasting of the night, we rose to new heights. And with white, too.
It was my first Chateaneuf du Pape Blanc and I couldn't have been any more impressed.
Full bodied and rich, it tasted as opulent as you'd expect from a name that even non-wine drinkers would recognize.
We can only hope that many hundred of years down the road, there will be a Virginia winery with the same kind of name recognition.
Of course, I'll be long dead, so it won't much affect me.
After saying goodnight to the others, I headed home, amazed to pass no less than eight cabs in the two miles it took me to get home.
Just like in a real city.
You know, the kind of place where you can savor honky-tonk music and Chateauneuf du Pape in the same two block radius.
Saturday night's alright for all kinds of things if you know where to look.
I like to think I do.
Starting at Carytown Bistro, I arrived to find a small crowd and Kent South playing inside while a speaker blasted him outside.
Which was convenient for the guy who had been asked to leave when he tried eating a Blowtoad pizza on the Carytown Bistro patio.
I think we all know better than to eat another restaurant's food somewhere other than that restaurant. At least now we do.
I'd been told to come hear Kent South for his country take on covers and original material.
That's exactly what I got.
Covers of songs by Lowell George, Guy Clark (South's fave) , McCartney, Paul Simon and even New Riders of the Purple Sage ("There must have been Original Riders of the Purple Sage," South observed) made up most of the set, with original material in between.
South showed his Texas leaning with stories of wildcatters (an oil well term I'd heard but didn't understand), trains and lost loves.
You know, songs like, "It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry."
My friend and I discussed whether or not honky-tonks as venues still existed or if that term had been reduced to a generic musical genre.
That is, when he wasn't texting about the pizza incident or talking about the banality of McCartney's songwriting.
When I left there, it was to stop at Amour Wine Bistro for a nibble and some wine.
But, oh, what wine.
I started with a two-ounce pour of Domaine du Beaurenard Red, a rich and tannic blend that spoke to me with its ripeness.
That ripeness would be equivalent to someone who's been playing guitar for decades and is not being willing to play with someone who only knows three chords.
This wine's rounded body and strong personality was not for neophytes.
I followed that with a bowl of their outstanding onion soup, not the gloppy mess that passes for French onion soup in a restaurant with no business having it on the menu, but a true exemplar of what inspired all the pale imitations.
I lucked into a landscaper from Bon Air who had brought not only a vintage '50s French restaurant postcard to share, but a Newsweek with a mention of RVA as an up and coming restaurant town.
Of note and mentioned were Acacia (naturally), Ronnie's Ribs (which I do like) and Black Sheep (of course).
Next up was another small pour of Crozes Hermitage Rouge 2007, fragrant with a long finish and enough spice to grab me.
New to the bar then was a delightful couple I had met at the Beaujolais Nouveau tasting back in November.
Once they had their wine, they turned to me for conversation.
"What have you done today?" she wanted to know.
Before I could answer, they laughed out loud.
"Look at that mischievous look on her face," she noted to him.
"We didn't ask who you'd done today," he clarified with a mile-wide grin.
Brunch, I answered. I'd had a delicious pancake and bacon and fruit brunch at Ettamae's Cafe today.
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
That exchange led to talk of a wake for the 100-watt incandescent bulb (150 people showed up), a piano bar in Savannah (my friend, the server, knew it well, as much for the pianist as for his pink drinks and thumbs up) and whether or not the concept would work here in a dark basement (I like to think it would).
Next up was one of the most unique desserts I've had, a cold fruit soup.
The small bowl of flavored cream with fruit at the bottom was wonderful for its rich take on a simple classic.
It required the most unlikely of wine choices at Amour, a Virginia wine.
The Thibaud Janisson Blanc de Chardonnay tasted of yeast and green apples and had the loveliest bubbles imaginable.
The couple and I agreed that to be enjoying it in a French bistro made it all the better.
It was as I was finishing that that I commented on the well-chosen music, which I learned was so fitting because it was Pandora set to Louis Armstrong.
If that's not a starting point for every good (and romantic) song I could hope to hear in a bistro, I'm not sure what is.
Hearing, "Karen?," I turned to find a handsome masseuse I know sitting behind me with a date named Karen.
What are the chances?
After introductions, we began discussing the beautiful bubbles we were drinking and the state of Virgina winemaking since he'd recently been disappointed by Barboursville's Octagon after years of finding it stellar.
On the other hand, it's exciting to see how many other wineries are making noteworthy wines these days besides the tried and true Big B.
For the final tasting of the night, we rose to new heights. And with white, too.
It was my first Chateaneuf du Pape Blanc and I couldn't have been any more impressed.
Full bodied and rich, it tasted as opulent as you'd expect from a name that even non-wine drinkers would recognize.
We can only hope that many hundred of years down the road, there will be a Virginia winery with the same kind of name recognition.
Of course, I'll be long dead, so it won't much affect me.
After saying goodnight to the others, I headed home, amazed to pass no less than eight cabs in the two miles it took me to get home.
Just like in a real city.
You know, the kind of place where you can savor honky-tonk music and Chateauneuf du Pape in the same two block radius.
Saturday night's alright for all kinds of things if you know where to look.
I like to think I do.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Pickin' and Grinnin' to Sangiovese
You can try keeping me in by inviting me to dinner, but that doesn't mean I won't suggest going out at some point.
Which is to say that after the veal and the bottle of Mulderbosch Rose were savored near an open window (yes, on a fine January evening), I made a case for adjourning to Carytown Bistro for a little bluegrass.
I've been told that I can make a very convincing argument when I want to.
Since it was my first time there for music since it changed from Bin 22, I didn't know how much of a crowd to expect.
The place turned out to be nearly full with a lot of people standing to hear Tara Mills (Charlottesville) and Chloe Edmonstone (Asheville) play their bluegrass.
They'd rounded up a local bass player and part-time RVA mandolin player to round out the sound and shoehorned themselves into the alcove up front.
The reluctant contingent and I got glasses of the Tuscan Il Bastardo and managed to grab a couple of recently available seats in a community booth right up front.
The set featured the violinist Chloe and the bass player Zach each singing lead vocals for a song, changing up their sound considerably.
Chloe's voice reminded me a bit of Allison's, always a good thing.
Josh Bearman of the Hot Seats arrived during the break, convenient because he was on next.
In his defense, he'd just finished his shift on WRIR, so it wasn't like he'd been dawdling.
But he and band mate Allison Self, who've dubbed themselves Sweet Fern, know exactly what they're doing and the two launched onto their set effortlessly.
Josh is a master at stage banter, one very funny and superbly talented guy.
Allison's big, beautiful voice was made for "old timey" music and between her ukulele and his guitar/mandolin, they pulled off a stellar performance, only resorting to a lyric sheet for the encore demanded by the audience.
With a Carter Family cover, songs about tried and true love as well as one about being a single gal, there was a little something to make everyone happy.
Which was a good thing considering I'd dragged the dinner party with me out into a balmy sixty-degree night to partake of a little mountain music.
Doesn't sound like much of a sacrifice to me.
Fortunate are those I can convince to join me. Dessert can always wait.
Which is to say that after the veal and the bottle of Mulderbosch Rose were savored near an open window (yes, on a fine January evening), I made a case for adjourning to Carytown Bistro for a little bluegrass.
I've been told that I can make a very convincing argument when I want to.
Since it was my first time there for music since it changed from Bin 22, I didn't know how much of a crowd to expect.
The place turned out to be nearly full with a lot of people standing to hear Tara Mills (Charlottesville) and Chloe Edmonstone (Asheville) play their bluegrass.
They'd rounded up a local bass player and part-time RVA mandolin player to round out the sound and shoehorned themselves into the alcove up front.
The reluctant contingent and I got glasses of the Tuscan Il Bastardo and managed to grab a couple of recently available seats in a community booth right up front.
The set featured the violinist Chloe and the bass player Zach each singing lead vocals for a song, changing up their sound considerably.
Chloe's voice reminded me a bit of Allison's, always a good thing.
Josh Bearman of the Hot Seats arrived during the break, convenient because he was on next.
In his defense, he'd just finished his shift on WRIR, so it wasn't like he'd been dawdling.
But he and band mate Allison Self, who've dubbed themselves Sweet Fern, know exactly what they're doing and the two launched onto their set effortlessly.
Josh is a master at stage banter, one very funny and superbly talented guy.
Allison's big, beautiful voice was made for "old timey" music and between her ukulele and his guitar/mandolin, they pulled off a stellar performance, only resorting to a lyric sheet for the encore demanded by the audience.
With a Carter Family cover, songs about tried and true love as well as one about being a single gal, there was a little something to make everyone happy.
Which was a good thing considering I'd dragged the dinner party with me out into a balmy sixty-degree night to partake of a little mountain music.
Doesn't sound like much of a sacrifice to me.
Fortunate are those I can convince to join me. Dessert can always wait.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Hope Floats
If Thursday is the new Friday, then Preview Thursday is the new First Friday.
Why battle crowds when I can enjoy the new art shows the way they used to be when the artwalk first started?
No jostling, no strollers, no inability to take in a piece of art in from across the room.
I began at Ghostprint Gallery, natch, to check out Sterling Hundley's exhibit, "Blue Collar/White Collar."
The mixed media pieces were completely captivating: multi-dimensional, smart and full of familiar faces.
With deeper pockets, I could have purchased works depicting Herbie Hancock, Torie Amos, Marat Sade, Bojangles, or my particular favorite, Shakespeare (oh, how I wish my art budget was bigger!).
Johnny Cash was not for sale.
"My Lady Richmond" was especially compelling, containing images and one person's story of how he came to VCU and was sucked in by the capital city.
It's happened to more than a few of us.
Daniel Day-Lewis had been invited to tonight's preview, but his assistant had called to say he couldn't make it.
Our loss, I'm sure.
Once a friend joined me at the preview, I had company when I went to check out some of the other galleries.
Quirk Gallery's "Sparkle 7: Organism" show was their annual jewelry show.
While I can admire the pieces for art's sake, my non-existent interest in jewelry means that a lot of it washes over me.
Ooh, sparkly things. What else you got?
Yes, I realize that this makes me a poor excuse for a female.
From there we went to 1708 Gallery for "Push, Pull, Resist," a show of inflatable sculptures using reclaimed maritime materials.
Here I actually regretted that it wasn't First Friday so more people could have been there.
Many of the pieces required human interaction to do their thing. A motion sensor inflated a piece. Blowing into a windsock made cloth-rollers inflate and turn.
With enough people, the art would be endlessly in motion. Not so tonight, but something to look forward to tomorrow evening.
Friend and I parted ways after that. I was off for a bite to eat and he was in search of a restful evening after a late night and early morning.
It reminded me of a girlfriend's statement at Ghostprint tonight. "It's not age that make you act old. It's getting up early."
My destination was Carytown Bistro to meet another friend. His boyfriend is out of town so we were meeting for dinner.
We walked into a wine tasting, and at $5.00 for six one-ounce pours, a steal of a deal.
The event had been emblazoned online as "Winos Welcome," although that probably says more about the poster than the tasting.
Except for some of the seating having changed, the place is little different from its days as Bin 22 and the menu is even simpler.
Ever since I'd snacked on a banana during the movie earlier today, my friend (who'd also been at that event), had been craving banana.
He jumped on The King panini, a grilled sandwich of peanut butter and banana.
I was fine with a BLT on an everything bagel, pleased that the "L" portion was actually mesclun and not iceberg.
We savored the tasting before, during and after our sandwiches, satisfied that there was no rushing by our server.
Another friend came in to do the tasting and brought with him a red wine-loving musician, which immediately turned all talk to music.
Which Elvis Costello songs are worth covering? What makes a musician prickly? What's a good first venue for a transplanted musician from L.A.? Which folk acts put a cocaine-addled listener to sleep despite the drugs?
I knew the answers to none of those.
And honestly, with a glass of Barbera and a Kit-Kat bar from the bowl of leftover Halloween candy on the bar, it was tough to imagine that there might really be a Ben Folds mix I could like, despite assurances to the contrary.
But as with all things, I remain ever hopeful.
Why battle crowds when I can enjoy the new art shows the way they used to be when the artwalk first started?
No jostling, no strollers, no inability to take in a piece of art in from across the room.
I began at Ghostprint Gallery, natch, to check out Sterling Hundley's exhibit, "Blue Collar/White Collar."
The mixed media pieces were completely captivating: multi-dimensional, smart and full of familiar faces.
With deeper pockets, I could have purchased works depicting Herbie Hancock, Torie Amos, Marat Sade, Bojangles, or my particular favorite, Shakespeare (oh, how I wish my art budget was bigger!).
Johnny Cash was not for sale.
"My Lady Richmond" was especially compelling, containing images and one person's story of how he came to VCU and was sucked in by the capital city.
It's happened to more than a few of us.
Daniel Day-Lewis had been invited to tonight's preview, but his assistant had called to say he couldn't make it.
Our loss, I'm sure.
Once a friend joined me at the preview, I had company when I went to check out some of the other galleries.
Quirk Gallery's "Sparkle 7: Organism" show was their annual jewelry show.
While I can admire the pieces for art's sake, my non-existent interest in jewelry means that a lot of it washes over me.
Ooh, sparkly things. What else you got?
Yes, I realize that this makes me a poor excuse for a female.
From there we went to 1708 Gallery for "Push, Pull, Resist," a show of inflatable sculptures using reclaimed maritime materials.
Here I actually regretted that it wasn't First Friday so more people could have been there.
Many of the pieces required human interaction to do their thing. A motion sensor inflated a piece. Blowing into a windsock made cloth-rollers inflate and turn.
With enough people, the art would be endlessly in motion. Not so tonight, but something to look forward to tomorrow evening.
Friend and I parted ways after that. I was off for a bite to eat and he was in search of a restful evening after a late night and early morning.
It reminded me of a girlfriend's statement at Ghostprint tonight. "It's not age that make you act old. It's getting up early."
My destination was Carytown Bistro to meet another friend. His boyfriend is out of town so we were meeting for dinner.
We walked into a wine tasting, and at $5.00 for six one-ounce pours, a steal of a deal.
The event had been emblazoned online as "Winos Welcome," although that probably says more about the poster than the tasting.
Except for some of the seating having changed, the place is little different from its days as Bin 22 and the menu is even simpler.
Ever since I'd snacked on a banana during the movie earlier today, my friend (who'd also been at that event), had been craving banana.
He jumped on The King panini, a grilled sandwich of peanut butter and banana.
I was fine with a BLT on an everything bagel, pleased that the "L" portion was actually mesclun and not iceberg.
We savored the tasting before, during and after our sandwiches, satisfied that there was no rushing by our server.
Another friend came in to do the tasting and brought with him a red wine-loving musician, which immediately turned all talk to music.
Which Elvis Costello songs are worth covering? What makes a musician prickly? What's a good first venue for a transplanted musician from L.A.? Which folk acts put a cocaine-addled listener to sleep despite the drugs?
I knew the answers to none of those.
And honestly, with a glass of Barbera and a Kit-Kat bar from the bowl of leftover Halloween candy on the bar, it was tough to imagine that there might really be a Ben Folds mix I could like, despite assurances to the contrary.
But as with all things, I remain ever hopeful.
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