Evening as a Work of Art

For better or for worse, I have a tendency to romanticize.

So I can be completely carried away by something as simple as watching what is most likely the last moonflower of 2015 opening on my porch last night. I feel somehow wistful and anticipatory about having to wait another eight months to see one of those big, white blossoms unfurl itself right in front of my eyes.

And smells! It's rare I pass a blooming gardenia or rose bush without stopping to inhale its perfume, which manages to evoke a sense of gentleman callers on soft, summer nights, even though that's obviously never been my experience.

So naturally I am sucked in by an event called "Richmond As a Work of Art," a panel discussion at the Depot on Broad Street, about the city.

Because I absolutely do see this city as a work of art.

Since I'd never been upstairs at the Depot, I was clueless that the exact spot where I was sitting was the point at which the Ashland train would board and unload passengers on the loading platforms on either side. Nor was I aware of the existence of a viaduct that extended from that platform out the back and over Carver to Brook Road.

Truth be told, I find the notion of a train traveling over a neighborhood kind of romantic. You see my problem?

It took a good quarter of an hour for the moderator to get the ball rolling, so I used the time to catch up with an old friend who'd come in just behind me. Finally, we started.

"I'd like to achieve a Republican debate format without the..." the moderator said, trailing off. "Republicans?" my friend joked.

"The hair," Ms. Moderator finished and began the slide show. Explaining that Richmond was built on a grid, she made a case for it being a superior grid to Philadelphia's because ours isn't built around a central point. And then there's the matter of adapting a grid to Richmond's unique terrain.

I give her credit, she'd assembled a terrific panel: Bill Martin of the Valentine, mural artist Ed Trask, architecture critic Ed Slipek, architect Burt Pinnock of Baskerville and, perhaps most surprisingly, Dimitra Tsachrelia, an associate of the NYC firm that's designing the Institute for Contemporary Art a few blocks away.

After Ed Trask made a plea for bringing the viaduct back, Bill harshed his mellow by insisting that we not romanticize the building we were in. The front doors to this very building, he told us, had once been labeled "Whites" and "Coloreds," hardly a romantic memory.

Dimitra, whose honeyed Greek-accented voice had everyone leaning in to hear her pearls of architectural wisdom, had done her homework, learning that on the site of the ICA once stood a train station. She made an analogy about the new building welcoming arrivals just as the old one had.

From Burt, we heard about the renovations of the old armory into the Black History Museum, a project just a few blocks from my house. He also spoke passionately about developing a memorial at the Lumpkin's jail site, preferably a raised pavilion (100 year flood plain and all) that allows sight lines to the ongoing archaeological dig.

Mostly, they all discussed the aspirational nature of building for the future, even when you're building to memorialize people and events of the past and what a lengthy process that's traditionally been. Bill pointed out that it's always the elite few who decide what buildings will look like, not a consensus of citizens.

News to me: the main library is a building wrapped around the original building, a feat praised by the moderator, and one of which I'd been completely unaware. Not that long ago, a friend had lamented the loss of the beautiful Art Deco library when the new one was built in the '70s, and now I wonder if she knows that her beloved library lives on inside those dated-looking walls.

Kind of romantic, right, that older library just inside a newer facade? Or hearing about the city's buildings while sitting on a former train platform, looking out enormous windows where a viaduct once soared over houses?

Okay, maybe it's just me.

Black Iris was hosting Play/Things, a performance by Leslie Rogers and Nelly Kate, pulling from the gallery installation based on their cross country trip this summer, which I'd seen a few weeks ago.

The only problem? The invitation asked that we "joyously abandon romantic notions of journey and catharsis." What? Give up my notions?

Instead, we were asked to revel in the unearthing and production of art, life and mischief, aka performance art, with Nelly doing music for Leslie.

Words can't adequately convey the ruminations on the 9,000-mile journey the two women took, but let's just say it involved apologies - for potholes, for butt holes, for Santa and Santana - from behind an American flag with six silver stars, commentary about older men ogling the two of them showering outside in St. Augustine and the saga of a farmer and closet quilter, a man who took credit for many quilting practices even though he hadn't really conceived of them.

At one point, Leslie went behind a quilt she'd made in a workshop at a Nebraska museum and stripped off her clothes, replacing them with a body stocking complete with penis, a cop jacket and hat and making remarks about police policy ("Did you get your feelings hurt? Shoot. Did they get up again? Shoot." Scary, all of it.).

The piece ended with that character laying down on the map of the U.S. and pulling the American flag up over her. She laid there so long the audience wasn't sure whether to clap or not. Was the performance over? We'll never know because Black Iris started the applause and then people got up to leave.

What can you do after having your mind stimulated with musings on consumerism, feminism and nationalism but seek out food, wine and conversation? Some things call out to be shared.

The first thing I found on arriving in Carytown was a 12-piece brass band playing in front of Mongrel to an enthusiastic crowd. The band members looked young but their sound was fully formed and before long, people were dancing and applauding on the sidewalk.

I found what I was looking for at Curry Craft where I also stumbled into a favorite couple I'd not seen in months. Guilt was induced, hugs were offered and we were soon making plans for lunch and soft openings.

Sipping a Rose made from the mencia grape, I dug into pondicherry escargots, a fantastic hybrid of French and Indian featuring escargots made irresistible with pondi spices and tamarind peanut ketchup, sopping up the ketchup with garlic naan smeared with goat cheese.

It was fusion of the very best kind, enjoyed to a pulsing Bollywood beat and with friends and chef to talk to. I lost them early to the ravages of their last night's 3 a.m. bedtime (amateurs!) but made friends with a Russian (made all the more surprising because the girlfriend who'd just left was from Ukraine) and a girl who invited me to join her for a drink at Portrait House (her boyfriend having gone home tipsy to spoon with the dog).

Fortunately, they left me an excellent conversationalist with whom I could sip Rose, discuss offal and timid diners and finish out my night laughing.

I'm not romanticizing it, but I certainly enjoyed every minute of it.

Doors Into Summer

I don't know if Art on Wheels did it with me in mind, but it's working out awfully well for me.

Last Tuesday they launched their summer project, "Find Art Doors," a group of 40 salvaged doors that were then painted by local artists and planted in the ground around town to be discovered.

So far, I've come across five, all by well-know and talented artists: Mickael Broth (the guy who did the looming wizard mural at the GRTC depot), Ed Trask (with his signature bird), Jackson Ward native Sir James Thornhill (right on Clay Street, so mere blocks from my house!), Noah Scalin (but of course there's a skull on it) and today's find, Chris Milk (in Oregon Hill, natch, and with his trademark bicycles).

Every time I come upon one, I'm surprised and delighted. I have no intention of looking at a map of where they all are because I want to feel like I stumble on them in a happy accident.

Because I set out to find none of them, I have done exactly what Art on Wheels wants: I'm discovering these works of art on old doors while enjoying my city. With 35 left, I've got some discovering to do, but also plenty of summer to do it in.

I came upon the one today as I was returning from my walk over to Belle Isle, a glorious day to do so given the 77 degree temperatures, low humidity and light breeze.

It was while I was sitting on a sunny rock there, my legs and feet submerged in the burbling water near a rapid, the back of my shorts getting rapidly soaked, that I hear a voice behind me.

"Can we take your picture and ask you a few questions?" a girl standing next to a guy with an actual camera (not cell phone) inquires. "It's for a project for school."

Sure thing.

"What did you have for breakfast?" she asks as the guy begins snapping. Oatmeal with fresh blueberries I tell her. "Mmm, that sounds delicious!" she enthuses. Given that it's high blueberry season, I assure her it was.

"Where do you live?" I tell her Jackson Ward and ask where she lives, Gesturing with her arm in a sweeping gesture, she says she lives everywhere. Not sure how to respond, I tell her she's lucky then.

"You look very happy," she states, which is not a question at all. Splashing my feet in the water, I ask her who wouldn't be happy sitting by the river on a day so gorgeous.

Smiling, she makes my day. "You're going to be my favorite picture."

She's going to be my favorite interviewer.

Tag This

The bottom line is: you have to do something you think is fun.

It's not like I didn't leave my house - in the pitch black, mind you, since street lights throughout Jackson Ward and Carver were dark - already aware of that fact, but tonight I had plenty of confirmation from my betters.

My destination was Pine Camp Center for a panel of four mural artists: Sir James Thornhill, Ed Trask, Hamilton Glass and Matt Lively talking about the highs and lows of using buildings for a canvas.

Waiting for the panel to start, I wandered over to the gallery where former boxer Everett Mayo's new exhibit "Driftwood Comes to Life" turned out to be a delight. Using pieces of found driftwood, Mayo searches for the eye of the animal trapped within and creates from there.

All kinds of animals had been coaxed from driftwood and painted: a reindeer, a giraffe, an iguana, a duck in flight. The most magnificent was a lion, although unlike the others, it was created from many pieces of driftwood, not just one.

Back in the room for the panel, I heard person after person greet the older gentleman sitting nearest me. Finally, I had to ask why everyone knew him.

A native born in the Navy Hill neighborhood 87 years ago, Mr. Taylor was a photographer (he's in a group show next month), involved with Boy Scouting and active in the local Catholic church. In fact, he informed me that the now-shuttered convent I'd seen so many times on First Street was the site of the first black Catholic church in the entire South. Altogether, a most delightful man.

A woman approached me and while I recognized her, I couldn't place her. She pointed at me and nailed the place (VMFA) and the conversation we'd had. From there, we talked about everything from the Afrikana film festival to shows at Capital Ale House and Balliceaux.

Our only difference of opinion is that she abstains from events where parking is challenging and I suck it up and go anyway.

The panel discussion began with the four artists introducing themselves and a slide show of their murals around town. I'd been especially eager to see and hear from Thornhill since I walk by his Bob Marley mural on Marshall Street almost every day of my life. I was pleased to learn he was a Jackson Ward native.

Lively introduced himself as the first Lamaze baby born in Richmond, insisting he was only an artist because he didn't want a real job, but that was just the introduction to his offbeat sense of humor throughout the evening. Trask, I knew, came up through VCU and the punk rock scene while Glass started out as an architect before jumping ship to mural painting after a job layoff.

While a moderator asked questions to facilitate the discussion, many tangents were taken and it felt more like a conversation between an artistic brotherhood. All four agreed that the first rule of being an artist was to have fun, to truly enjoy what you do so you want to keep doing it.

They discussed the importance of a good work ethic, that it was key not to be afraid to make mistakes and that rejection was part of the process. Lively said his mother had broken his heart when she'd criticized a figure he'd drawn at age five because it had too many fingers.

Saying his mother had remained critical, he said, "Ed knows. He met my Mom. She criticized him." Trask nodded. "She criticized me pretty hard. It hurt."

Thornhill talked about the importance of getting involved in the community, going to civic meetings and talking to people to get some sense of their interests and priorities.

Part of the discussion was about the differences between graffiti, murals and street art. "Graffiti is painting on a building that's not yours. A mural is the same but you get paid," Lively said in his deadpan way. Trask saw graffiti as an identifier of buildings in decay, but an egalitarian one since everyone, not just people who go to galleries, get to see it. "I like that."

"Graffiti is language that says this place is messed up," Glass explained, saying graffiti artists don't get their just due. It was impressive talk for a man who only began mural painting full time two years ago.

The moderator told us the real definitions: a mural is commissioned and with street art, there are no rules for what is to be created. "If people like it, great," Lively said. "If they hate it, great. If they paint over it, great...as long as I've taken a picture of it."

Thornhill shared how the owner of the Jamaican restaurant on Marshall Street wanted him to do a mural but had limited funds. "You can eat here for the rest of your life," the owner had promised but Thornhill said it wasn't long before he was sick of red beans and rice while the mural took several months to complete. He said the satisfaction was in how traffic slowed down and backed up to look at it every day.

That made Trask point out that art needs to be put where people can see it, and not just people who go to galleries; he suggested restaurants, community centers and every unlikely place you could think of.

After the panel spoke, there was a Q & A from the audience, including a woman with an attitude who wanted to know why Happy the Artist wasn't on the panel (probably traveling for yet another big commission). Lively got right back at her, demanding to know why no girls were on the panel.

Another man wanted help understanding a mural so he could explain it to his granddaughter, but Trask said interpretation was up to the viewer. One woman asked how she could help paint a wall on the next Street Art project and Trask told her to leave her name because there are a lot of walls in Manchester and she'd be contacted. Everyone onstage also expressed interest.

That led us to the final point of the evening: recent history has shown that when decaying neighborhoods get shown some love with street art, gentrification soon follows. Such is the power of public art.

As Glass said, a mural is the biggest business card you could ever have. Listening to people who have fun doing what they love is the best reminder that I made the right choice after my job layoff six years ago.

The only difference is that my business card ends up at the bottom of birdcages every week. I guess that's sort of like getting painted over. If it is, great.

Hitting the Bull's Eye x 2

One of my favorite pastimes is the "what if?" question.

Like what if Richmond Triangle Players wasn't the only reason for me to go to Scott's Addition?

So far, it has been but after today's visit to Lunch, I have another just as valid.

Their slogan, "It doesn't matter when you get there, it's always the best meal of the day" certainly sets a high standard.

The tiny little place that used to be Sue's Kitchen is looking a whole lot hipper now.

Maneuvering through a cluster of mostly-filled tables to the counter, I took a seat at the end where takeout orders were coming out rapidly.

A couple of carafes of syrup set nearby, testament to their breakfast service which lasts until 3:00.

A vase of backyard flowers, a bit past their prime, graced the end of the counter near me.

Although sorely tempted by a chalkboard special patty melt, I figure the first thing I needed to know was how well they did a basic lunchtime sandwich.

That led me to the Ike, their house-made albacore tuna salad on thick-sliced multi-grain bread.

It arrived on black and white checked paper and was easily the biggest tuna sandwich I'd ever been served.

With a sweet gherkin and a mound of chips, it proved that Lunch knows lunch.

As I ate, customers came in to place orders or pick them up, so I had a changing array of conversational partners.

My longest chat was with the production director for Richmond Triangle Players, who ordered the Summit as we discussed which plays I'd seen that he'd made sets for.

By the time his to-go box came out, we'd established that since I'll be there next week, we'll be seeing each other again in no time.

Walking out, I felt certain I'll be back for lunch and, given the siren song of Scrapple on the menu, probably next it'll be for breakfast at Lunch.

From there I wound my way down to the site of this weekend's RVA Street Art Festival at the power plant building.

What if RVA found an outlet for the talents of street artists, both local and national?

With the big festival days tomorrow and Sunday, I was curious to see what was happening so far.

Holy creative transformation, Batman!

The site was abuzz with artists, a completed piece, pieces in progress, volunteer artists, media, tourists and more photographers than you could shake a stick at.

One piece, completed last night at 3:30 a.m. by an artist who needed to get back to Washington, showed an enormous dart board with the bottom half of people coming out of it.

That's right, legs and shoes only. It was whimsical and beautifully executed.

Other pieces were works in progress, like the bottom half of what looked like Wonder Woman, a bucolic country scene and a Gibson Girl-like portrait.

Organizer Ed Trask, in his trademark hat, was everywhere, answering questions on camera, talking to the media and looking like he could bust his buttons about this large-scale street art project finally happening in Richmond.

I'm looking forward to tomorrow when almost all of the artists will be on site and available to talk to visitors like me.

What if we found a creative use for abandoned buildings and tapped the talents of people who can make them a destination, not to mention a work of art?

What if Richmond just keeps getting to be a better scene all the way around?

Don't look now, kids, but it's already happening.

Honest. I Did Not Lick the Art.

I couldn't get excited about going to the county, even for festive Lebanese food.

So for my lunch plans with a favorite couple, I countered by suggesting Olio and two of us had the bright idea to do the Main Street art walk afterwards.

I arrived a bit ahead of time, early enough to play straight man to owner Jason as we chatted about the scarcity of available (straight) men, the cashier heartily seconding that.

A salad seemed like just the thing for two of us (he got the smoked salmon Nicoise and I got the Springtime), while the Bottomless Pit got the prosciutto di parma sandwich and then scarfed our leftover grilled bread.

We took Jason up on his suggestion of cookies for dessert as we headed down Main Street to see what we might find.

I have to admit, I'm a big fan of the galleries in my J-Ward neighborhood (and, honestly, I usually like the art better on my side of town) and tend to avoid the Main Street ones because of the kind of people I encounter in them.

But on a leisurely Saturday, those people are absent and the galleries are an interesting mix of out-of-town Picasso visitors and others like us, out for an afternoon art stroll.

Our first stop was the Page Bond Gallery to see Andrea Keys Connell and Lacey Jane Roberts' "VCU Arts Craft/Material Studies Fountainhead Fellows" show.

Connell did large scale ceramic works, most of which pertained to the myth of Hercules, some coming in or out of the wall, and some emerging from the floor.

From hard to soft, the centerpiece of Roberts' works was a large scale knitted piece hung on the wall and draped on the floor with words sewn on it.

It was called "Queer Houses of Brooklyn" and a variety of topical buttons lay on the floor in front of it. The price listing for the show indicated that the buttons were for giving away, so I helped myself to one that said "shooting star."

Next up was Artemis Gallery, a place new to all of us. The array of hand-crafted items was staggering and the delightful assortment of handmade and artistic pasties undoubtedly the best I've ever seen. And, just for the record, I'm not that I'm in the market for pasties.

I ran into an artist who recognized me (I couldn't pull up her name for anything) when she overheard my friend make a remark about another artist she knew.

Luckily, she didn't hear the negative comment he'd made about her friend first (one of his most charming habits being his ill-timed and frequently overheard commentary). Oops.

At Red Door, Justin Bishop's metal sculpture from the past ten years reminded me of Giacometti's work, attenuated and with rough metal surfaces.

I was particularly fascinated by the one with nails driven into the figure. Another of a horizontal figure over sharp points was visually stunning.

Leslie Wayne's show at the Visual Arts Center was difficult to get our heads around. Wayne uses sculptural techniques to craft paintings that are three-dimensional. It was challenging to read the vibrantly colored, textured surfaces as paint.

A sign in the gallery said "Please do not touch (or lick) the paintings."

Awkwardly, I saw this sign after my friend and I had yielded to the impulse to lightly touch a surface in hopes of figuring it out.

Part of the show included Wayne's "One Big Love" series, for which the artist created rules including one that the canvases couldn't be larger than 13" x 10".

She also made listening to music one of the conditions of painting the series, resulting in her playing Patty Griffin's song "One Big Love" repeatedly. Needless to say, an artist using music as an obsession feeds into all kinds of things that appeal to me.

Our final stop was Glave Kocen for Ed Trask's show of large scale works, small photographs and metal sculpture.

I was charmed by seeing one of Ed's trademark straw hats hanging on the wall in between paintings.

I was taken by how many of the pieces had a red "sold" sticker on them when the show just opened a week ago. It appears that the Main Street art-buying set had their checkbooks out at Ed's opening.

Hell, I'd happily buy a Trask if I could afford one. I know I could enjoy looking at his work on my walls every day; it embodies Richmond.

And while I could have afforded one of the framed photographs, the ones that spoke to me had already been stickered.

Ah,well. Not meant to be, today anyway, or so the pragmatist in me whispered.

Likewise the Lebanese Food Festival wasn't meant to be for me today. But given the satisfying afternoon I spent eating and ogling art with the happy couple, I'm not feeling any loss.

Shooting stars look forward, not at what they missed.