Up for an Undertaking

When you live in Jackson Ward, the world is your oyster and it's all within four blocks.

Behind Nick's Deli, I see a friend conducting a photo shoot of good-looking Richmond guys (read: bearded) for Ledbury Shirts in the exquisite early evening light.

I'm on my way to 1708 Gallery for the opening of "Exquisite Corpse," an exhibition based on the Surrealist parlor game where each person draws a part of the whole without seeing the other contributions first.

Some of the pieces are fluid and seamless, a marvel since no one knew what the other was doing, while some are disjointed and abrupt but come together only because they're part of a greater whole. Every single one is fascinating in some way, often many ways.

It doesn't take long for me to recognize artists' names and styles: Heide Trepanier, Kevin Orlosky, Diego Sanchez, Michael Lease, Noah Scalin, Sally Bowring all catch my eye.

I am most intrigued by seeing several by Travis Robertson because I purchased one of his pieces back in 2008 and I've never met him to tell him how much I still love seeing that piece every day.

The 27 pieces in the show demonstrate such creativity. One has a sound component, another has a collaged section. Some are black and white while others glow with fields of color. Sequins and fake jewels are part of some.

Admiring one, a woman approaches me and I learn she's one of the artists who has done a section on one of the pieces. As we admire it, she asks if I'm an artist. When I explain I merely write, she insists I am an artist, too.

On the back wall, an artist has begun an enormous exquisite corpse piece, to be covered up and continued tomorrow night during the artwalk. The scale is huge and the orientation horizontal rather than vertical, but it's fascinating to watch as animals and details emerge from his brush.

When I go to leave, I run into a gallerist I know and he tells me he recently spotted me on my walk near Second Street. After driving around for an hour, he was on the downtown expressway when he caught sight of me overhead, crossing 195 on an overpass.

"She's still walking!" he recalled thinking. And mighty easy to spot in those bright pink shorts, I might add.

My next stop was Quirk Gallery for Brad Birchett's show, "Return," a collection of mostly monochromatic shades of gray, black and white with occasional lines of color - pink, coral -and images receding in and out of the painterly surface, occasionally etched into the paint, with sound recordings he'd made playing in the back of the gallery.

Making my way around, I ran into my favorite Quirk staffer (and very talented set designer) and asked what he'd been up to.

"I'm doing a lot of work on hotel stuff," he said, referring to the upcoming Quirk boutique hotel that's coming to the neighborhood. "There'll be a rooftop bar there for you."

Don't I know it. You can be sure I plan to be a habitue of that rooftop bar three blocks from my house.

Walking out, I ran into the man about town, telling him it's always nice to see him. "Nice to be seen by you," he acknowledged, doffing his hat and bowing as I swept out the door.

I was pleasantly surprised to find ADA Gallery open (turns out it's the first time they're participating in the Thursday preview night) for a new sculpture show, "Heroic Measures," by VCU alum Shannon Wright.

The larger piece was called "Folly" and was modeled on the Coliseum in Rome, assuming it had been built by the Parks and Rec Department out of bike rack parts. Almost circular, with rows on top of rows of arches, it looked both monumental yet gently mocking of public art. I'd love to see it find a home in Richmond.

When I got to Ghostprint Gallery, I found a lively crowd for Josh George's new show, "Attroupement," including the well organized gardener drinking a beer and giving me a hard time as soon as I arrived.

I've watched Josh's progress as a painter over his past four shows since he came to Richmond and I continue to be impressed by the development of his talent and vision in wonderfully vibrant and colorful works exuding the passion and energy of life.

The room was full of familiar faces and I kept stopping to chat as I ran into a poet, a tattoo artist and a former writer as I worked my way around the room.

Standing back to admire "Kissy Bat," a large scale work of a lovely woman with long hair and full lips in front of strips of floral wallpaper and a flock of bats, a man approached me and said, "I was told that you posed for this painting."

Someone was lying to him and I corrected him, but a writer friend standing nearby leaned over and said, "He obviously has money. You should have said it was you." Right.

The Corbieres series in the back, a group of small landscape pieces done after Josh's trip to France, were stunningly evocative of the French countryside with the look of work painted a century ago.

By contrast, there were several large works of urban streetscapes with skyscrapers reaching heavenward that were firmly grounded in the here and now. "Up for an Undertaking" was my favorite, with rows of buildings on either side of the streets receding into the unknown, luring a visitor to spend time exploring.

Josh's love of wine and sense of humor came to the fore in "Devil says, 'Roast it in the oven!' Angel says, 'Deep fry it!" A couple sits with wine on the table in front of them as the man prepares to cut up a bird for dinner.

My vote for most charming goes to "The Things Needed," a mixed media piece of a girl on a bike with a basket full of flowers, wine and a baguette. I didn't spot it, but presumably there was cheese in there, too.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and the gardener was there to say goodnight, kissing me on the cheek but complaining when I did the same to him. "Don't leave lipstick on my cheek! I'll get in trouble when I get home!" Where's the trust, my friend?

My last stop was at Gallery 5 for "An evening among whores: a spoken word event," whatever that meant. It was being curated by the inimitable Herschel Stratego, so anything was possible.

Already the poet had made it over from Ghostprint before me and not long after, I saw the arts activist who's given up drinking (looking newly slim and fit), heard my name called by the not so classic movie lover I'd met at the weekly B movie series over the summer, chatted with the author who lived in my apartment before I did, and been joined by the sound techie who'd just returned from two weeks touring south of the border.

That got us off on a tangent about traveling alone and we compared adventures; I'd done four days alone in Italy and he'd done time in Mexico City and we agreed that there's a unique dynamic to being alone in a country where you don't know the language and you have no companion to fall back on for navigation and companionship.

Next thing we knew, Herschel was taking the stage to tell us the saga of his friendship with the recently deceased Dave Brockie of GWAR.

He wanted to begin with the story of how he'd made out with Dave, eager to share it "for bragging purposes only." Actually, they'd only kissed once (and even then, it was a fish lips kind of a kiss, not a good French kiss) and only because they'd challenged a woman to kiss one of them if they kissed each other.

They did, she didn't, at least not in front of the one who lost (Herschel).

But that was far from the end of his storytelling, as he went on share that they'd both peed together in the same toilet ("Although Dave Brockie peed a little longer"), that he wasn't going to get sentimental  and that he recalled Dave singing along to "Only the Good Die Young" at a Superbowl party.

While I claim to go on and on, Herschel has me beat by a mile.

When he finally ceded the stage, it was for comedy from Dave Marie-Garland who said things such as, "What's the difference between a guy with a ponytail and a girl with a flat top? Nothing, they're both human beings."

He got the most laughs saying he'd had a dream where he had sex with a girl but when he asked if she'd loved him, she said no. "I woke up crying because sex without love is just sad. Am I right, guys?"

Yea, pretty funny stuff.

Musician and DJ Shannon Cleary did a rumination on aging, pets and parenthood with its roots in him having turned 30 last year.

He recalled being in speech class and being asked to speak on procreation, the problem being at that point he had no idea what the word meant. "My friends tried to show me with hand gestures, pelvic thrusts and "cab hands," he deadpanned as only Shannon can do.

Reading from her phone, Angie Huckstep shared a poem called "Remember That You Like to Read" (with the line "Finish that book like you know you want to") and "Spit Spot" ("Like Mary Poppins says," she explained. "You know, get your shit together!") about being in the shower with someone.

One of the best parts of the evening was the music played between performers, like Liz Phair's "Rock Me" before Melanie Rasnic came up.

Oh, baby, you're young but that's okay
What's give or take nine years anyway?
You think I'm a genius, think I'm cool
I'm starting to think that young guys rule

With a comedienne's timing and a past meant for mocking, she told of making the Shockoe Bottom walk of shame the morning after in heels (no small accomplishment) before explaining how a whore is formed. "By the way, my Mom is not a whore, so apparently it skips a generation."

She lamented being raised a Jehovah's Witness, trying to convert people on their porches by the time she was eight and denying her "all the things that made childhood bearable."

After that, Herschel returned to the stage long enough to tell us, "By the way, I have had sex before," tell some more off-color stories and announce, "This is my blue set."

Author Andrew Blossom took the stage to a song by Groucho Marx in honor of Groucho's birthday today (Andrew also works at Video Fan) and introduced his story, "In the Not Too Distant Future" about a guy named Joel who is middle aged, divorced and loses his job. He finds salvation in endless TV watching and a space show with a character named Joel.

Hey, when you're middle aged, you find your redemption anywhere you can.

Musician and poet Ryan Kent closed out the evening, loudly reading his poetry from an e-tablet, poems with titles such as "Nobody's Bitch" and lines like, "Ashtrays as truthful as your bank account" from "Long in the Tooth."

Top honors go to this line: "She was someone I left my fingerprints on, like cement and murder."

Naturally, Herschel had to come back up to close out the evening with more Dave Brockie stories, stopping just short of sharing sexual peccadilloes and reminiscing about when Dave had suggested he open for GWAR.

To prove his worth, Herschel had sung Dave a song and he wanted to sing it for us tonight.

"I forgot to being my instrument but I don't know the chords anyway, so I'll just sing it." It turned out to be Randy Newman's song about Karl Marx, "The World Isn't Fair."

Truthfully, Herschel's a capella rendition was just about perfect, an absurdist ending to a wild ride of a night.

My walk home was only four blocks...with no shame (or heels) involved.

No Fear Multi-Layered Reality

My favorite wine geek painter had an opening tonight.

Josh George, whom I'd just seen last weekend at an Austrian wine tasting at J. Emerson (my favorite being the Steininger Gruner Veltliner Sekt 2010, but the Steindorfer Blaufrankisch Alte Reben 2011 wasn't far behind), was opening his new show, "Micropolis," at Ghostprint Gallery tonight.

After getting cleaned up from my day at the river, I strolled the four blocks over to the gallery, garnering a compliment on the corner of Madison and Broad.

I'll never get tired of a stranger telling me I look beautiful, but deep down I know it's the dress, not me.

Coincidentally, a friend had posted on Facebook today, "A total stranger just complimented me on my dress! Awesome!"

Such is the power of the dress. I know not to take it for anything more.

Inside the gallery, I found a crowded room and Josh's latest series of mixed media works. He's the only artist I know who supplies the wine for his shows so that he can be sure it's up to his standards.

And for that, I like him all the more.

Combining things like paint, wine labels, wallpaper scraps, old maps and cut-up pictures, he layers everything to create his own reality.

I like to think I do the same, just with fewer artistic materials.

The 24 works varied in size but most dealt with NYC, Josh's former residence, with skyscrapers set in Manhattan valleys.

"A Mission Like No Other" showed two scenesters walking down the street, the likes of which probably walk down Broad Street every day.

If buying art was as easy as layaway and I could make a nominal payment a month until I owned  a Josh George painting, it is "Fear of an Urban Experience" I would covet.

The small but beautiful work boasted an array of light colored buildings with flags mounted on them flying in the breeze and a pink sky behind it all.

I was drawn to the wealth of detail in "Post-Harvest Handling," a painting depicting a woman taking things from the refrigerator.

Pattern was everywhere, on her top, her pants, her skin, even the interior walls of the refrigerator, which was stuffed with wine (natch), gourmet items and food of all kinds.

Everything wasn't about NYC, though, and RVA got its due in three small works depicting winsome bats after Josh had been amazed to see them at Byrd Park.

His story reminded me of a picnic at Byrd Park a few years ago with a friend and a Brooklyn transplant who had been transfixed when the bats began appearing at dusk.

We may be blase about our local bats, but apparently they're a big deal to New Yorkers.

I mentioned this to a tattoo artist at the opening and she said she and her husband had put up a bat house, hoping to attract bats to their yard.

When none materialized, her beloved had the brilliant idea to paint a female bat on the bat house, hoping to lure lusty bats in.

So far, nothing.

One of the bets moments came when I was looking at Josh's painting, "Everyone Should Strive to Have a Breakfast Nook," a small painting of a barely-awake-looking woman at a table with a cup of coffee and a window behind her with a fly on it.

Marveling at the detail of the fly, I soon realized it was an actual fly and sent it on its way.

Fly gone, I realized that if I couldn't afford the other painting, I'd be just as happy with this little beauty.

Someday I will own a Josh George, I hope.

I debated my options on my walk home and decided that the VMFA would suit me just fine.

It seemed like an ideal evening to sit on the deck while it's still warm and lovely and listen to whomever was playing at the Jazz Cafe.

That turned out to be Flo King, a singer with a big voice and a crack backing band of trombone, sax, keys, bass and drum.

When I arrived, it was to a slow song and lots of people were dancing, or at the very least, swaying and necking.

The next song she sung in Spanish and a guy near me said it was called "Kiss Me," although I don't know that for sure.

I was impressed she was singing in Spanish and said so to another guy, who said she'd also sung in French earlier. Apparently the band's thing was romantic jazz standards.

No doubt that explained why there was a roomful of couples and me.

During the break, I ordered a glass of Primal Roots Red, a simple blend, to go with a dish of Homestead Creamery espresso chocolate chip.

The other women in the room had dates, I had ice cream, the best I could do tonight.

I took it out on the deck to enjoy in the soft evening air and within minutes a museum friend sat down and provided company for me, asking if I'd be at the 2 Street Festival this weekend (duh, of course) until the band restarted with a vengeance.

An instrumental version of "Don't Get Around Much Anymore" brought Flo back up on the bandstand and she crooned "Am I Blue?"

But it was a bossa nova, "The Wave," that drew dancers back, and good dancers, too.

You can't deny, don't try to fight the rising sea
Don't fight the moon, the stars above and don't fight me

"What a Difference a Day Makes" was another clarion call to the slow dancers.

The band saved the swinging songs for last, and all of a sudden even I was getting asked to dance.

Politely declining, I watched a guy in a three-piece suit with pocket square and white bucks tear up the dance floor with his girl during "Route 66."

By then, it was long past closing time for the museum and the overhead lights came on to tell us to get out.

Many in the crowd, me included, headed out to the sculpture garden to continue conversations and the evening.

A young couple came up to me, I'm guessing because I was by myself, and asked me to take their picture by the water steps.

After shooting one, I asked if they wanted me to take another but they said they'd wait and see how it came out first.

What the what? Turns out I'd just used a 21st century Polaroid camera, an Instax mini, they said.

We watched the credit card-sized photo develop before our eyes, with them enthusing about the "awesome big Polaroids your generation used."

Yep, they really said that to me.

Am I blue about it? Pshaw.

Everyone should strive to have as much ice cream and slow dancing as I do.

The Story Thus Far

Once, on a hot day in August, I met a painter at Secco so we could talk about life and drink pink wine together.

The wine was Domaine de Fenouillet  Cotes du Ventoux Rose, a pale pink fruity gem with a nice mineral finish, and the painter was Josh George, a NYC transplant with a soft voice and an understated charm.

A retelling of that conversation appeared in "Style Weekly," here, this week, so when I went to Ghostprint Gallery for Josh's opening tonight, there it was laid out on the counter for all to see.

As a non-artist, I've never gotten so much attention at an art opening before and all I did was write about the talent.

And the fact is, I'd have been there to see "The Story Thus Far" whether I'd written the piece or not.

I rarely miss a Ghostprint preview; it's the only sane way to see a show given the crowds on art walk nights (at least back in the days before roving teenagers became an issue).

I'd seen Josh's last show and had been impressed enough to want to see his new work. I was a sure thing tonight.

Tonight's preview was very crowded, perhaps because others also prefer Thursdays and maybe because Josh is extremely talented and the local cognoscenti have picked up on that.

Many of the pieces were large scale works and all were a combination of paint, collage and layers of varnish, giving a depth of detail and intricacy that required slow and mindful viewing so as not to miss anything.

Walking in, I went over to the first painting where a guy was staring intently at the scene of a band performing.

When he saw me, he turned and said with awe, "That's Iron Maiden, you know!"

I hadn't known that, but I had known that Josh is a death metal fan, so I wasn't as surprised as this guy was.

His friend smiled at me as if to say, "Thanks for tolerating his enthusiasm," but I understood.

The rest of the show is full of domestic scenes and city scenes, some showing buildings much taller than anything in Richmond.

As I had discovered during my Secco interlude, Josh is a wine lover (the first thing he'd told me after saying hello tonight was to get a glass of the Italian sparkler because it was good) and wine made its presence known in more than a few paintings.

In "Carrot Chopper," a bottle of Vouvray sits on the women's cutting board, perhaps her reward once her chopping was finished.

Josh's dry wit came through in "Posso Avere il Conto Per Favore?" where a bottle of wine on the waiter's tray is labeled with "Masterpiece Musee Picasso."

A similar reinterpretation is seen in "Man's Best Soup" where one of the cans on the shelf behind the soup-eater has a label saying "Mastercard accepted in more than 6500 shops and restaurants in Belgium."

If the viewer didn't look closely at the wine glass or the can, though, they'd miss the subtle humor of both.

"Formidable Opponent" showed a woman taking down two men, one of whom she was holding by the feet upside down.

Formidable indeed.

During the reception, a woman I know came up and conspiratorially asked me about my blog.

"I can't tell from reading it if you have a man, or you're looking for a man or if you're not. Tell me, what's really going on?"

As I opened my mouth to answer her, a guy appeared behind her and asked me, "Didn't we meet before?"

It wasn't a line; we had met a Balliceaux a while back when he was considering moving from Brooklyn to RVA.

Last week he moved here, just in time for Hurricane Irene.

I got so busy talking to him about Sazeracs, antelope and Napoleon cabs that I never got a chance to get back to that other conversation.

Really, what is going on?

Living, Loving, She's Just a Woman

It's not often I start an evening with Nick Cave and end six hours later with Led Zeppelin.

Ghostprint Gallery's opening for the Richmond Illustrators IV National Juried exhibition was packed when I arrived. Considering that it's one of my favorite annual events, I wasn't in the least surprised.

The show is a terrific annual way to see what the state of the illustrative arts are and once again I was amazed at the array of talent on the walls.

The show's gold medal went to Jeffrey Alan Love's "Nick Cave and Warren Ellis," a monotype of the two men that became the show's poster.

Jenna Chew's "Washington, Elusive" had already sold when I arrived. It depicted General Washington amongst a group of shadowed soldiers; his was the only lit face. It was striking.

Demonstrating the range of the show, Josh George's "A Clinical Use of the Michelson Formula," done in mixed media on wood panel was four feet by three feet and visually stunning with its soft pastels and vaguely suggested images (and a price tag of $5,000).

I narrowed my wish list to two prints (a Clifford and a Love but couldn't choose), unframed, of course, but still out of range for the moment.

The show is a stunner and I only hope that the smart people attending Broad Appetit Sunday take the time to wander into Ghostprint's air-conditioning and check it out.

My next stop allowed me to park once and party twice (or four times if you want to count bands).

The Camel was hosting not one but two shows and I already had plans to attend the second when a music buddy recommended the first. I can take a hint.

Singer/songwriter Tom Goss was playing as part of Gay RVA's Live series and with only acoustic guitar and keyboard, he created a lovely sound with his strong voice.

It was a particularly chatty show, with Goss telling extended stories in between every song and the audience eating it up.

He told of having been a seminary student, only to realize it was not his calling ("The thing with the seminary is they have this thing called celibacy") and move on. Fortunately it provided a lot of songwriting fodder.

Many of his songs were love songs, one was written during his seminary stay as a substitute for sex (afterwards he said, "Playing that song wears me out!") and another was a Christmas song (a genre he detests, he said).

With references to the Chicago Bears and Cubs, it was anything but a traditional holiday tune, but very funny.

When he finished, the crowd cleared out and a different one began settling in for the next show. I mingled.

First up was Scolaro and it was their first show in four years. Four years is an ice age in the music business, so they claimed to be nervous.

And then their set started and the crowd was blown away. Bandleader Josh Scolaro won the double award for his vocal talents and his superb songwriting.

As a musician noted, "You know there's a lot in his head when you hear their songs." High praise, indeed.

What I knew when I heard their sound was why Josh had been telling me for four months that I would find them "artistically mind-blowing." He knows my music taste well after years of music talk.

The Britpop-reminiscent sound is a personal favorite of mine, the use of reverb effects (as another friend noted, "Of course you liked it. It was music from a cave.") floats my boat and Josh's songwriting was eloquent and beautifully executed.

During their last song, a friend leaned over and summed up what I had been feeling. "That's what I want summer to feel like." It's true.

After their set, no less than three people told me that every time they looked at me during Scolaro's set, I was smiling. It was that good and I just couldn't help myself.

During the break, I got a chance to talk to all kinds of  people who'd unexpectedly made it out for music tonight. e cheese whiz Sara showed up, one of the illustrators from Ghostprint, Holly Camp (her whimsical "Things Fall Apart" at the show had been as lovely as she is), and my lecture buddy and fellow nerd James all showed.

Most surprisingly in attendance was one of my favorite chefs, currently cheffing in C-ville, but soon to return.

Running into him and his soon-to-be able assistant alone made for some great conversation in an already jam-packed evening.

Prabir and the Goldrush played next and although I've seen them countless times, they're always good entertainment.

When a song is about tequila shots, these guys take tequila shots. It's for the art, I know.

They played a couple of new songs and always with a sly aside.

"See you guys on other side of this song," Prabir joked to his bandmates before taking on a less rehearsed piece. "I'm back," he crowed afterwards. It was great to hear new material from them.

Headlining was Zep Replica or the band formerly known as Led Zepplica (until another identically-named band got nasty about it), a band I had missed at their Halloween show at Strange Matter.

These guys don't just cover Zeppelin, they put on their tightest pants and wigs for the full effect. They may do even more than that and I just don't know about it.

It's truly something to behold and within moments, they had the audience totally into it.

My friend Stephen (originally an avid reader and commenter of my blog whom I've since gotten to know socially) plays bassist John Paul Jones in the band and after donning his costume, I went up to talk to him again just before their set.

"You recognized me in my wig?" he asked, sounding surprised. It was quite charming.

Leading off with "Black Dog" and making their way through "Rock and Roll" all the way to  the one-two knockout punch of "Heartbreaker" segueing into "Living Loving Maid," they whipped the crowd into a frenzy and made it the 70s again (except for the damn cell phone picture-taking).  


Every person in the room, no matter the age, looked euphoric including the staff.


Nobody hears a single word you say.
Livin', lovin', she's just a woman.
But you keep on talkin' till your dyin' day.
Livin', lovin', she's just a woman.

Chances are I will keep on talking till my dying day. It's just that I always have so much to talk about.