Sunday, that day when you showed a swell friend how to really enjoy what's out there.
First, you go to Scott's Addition where print collective Studio 23 is having their grand opening. You have to understand, I first visited Studio 23 eight years ago when they were ensconced in 600 square feet in Plant Zero, so I've been a fan for a while.
The new 7,000-square foot space was throwing a hell of a party, one the artistic friend and I weren't about to miss. The building was a former industrial wonder with skylights, a mezzanine and something like 20 artists' studios, all of which we walked through (one artist's to-do list included "Test lithograph press. Skateboard"). Fans of action could watch screen printing demonstrations (t-shirts of a map of Virginia with a heart for Richmond were being printed).
We wandered around, both running into people we knew, ogling inventive sculptures made of screening (the monkey was a wonder, wrapped around a lamp), sipping Ardent Brewery Saison (brewed two blocks away) and lemonade made on the spot, buying a print for their upcoming film screening (not the first print I've bought at S23) and being gifted with a fragrant fabric sachet filled with lavender by artist Elizabeth Cogar.
Ooh, we hadn't expected presents.
The place was packed with artistic types (like my friend), a DJ just starting to spin out back through the garage door (required to bring the presses in and out) and fans of the print format (such as me) mingling and admiring the machinery and the abundance of art on walls and tables.
Not to sound too new agey, but it felt like there was so much good energy inaugurating the sun-filled space.
But we weren't finished yet.
From there, we headed to Manchester to Crossroads Coffee to hear Samantha Pearl play music while enjoying late afternoon ice cream. Despite having met her ages ago and seeing her often since, I'd never heard her play.
My loss.
From the opening notes of her driven guitar playing (a beat-up-looking Fender with a red heart stuck on it), it was obvious we were being graced by a serious talent. Everything she played for the small crowd - "Under a Spell," "Daddy's Boy," "Gazing at the Stars" - was rendered spellbinding because of her intricate guitar chops and stellar voice.
Midway through her set, one of the Crossroads employees (the one who'd already told me that Samantha was "super good") stood beside us on the bench to roll up the garage door and allow the warm, sunny air into the coffee shop. It made for even better listening to have the late afternoon sun beaming in from behind us.
At one point, I leaned over to Samantha's boyfriend and whispered, "Holy crap" to express my amazement at the scope of this woman's talent and he smiled beatifically, saying, "Uh huh." In other words, you're a little late to the party, Karen.
My friend concurred, describing it as "that angelic sound over such a driving guitar."
Even on songs without vocals where she was just tearing up the guitar, there was none of the usual male "guitar face" business, just a calm certainty as she coaxed amazing depths of sound from it. Her effortless cool was mesmerizing to watch.
When she broke a string and needed to replace it, the inimitable Dave Watkins and his dulcitar took over for a few songs, enchanting my friend who knew him but had never seen him play with his dense layering of sound as he looped and improvised.
I love watching first-timers fall under the spell of Dave.
When Samantha returned to the stage fully strung, she did "If You Come Driving By," a song about street performing, something she regularly does by the White House. "The Secret Service guys always tip me. They're bored, so they like the distraction." I'd be willing to bet they'd tip even if they weren't bored simply because she's so talented.
We left before she was finished playing, not because we wouldn't have loved hearing more but because we had dinner reservations for the Jackdaw Chinese pop-up at Shoryuken.
Walking in, my friend asked if my evenings always started so early (we'd met at 3:30). No, I explained, it varies night to night. It's simple, you start whenever you need to so that you can make it to all the interesting things going on that day/night.
If I was trying to introduce my friend (a former 9 to 5-er now free to enjoy a life of reinvention) to some of the pleasures of my life, food had to be a part of it. And not just any food, but a one-night only chance to taste the newest project of two local chefs.
Before we could even sit down, the king of the dance parties came over to greet me, recommend the evening's cocktail, a gimlet, and hear about our afternoon of music. Additional greetings came from a favorite cocktail ninja and the front of the house queen in her sassy new bangs.
We slid into a corner table with a view of the entire room and ordered cocktails - including the gimlet - made sublime with the kitchen's pickled scallions, as well as the E. Honda Civic, a subtle beauty with Hangar One Budda's hand citron, muddled pear, lemongrass syrup and sparkling. Hello non-stop laughter and storytelling.
From there, it was all about the food and lots of it. The hostess had praised the congee, a rice porridge (surprisingly and perhaps a tad overly sweet) rendered decadent with pork belly, toasted crullers, egg, ginger and scallions but we also had to have the fried chicken made sticky with barrel-aged soy, ginger, five spices, chilis and peanuts.
Around us, we watched as couples came and went in less time than it took us to discuss her latest dinner party (where all the drunk 30-somethings congregated at one table, causing her to dub it "the kids' table") and the few who lingered sat in silence staring vacantly at their cell phones.
What the hell happened to dinner conversation, we wondered aloud, which led us to a major blather about the whole millennial dating situation, because neither us see swiping left or right a la Tinder as a suitable way to decide who to sleep with. Now, demonstrating smarts and laughter, that's a whole different story.
Laughter abounded at our table as I listened to the story of a spacey trip to Lowe's that climaxed with rows of toilets and a need to escape.
By the time we got to steamed buns of barbecue duck hot dog, peanuts, red onion and cilantro, it was dark outside and we were getting full. But not too full to make plans, so I pulled out my datebook so we could make some commitments before the summer gets much further along. I was even invited over for a sleepover next month (PJ party alert).
Despite the fullness of multiple cocktails and dishes, we surrendered to a final course called "Just because we can," a sort of Chinese riff on a chocolate tart with a fortune cookie crust and delectable orange sauce. The portion was small, our delight in it great.
After agreeing we were on the fast road to Hell, not because of anything we'd done today, but because of how we think/speak/behave in general, we threw in the towel, admitting to the Jackdaw contingent that we couldn't take any more.
Fortunately by that time, Friend had a fine buzz from the intoxicating combination of seven hours of art, music, conversation, food and drink. She's new to the pleasures of a life well-lived, but I can already tell she's catching on quickly.
Our to-do list is as random as that artist's. Holy crap, it was a great day.
Uh huh.
Showing posts with label studio 23. Show all posts
Showing posts with label studio 23. Show all posts
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Friday, October 11, 2013
Maybe Next Year, Baby
Some nights it's good to be called "baby."
It was pouring down rain, I wanted some hot food and the first place that came to mind was Mama J's, four blocks away.
Walking in, I found a WRIR DJ and his son waiting for a table, but when I told the hostess all I needed was a bar stool, she responded, "Right this way, honey."
My DJ friend made fun of me for getting the rock star treatment, but it's all in where you're willing to sit. Pulling out the stool, she gestured, "Especially for you, baby."
With a Motown soundtrack (Supremes, Commodores,Isaac Hayes) blaring over the noise of a full restaurant, the bartender greeted me with, "How you doin' baby?"
Quite well, thank you.
She wanted me to know that I had five minutes until happy hour ended and the guy standing next to me looked at me and said, "I don't know about you, but I'm having a double Jack Daniels."
A single Patron was plenty when what I really wanted was fried chicken, mashed potatoes, cole slaw and a corn muffin.
I was right by the corner where people come in to grab their to-go orders, so I met the first-timer in picking up food for his wife who worked nearby.
When I asked if he was taking her a piece of cake, he said no, he hadn't ordered any, unaware of the magic of Mama's cakes.
Next time, son, and she'll be yours for life. The woman next to me agreed loudly.
She was picking up and she ruefully shared that she'd just been in on Sunday and was already back.
No shame in being a regular, I told her, but had she gotten the same thing?
"I always get the catfish, but tonight I got the trout," she said, looking pretty pleased with herself.
Not long after my plate arrived, a group of four came in for their to-go order and stopped short when they saw my food.
"I'm gonna come back as a chicken in my next life," one girl claimed.
"I'm gonna eat you if you look like that," her friend said, pointing at my chicken.
Waiting for their order, they caught sight of the cake case and were smitten with the pink and yellow one, asking the bartender what it was.
"Strawberry lemon," she said matter of factly.
"Give. Me. That," on of the guys instructed her, grinning ear to ear.
"Are you gonna get that?" the girl asked incredulously.
"I'm gonna lay in it," he said and asked for a second slice. They left with their order plus four pieces of cake.
Before long, I had to get going ("Sure, baby") to my next stop, Studio 23, freeing up a prime stool for one of the many people lined up by the door.
Richmond's finest print collective was playing host to Music Video Meltdown, part of their monthly film and video series.
Waiting for it to start, I checked out Studio 23's new exhibit, "Sweaty Armpits and Swimming Pools," a summer-themed 'zine show.
The little 'zines ranged from beautifully illustrated books to actual stories with pictures and had post-modern names like "Why Can't the Internet Work Everywhere?" (a title that could only have been thought up by a millennial), "Maybe Next Year" and "Deep End."
Tonight's event had begun with a call for music videos, but the response had been insufficient for an entire evening's programming, so the host had supplemented with videos selected by an informal poll of his friends.
The Spring film and video series had raised enough money to buy a new projector and Bose speakers, and we were the first to experience the new equipment tonight, meaning naturally there were immediate technical difficulties.
They kicked things off with Michael Jackson's "Beat It," a good reminder of MJ pre-cleft chin and final pointy nose, but then went unfortunately to Nicki Minaj, someone whose video I never needed to see.
The submitted videos were cool to see, although it soon became clear that today's young music video-makers are completely fixated on special effects, violence, constantly changing camera angles and blood.
But not all. One was a light show set to Radiohead's "Spinning Plates" and another had a young, red-headed guy singing a song in an empty white room.
One of my favorites began with a guy talking mock-seriously about the infinite cosmos and then shooting a cassette tape out into space and segued into him singing and playing a poppy song with another guy, which they ultimately recorded on (what else?) a cassette tape.
There was a video shot of an evening at Gallery 5, fire twirlers outside, art-hungry crowd inside and I recognized two friends in it. Hell, I was probably there that night.
But for every submission, there was a price to pay, whether M.I.A.'s "Bad Girls" or a bad white rapper drinking a 40 with his homies, shouting, "Hold up, it's a dance party," at the break.
I had to sit through the Foo Fighters' cheesy, over-wrought video for "There Goes My Hero," but got payback when I saw Cold Cave's synth-laden "God Made the World."
It all evens out in the end.
The last time I spent an evening watching videos was in Italy last October and then they were all McCartney and Lennon videos from the '80s, a far cry from tonight's program.
Seems I need an annual music video dose.
Afterwards, I headed to the Well for a couple of notoriously loud bands.
Like any show there, they weren't even close to starting at 11:15, so I mingled among the PBR-swilling masses.
I got to discuss the terrific Shuggie Otis show with a friend who'd also gone, ran into not one but both of the friends I'd seen in the Gallery 5 video, talked to the guy who's curating an upcoming Listening Room and somehow managed to find a friend who'd never seen the Diamond Center at the Well before.
Considering I've probably seen the band at least a half dozen times there, I was surprised, but warned him that they've been known to come on as late as 12:15.
Nashville's Ttotals played first, all reverb and '90s-sounding and playing to a packed room.
I've seen them before and their exuberant energy is worth experiencing.
During the break after their set, I got into a chat with a scientist who informed me that all human life is descended from six humans.
There's not a lot I can do with that information, my friend.
He also pointed out what he considered to be a fascinating scientific fact: It's 60 degrees and people were wearing jackets and knit caps.
His point was that in six months it'll also be 60 degrees and people will have on shorts and flip-flops.
He's wise beyond his years and hipster haircut.
Another friend and guitarist asked if I'd held the newest restaurant baby (of course) and told me he'd heard from a reliable source that tonight's Diamond Center set was going to be very Phish-like.
Meandering jams sounded like just the ticket at this point.
Around 12:30, the Diamond Center took the floor, breaking their own record, and began their slow, psychedelic groove, made even groovier by Dave Watson's light projections overhead.
After a drawn-out first song, they reverted to some newish material and eventually a brand-new one.
"That's a song that'll be on our new CD," leader Kyle joked, "which should come out in about fifteen years."
I guess parenthood has slowed them down, too.
As many times as I've seen the Diamond Center, they never fail to impress as I was reminded when a friend walked up and assuredly said, "They're going to end up being the biggest band to ever come out of Richmond."
Entirely possible. That's why I'm willing to go see them start playing at 12:30 on a Thursday night.
My ears may be ringing, but baby, it was worth it.
It was pouring down rain, I wanted some hot food and the first place that came to mind was Mama J's, four blocks away.
Walking in, I found a WRIR DJ and his son waiting for a table, but when I told the hostess all I needed was a bar stool, she responded, "Right this way, honey."
My DJ friend made fun of me for getting the rock star treatment, but it's all in where you're willing to sit. Pulling out the stool, she gestured, "Especially for you, baby."
With a Motown soundtrack (Supremes, Commodores,Isaac Hayes) blaring over the noise of a full restaurant, the bartender greeted me with, "How you doin' baby?"
Quite well, thank you.
She wanted me to know that I had five minutes until happy hour ended and the guy standing next to me looked at me and said, "I don't know about you, but I'm having a double Jack Daniels."
A single Patron was plenty when what I really wanted was fried chicken, mashed potatoes, cole slaw and a corn muffin.
I was right by the corner where people come in to grab their to-go orders, so I met the first-timer in picking up food for his wife who worked nearby.
When I asked if he was taking her a piece of cake, he said no, he hadn't ordered any, unaware of the magic of Mama's cakes.
Next time, son, and she'll be yours for life. The woman next to me agreed loudly.
She was picking up and she ruefully shared that she'd just been in on Sunday and was already back.
No shame in being a regular, I told her, but had she gotten the same thing?
"I always get the catfish, but tonight I got the trout," she said, looking pretty pleased with herself.
Not long after my plate arrived, a group of four came in for their to-go order and stopped short when they saw my food.
"I'm gonna come back as a chicken in my next life," one girl claimed.
"I'm gonna eat you if you look like that," her friend said, pointing at my chicken.
Waiting for their order, they caught sight of the cake case and were smitten with the pink and yellow one, asking the bartender what it was.
"Strawberry lemon," she said matter of factly.
"Give. Me. That," on of the guys instructed her, grinning ear to ear.
"Are you gonna get that?" the girl asked incredulously.
"I'm gonna lay in it," he said and asked for a second slice. They left with their order plus four pieces of cake.
Before long, I had to get going ("Sure, baby") to my next stop, Studio 23, freeing up a prime stool for one of the many people lined up by the door.
Richmond's finest print collective was playing host to Music Video Meltdown, part of their monthly film and video series.
Waiting for it to start, I checked out Studio 23's new exhibit, "Sweaty Armpits and Swimming Pools," a summer-themed 'zine show.
The little 'zines ranged from beautifully illustrated books to actual stories with pictures and had post-modern names like "Why Can't the Internet Work Everywhere?" (a title that could only have been thought up by a millennial), "Maybe Next Year" and "Deep End."
Tonight's event had begun with a call for music videos, but the response had been insufficient for an entire evening's programming, so the host had supplemented with videos selected by an informal poll of his friends.
The Spring film and video series had raised enough money to buy a new projector and Bose speakers, and we were the first to experience the new equipment tonight, meaning naturally there were immediate technical difficulties.
They kicked things off with Michael Jackson's "Beat It," a good reminder of MJ pre-cleft chin and final pointy nose, but then went unfortunately to Nicki Minaj, someone whose video I never needed to see.
The submitted videos were cool to see, although it soon became clear that today's young music video-makers are completely fixated on special effects, violence, constantly changing camera angles and blood.
But not all. One was a light show set to Radiohead's "Spinning Plates" and another had a young, red-headed guy singing a song in an empty white room.
One of my favorites began with a guy talking mock-seriously about the infinite cosmos and then shooting a cassette tape out into space and segued into him singing and playing a poppy song with another guy, which they ultimately recorded on (what else?) a cassette tape.
There was a video shot of an evening at Gallery 5, fire twirlers outside, art-hungry crowd inside and I recognized two friends in it. Hell, I was probably there that night.
But for every submission, there was a price to pay, whether M.I.A.'s "Bad Girls" or a bad white rapper drinking a 40 with his homies, shouting, "Hold up, it's a dance party," at the break.
I had to sit through the Foo Fighters' cheesy, over-wrought video for "There Goes My Hero," but got payback when I saw Cold Cave's synth-laden "God Made the World."
It all evens out in the end.
The last time I spent an evening watching videos was in Italy last October and then they were all McCartney and Lennon videos from the '80s, a far cry from tonight's program.
Seems I need an annual music video dose.
Afterwards, I headed to the Well for a couple of notoriously loud bands.
Like any show there, they weren't even close to starting at 11:15, so I mingled among the PBR-swilling masses.
I got to discuss the terrific Shuggie Otis show with a friend who'd also gone, ran into not one but both of the friends I'd seen in the Gallery 5 video, talked to the guy who's curating an upcoming Listening Room and somehow managed to find a friend who'd never seen the Diamond Center at the Well before.
Considering I've probably seen the band at least a half dozen times there, I was surprised, but warned him that they've been known to come on as late as 12:15.
Nashville's Ttotals played first, all reverb and '90s-sounding and playing to a packed room.
I've seen them before and their exuberant energy is worth experiencing.
During the break after their set, I got into a chat with a scientist who informed me that all human life is descended from six humans.
There's not a lot I can do with that information, my friend.
He also pointed out what he considered to be a fascinating scientific fact: It's 60 degrees and people were wearing jackets and knit caps.
His point was that in six months it'll also be 60 degrees and people will have on shorts and flip-flops.
He's wise beyond his years and hipster haircut.
Another friend and guitarist asked if I'd held the newest restaurant baby (of course) and told me he'd heard from a reliable source that tonight's Diamond Center set was going to be very Phish-like.
Meandering jams sounded like just the ticket at this point.
Around 12:30, the Diamond Center took the floor, breaking their own record, and began their slow, psychedelic groove, made even groovier by Dave Watson's light projections overhead.
After a drawn-out first song, they reverted to some newish material and eventually a brand-new one.
"That's a song that'll be on our new CD," leader Kyle joked, "which should come out in about fifteen years."
I guess parenthood has slowed them down, too.
As many times as I've seen the Diamond Center, they never fail to impress as I was reminded when a friend walked up and assuredly said, "They're going to end up being the biggest band to ever come out of Richmond."
Entirely possible. That's why I'm willing to go see them start playing at 12:30 on a Thursday night.
My ears may be ringing, but baby, it was worth it.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Purchase Order
The Moses bus caught the lecturer's eye.
VMFA's Curator of African Art, Richard Woodward,was speaking at Studio 23, that bastion of indie printmaking on Main Street about their new exhibit, "Land of a Thousand Greeting: Multimedia from Rwanda."
I've been in the studio many times, but tonight it was especially welcoming with the garage door rolled up to the warm, barely sprinkling weather.
Inside, a small crowd gathered slowly, leaving time to check out the show before the talk.
There were photographs, drawings and fabrics inspired by the artists' trip to Rwanda, including one of a brightly covered bus labeled Moses.
That was the one that caught Woodward's eye; he ended up buying it before the night was over.
His talk looked for a link between the VMFA's African collection (the most recent piece of which was acquired in 1960 or 1970, he said) to the Anderson Gallery's recent "Environment Object" show of contemporary African art.
He explained why Congolese chiefs were kept in check, how brutal many of the colonizing forces were and how divination worked.
He assured us that now if we go to the African galleries (not that I haven't already been) we'll know everything that's written on the wall cards.
And for the first half of his lecture, he had a soundtrack of cars driving down a very wet Main Street outside.
For the second half, the front door was rolled down but the wind and rain made it sound like bullets on the roof.
The Q & A period was brief and I didn't ask my question because I didn't want to put such an interesting speaker on the spot.
But why doesn't the VMFA have a piece of African (not African-American) art more recent than 40 years old?
I'm already on record as saying I think the Sokari Douglas Camp sculpture at the Anderson belongs in the VMFA's collection.
But since no one was asking my thoughts on museum purchases, I left for, where else these days, Pasture to meet a friend.
He had not been to the new restaurant on Grace Street yet, so I ended up there again so he could check it out, having contributed to its opening.
We went all caveman, ordering nothing but meat to go with a bottle of Mont Gras Carmenere.
It was my first crack at the ham plate (Kites, Olli, Edwards) with beer mustard and pickles; I'll go with the speck as my favorite.
Then we had the beef tartare, which I'd had but he hadn't (as in not ever in his life).
He became a tartare convert, especially with the chili ketchup.
We finished with the pork rillettes. "Do you like rillettes?" the chef asked. "I love potted meat," I answered.
Is there any difference?
Arriving in a little Mason jar, the layer of fact on top was a delightful surprise to my friend, the rillettes virgin.
He made me laugh with a personal horror story (being in the Mall of America on Black Friday) and then told me about the restaurant project he's currently brainstorming.
Even better, he was honest enough to say that men are simple creatures and recommended a great hand lotion.
This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.
VMFA's Curator of African Art, Richard Woodward,was speaking at Studio 23, that bastion of indie printmaking on Main Street about their new exhibit, "Land of a Thousand Greeting: Multimedia from Rwanda."
I've been in the studio many times, but tonight it was especially welcoming with the garage door rolled up to the warm, barely sprinkling weather.
Inside, a small crowd gathered slowly, leaving time to check out the show before the talk.
There were photographs, drawings and fabrics inspired by the artists' trip to Rwanda, including one of a brightly covered bus labeled Moses.
That was the one that caught Woodward's eye; he ended up buying it before the night was over.
His talk looked for a link between the VMFA's African collection (the most recent piece of which was acquired in 1960 or 1970, he said) to the Anderson Gallery's recent "Environment Object" show of contemporary African art.
He explained why Congolese chiefs were kept in check, how brutal many of the colonizing forces were and how divination worked.
He assured us that now if we go to the African galleries (not that I haven't already been) we'll know everything that's written on the wall cards.
And for the first half of his lecture, he had a soundtrack of cars driving down a very wet Main Street outside.
For the second half, the front door was rolled down but the wind and rain made it sound like bullets on the roof.
The Q & A period was brief and I didn't ask my question because I didn't want to put such an interesting speaker on the spot.
But why doesn't the VMFA have a piece of African (not African-American) art more recent than 40 years old?
I'm already on record as saying I think the Sokari Douglas Camp sculpture at the Anderson belongs in the VMFA's collection.
But since no one was asking my thoughts on museum purchases, I left for, where else these days, Pasture to meet a friend.
He had not been to the new restaurant on Grace Street yet, so I ended up there again so he could check it out, having contributed to its opening.
We went all caveman, ordering nothing but meat to go with a bottle of Mont Gras Carmenere.
It was my first crack at the ham plate (Kites, Olli, Edwards) with beer mustard and pickles; I'll go with the speck as my favorite.
Then we had the beef tartare, which I'd had but he hadn't (as in not ever in his life).
He became a tartare convert, especially with the chili ketchup.
We finished with the pork rillettes. "Do you like rillettes?" the chef asked. "I love potted meat," I answered.
Is there any difference?
Arriving in a little Mason jar, the layer of fact on top was a delightful surprise to my friend, the rillettes virgin.
He made me laugh with a personal horror story (being in the Mall of America on Black Friday) and then told me about the restaurant project he's currently brainstorming.
Even better, he was honest enough to say that men are simple creatures and recommended a great hand lotion.
This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
"You're Everywhere Good"
Noah sold out, Kate shone in feathers, and album art stole the show.
Danny unloaded, Chris' Saturn Returned and Ashley showed me how to screen print.
It may have been the first really cold First Friday art walk in a while, but what's a little chill on a night where there was so much affordable art (think gifting) to see and I ran into so many people I know?
Besides, I knew better than to wear the Vienna tights, so I'm responsible for going for compliments over warmth.
At 1708 Gallery's "Small Wonder" show, there were scaled-down works by so many familiar names: a lyrical Tom Chenoweth metal sculpture, a Grace Teeples combine, a Chuck Scalin tablet.
I wasn't the least surprised to arrive at three small skull pieces, all marked sold.
Without a moment's hesitation, I knew they must have been Noah Scalin's (and indeed they had been).
Over at ADA Gallery were four large pieces by Chris Mahonski, all suitably priced for the holidays at $1,000-$10,000.
Price tag aside, I was taken by his "Saturn Return," a walnut veneer tower stacked with every National Geographic magazine since January 1970.
I could crouch down and see the 70s magazines, but the 21st-century ones were completely lost to my vertically-challenged self.
While admiring it, a guy walked up behind me and leaned over me to say, "That would be great in your living room."
Since I turned around to see a guy who has never seen my living room, I have to assume he was flirting with me (I'll get this yet).
We began talking about the old-school value of National Geographic teaching kids about naked bodies and sex (you know, your typical conversation with a stranger) and how unfortunate it is that today's kids have to rely on Internet porn rather than glossy photographs of natives for ogling.
Peter Fowler's show "Illuminations" at Ghostprint Gallery was a series of Impressionistic pastels updated by the use of gold and silver-leaf paint.
Several of these had also been sold, too, so obviously it was a good night for an artist to be hanging in RVA.
Over at Metro Space Gallery, Kate Horne's show of animal drawings, paintings and sculptural heads was perfectly punctuated by her large dog napping in the center of the gallery floor.
Kate, ever the showman, was splendid in her native American headdress; as we stood talking, two guys walked in and one saluted her with, '"Great headdress!"
Kate only smiled demurely back.
Talking to Mark, the owner of next door's Metro Sound and Music store, I found out that he's opening a satellite location in Carytown this weekend.
Seems he's been looking for a second location for twenty years and the perfect one just opened up over in our shopping mecca.
It'll be on the same block as Guitar Works, so music lovers will have a destination for all things music now.
Mark carries so many vintage instruments that the shop will appeal to music fans as much as true musicians.
Who wouldn't want to admire 100-year old instruments, some signed by the maker? I'm already planning a field trip.
Gallery 5 was as crowded as I've ever seen it; part of the reason was the DJ collective Cherry Bomb was hosting an exhibit of album cover art.
A host of local talent, both musical and artistic, had been asked to submit a cover for sale to benefit Art 180.
Singer Julie Karr had crocheted hers, photographers PJ Sykes and Melissa Koch naturally submitted photos, and DJ Sara Gossett's was an intricate 60s-looking drawing reminiscent of one of her vintage dresses.
One DJ's submissions was an Elvis Costello cover with every date she's ever played that record notated on the front; it was part album/part journal and I loved the history it revealed.
It was DJ Talia who came over to compliment me on being everywhere, saying she and her beau know they've walked into the right place when they see me (and, believe me, they're far hipper than me).
After a much too long wait in the restroom line, I finally asked the guy in front of me if he'd checked the door to make sure someone was actually in there.
"I don't think that's a bathroom,"he explained.
"Wrong," I informed him. "I've peed in here a hundred times" and waltzed into the bathroom he'd been standing outside of for 15 minutes.
Do I have to teach these kids everything?
Leaving the madness of G5 with a Captain Slappy's bacon-wrapped dog firmly in hand (Chef Charley had three, so I didn't feel too bad), I walked to get my car and head to the other art walk on Main Street. Studio 23 was having a printmaking demonstration in addition to opening a new show by Stuart Dumois.
Although I'm a huge fan of prints, I'd never seen them made and after my recent visit to their mix tape exhibit, Ashley had suggested coming back tonight.
I watched as she screened dozens of holiday cards (you'll know if you get one from me because the Season's Greetings are growing out of the reindeer's antlers) and told me about the recent donations to the collective's impressive array of equipment.
Dumois' art was graphic and bright, whether portraiture or a scene of regurgitation.
My favorite eye-catching piece was the female figure curled up on a blue background, with the words, "Boo hoo hoo" underneath her.
Boo hoo indeed.
And then it was time to move on from visual art to performance art in the form of Crispin Hellion Glover, presented by the James River Film Society.
Waiting in vain for a friend to arrive, I saw a cross section of Richmond arriving: DJs, book sellers, researchers, parade organizers, musicians, wine reps, restaurant people, artists, filmmakers and Glover fanatics.
In other words, lots of people I knew.
With no fanfare, Glover came out and began his narrated slide show, essentially him reading bits of some of the books he's written.
But he is Crispin Glover, so his books are, shall we say, odd.
"Studies in Rat-Catching for the Use of Schools," "Backward Swing: A Lesson to be Learned," and "Round My House" were aided by his dramatic retelling and expressive hand gestures pointing to the pages and illustrations of these books.
After that portion of the show, a member of the audience yelled out, "Hey, can we get rid of those two dudes down in front?" referring to the two idiots who had clapped fanatically at the wrong moments, laughed inappropriately and just generally made a nuisance of themselves throughout the entire first half.
The guys yelled out that they were fans, but their obnoxiousness in trying to put themselves into the center of attention was wearing on much of the audience's nerves.
The two had been just behind me in line waiting to get in and as the line began to move, a nearby couple had said, "Let's sit anywhere but near those two." It was true.
Glover intended to show his second film next but by mistake showed his first, "What Is It?" instead.
Made using actors with Down's Syndrome to portray people who did not have the condition, it was made expressly for the purpose of making the audience uncomfortable.
Glover called it a "reactive piece."
Afterwards, he apologized for showing the wrong film and asked that the trailer for his second movie, "It is Fine. Everything is Fine" be shown, followed by a question and answer period, a misnomer for a protracted discussion with a man who loves words.
To be clear, a question and answer period with Crispin Hellion Glover is a long-term proposition.
He is the kind of actor/filmmaker/mind with volumes to say on almost every subject.
He spent a good amount of time on how his resentment of corporate film making led him to attempt a film that would address cultural taboos and complexities.
He railed about the dumbing down of movies and the reluctance of the Hollywood machine to feed the audiences anything but pablum.
His insistence on not condescending to his audience or dictating their interpretation took up a good part of Glover's time on stage.
Interestingly, he said he takes the most flak about the abuse of snails in the first movie, not for using actors with Down's syndrome or even including a racist KKK song in it.
Of course, audiences for this man's movies are not the typical audience by a long stretch, either.
Glover continued to take questions for hours and the audience slowly began to trickle out although the devoted remained in place, rapt.
I don't want to say it was late when I left, but NYD's dance party was winding down and Secco was dark.
But then again, how often does the Hellion show up in RVA on a Friday night?
Danny unloaded, Chris' Saturn Returned and Ashley showed me how to screen print.
It may have been the first really cold First Friday art walk in a while, but what's a little chill on a night where there was so much affordable art (think gifting) to see and I ran into so many people I know?
Besides, I knew better than to wear the Vienna tights, so I'm responsible for going for compliments over warmth.
At 1708 Gallery's "Small Wonder" show, there were scaled-down works by so many familiar names: a lyrical Tom Chenoweth metal sculpture, a Grace Teeples combine, a Chuck Scalin tablet.
I wasn't the least surprised to arrive at three small skull pieces, all marked sold.
Without a moment's hesitation, I knew they must have been Noah Scalin's (and indeed they had been).
Over at ADA Gallery were four large pieces by Chris Mahonski, all suitably priced for the holidays at $1,000-$10,000.
Price tag aside, I was taken by his "Saturn Return," a walnut veneer tower stacked with every National Geographic magazine since January 1970.
I could crouch down and see the 70s magazines, but the 21st-century ones were completely lost to my vertically-challenged self.
While admiring it, a guy walked up behind me and leaned over me to say, "That would be great in your living room."
Since I turned around to see a guy who has never seen my living room, I have to assume he was flirting with me (I'll get this yet).
We began talking about the old-school value of National Geographic teaching kids about naked bodies and sex (you know, your typical conversation with a stranger) and how unfortunate it is that today's kids have to rely on Internet porn rather than glossy photographs of natives for ogling.
Peter Fowler's show "Illuminations" at Ghostprint Gallery was a series of Impressionistic pastels updated by the use of gold and silver-leaf paint.
Several of these had also been sold, too, so obviously it was a good night for an artist to be hanging in RVA.
Over at Metro Space Gallery, Kate Horne's show of animal drawings, paintings and sculptural heads was perfectly punctuated by her large dog napping in the center of the gallery floor.
Kate, ever the showman, was splendid in her native American headdress; as we stood talking, two guys walked in and one saluted her with, '"Great headdress!"
Kate only smiled demurely back.
Talking to Mark, the owner of next door's Metro Sound and Music store, I found out that he's opening a satellite location in Carytown this weekend.
Seems he's been looking for a second location for twenty years and the perfect one just opened up over in our shopping mecca.
It'll be on the same block as Guitar Works, so music lovers will have a destination for all things music now.
Mark carries so many vintage instruments that the shop will appeal to music fans as much as true musicians.
Who wouldn't want to admire 100-year old instruments, some signed by the maker? I'm already planning a field trip.
Gallery 5 was as crowded as I've ever seen it; part of the reason was the DJ collective Cherry Bomb was hosting an exhibit of album cover art.
A host of local talent, both musical and artistic, had been asked to submit a cover for sale to benefit Art 180.
Singer Julie Karr had crocheted hers, photographers PJ Sykes and Melissa Koch naturally submitted photos, and DJ Sara Gossett's was an intricate 60s-looking drawing reminiscent of one of her vintage dresses.
One DJ's submissions was an Elvis Costello cover with every date she's ever played that record notated on the front; it was part album/part journal and I loved the history it revealed.
It was DJ Talia who came over to compliment me on being everywhere, saying she and her beau know they've walked into the right place when they see me (and, believe me, they're far hipper than me).
After a much too long wait in the restroom line, I finally asked the guy in front of me if he'd checked the door to make sure someone was actually in there.
"I don't think that's a bathroom,"he explained.
"Wrong," I informed him. "I've peed in here a hundred times" and waltzed into the bathroom he'd been standing outside of for 15 minutes.
Do I have to teach these kids everything?
Leaving the madness of G5 with a Captain Slappy's bacon-wrapped dog firmly in hand (Chef Charley had three, so I didn't feel too bad), I walked to get my car and head to the other art walk on Main Street. Studio 23 was having a printmaking demonstration in addition to opening a new show by Stuart Dumois.
Although I'm a huge fan of prints, I'd never seen them made and after my recent visit to their mix tape exhibit, Ashley had suggested coming back tonight.
I watched as she screened dozens of holiday cards (you'll know if you get one from me because the Season's Greetings are growing out of the reindeer's antlers) and told me about the recent donations to the collective's impressive array of equipment.
Dumois' art was graphic and bright, whether portraiture or a scene of regurgitation.
My favorite eye-catching piece was the female figure curled up on a blue background, with the words, "Boo hoo hoo" underneath her.
Boo hoo indeed.
And then it was time to move on from visual art to performance art in the form of Crispin Hellion Glover, presented by the James River Film Society.
Waiting in vain for a friend to arrive, I saw a cross section of Richmond arriving: DJs, book sellers, researchers, parade organizers, musicians, wine reps, restaurant people, artists, filmmakers and Glover fanatics.
In other words, lots of people I knew.
With no fanfare, Glover came out and began his narrated slide show, essentially him reading bits of some of the books he's written.
But he is Crispin Glover, so his books are, shall we say, odd.
"Studies in Rat-Catching for the Use of Schools," "Backward Swing: A Lesson to be Learned," and "Round My House" were aided by his dramatic retelling and expressive hand gestures pointing to the pages and illustrations of these books.
After that portion of the show, a member of the audience yelled out, "Hey, can we get rid of those two dudes down in front?" referring to the two idiots who had clapped fanatically at the wrong moments, laughed inappropriately and just generally made a nuisance of themselves throughout the entire first half.
The guys yelled out that they were fans, but their obnoxiousness in trying to put themselves into the center of attention was wearing on much of the audience's nerves.
The two had been just behind me in line waiting to get in and as the line began to move, a nearby couple had said, "Let's sit anywhere but near those two." It was true.
Glover intended to show his second film next but by mistake showed his first, "What Is It?" instead.
Made using actors with Down's Syndrome to portray people who did not have the condition, it was made expressly for the purpose of making the audience uncomfortable.
Glover called it a "reactive piece."
Afterwards, he apologized for showing the wrong film and asked that the trailer for his second movie, "It is Fine. Everything is Fine" be shown, followed by a question and answer period, a misnomer for a protracted discussion with a man who loves words.
To be clear, a question and answer period with Crispin Hellion Glover is a long-term proposition.
He is the kind of actor/filmmaker/mind with volumes to say on almost every subject.
He spent a good amount of time on how his resentment of corporate film making led him to attempt a film that would address cultural taboos and complexities.
He railed about the dumbing down of movies and the reluctance of the Hollywood machine to feed the audiences anything but pablum.
His insistence on not condescending to his audience or dictating their interpretation took up a good part of Glover's time on stage.
Interestingly, he said he takes the most flak about the abuse of snails in the first movie, not for using actors with Down's syndrome or even including a racist KKK song in it.
Of course, audiences for this man's movies are not the typical audience by a long stretch, either.
Glover continued to take questions for hours and the audience slowly began to trickle out although the devoted remained in place, rapt.
I don't want to say it was late when I left, but NYD's dance party was winding down and Secco was dark.
But then again, how often does the Hellion show up in RVA on a Friday night?
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Going for Guilty Pleasures
Sometimes doing research in your area of interest seems like a guilty pleasure. Should you really feel that way? If you like something and want to know more about it, it's as worthy a use of your time as anything else.
There, in that one day Gemini horoscope, is the rationalization for my entire life, or at least for me following my curiosity wherever it takes me. So after a morning of writing up my interview with non-jam band Railroad Earth, here, I was free to satisfy my curiosity at Studio 23 Gallery, recently moved from Plant Zero to Main Street and with, what else, music (well, sort of).
Their new studio is bigger and better than the old digs; the coolest part is that it boasts a blackboard to-do list on the inside of the front door. There's a way to keep an artist's chore list in plain sight.
I was meeting some guys to check out Studio 23's third annual show of art inspired by the mixtape, "Mixtape 3-D." I actually had a mix tape in the first show back in 2008, but this new show was more about the case than the music.
In fact, only three of the pieces even had playlists, which was a surprise to all three of us (and both of them had participated in the 2008 show, too, so they knew from mixtapes).
One that did was two sided, consisting of "Songs to Drink By" (naturally Tom Waits was on there) and "Songs to Recover By," containing the most random song on any mixtape made this century, "Brandi (You're a Fine Girl)" by Looking Glass. It actually made my jaw drop in amazement when I saw it.
Another mixtape was directed at how to be hipster, with a playlist of all the indie favorites (Mumford and Sons, Temper Trap, et al) as well as a list of rules for hipster compliance.
Most rang true (don't bathe often; ride your bike everywhere), but I'd be inclined to take issue with the one stipulating that hipsters never dance because they're too cool. Has this guy been to a dance party at 534 or the Nile? Hell, even Ipanema's big anniversary bash was full of dancing hipsters.
Probably my favorite piece was the cross section of the tape case with the actual tape pulled out and arranged above and below in a most artistic manner. Another one was opened up and painted to look like a bronze sculpture.
Some submissions were less literal, not even employing the case or tape. All were clearly made by true fans of the art form.
But being a Gemini, I really wish I knew what music was playing in their heads while they created their masterpieces.
There, in that one day Gemini horoscope, is the rationalization for my entire life, or at least for me following my curiosity wherever it takes me. So after a morning of writing up my interview with non-jam band Railroad Earth, here, I was free to satisfy my curiosity at Studio 23 Gallery, recently moved from Plant Zero to Main Street and with, what else, music (well, sort of).
Their new studio is bigger and better than the old digs; the coolest part is that it boasts a blackboard to-do list on the inside of the front door. There's a way to keep an artist's chore list in plain sight.
I was meeting some guys to check out Studio 23's third annual show of art inspired by the mixtape, "Mixtape 3-D." I actually had a mix tape in the first show back in 2008, but this new show was more about the case than the music.
In fact, only three of the pieces even had playlists, which was a surprise to all three of us (and both of them had participated in the 2008 show, too, so they knew from mixtapes).
One that did was two sided, consisting of "Songs to Drink By" (naturally Tom Waits was on there) and "Songs to Recover By," containing the most random song on any mixtape made this century, "Brandi (You're a Fine Girl)" by Looking Glass. It actually made my jaw drop in amazement when I saw it.
Another mixtape was directed at how to be hipster, with a playlist of all the indie favorites (Mumford and Sons, Temper Trap, et al) as well as a list of rules for hipster compliance.
Most rang true (don't bathe often; ride your bike everywhere), but I'd be inclined to take issue with the one stipulating that hipsters never dance because they're too cool. Has this guy been to a dance party at 534 or the Nile? Hell, even Ipanema's big anniversary bash was full of dancing hipsters.
Probably my favorite piece was the cross section of the tape case with the actual tape pulled out and arranged above and below in a most artistic manner. Another one was opened up and painted to look like a bronze sculpture.
Some submissions were less literal, not even employing the case or tape. All were clearly made by true fans of the art form.
But being a Gemini, I really wish I knew what music was playing in their heads while they created their masterpieces.
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