The Cat Who Won't Cop Out

If it wasn't one thing politics today, it was another blaxploitation in the '70s.

On my walk this morning, I saw a couple hammering a "Stoney for Mayor" sign into their pocket-sized lawn in the Fan and it was all I could do restrain myself from going over and demanding to know why they thought a man with such limited experience and tenure in town would be well-suited to running our city.

At the very least, I knew I'd have a sympathetic ear for the story later, when my plans were to meet up with an activist type to discuss all things mayoral before the VMFA screening of "Shaft" for the final night of the Gordon Parks mini-film fest.

Along the way, I spotted a dead raccoon laid out on Boulevard, with no cars parked anywhere near it, as if it had cooties or something.

Strolling down Floyd to get to Doner Kebab, I spied a yard with the right kind of political signs to give me all the feels, so I paused on the sidewalk to chat from a distance with the couple on the porch of the house, which just happened to be next to the one I lived in from 1993 through 2006.

It's a neighborhood I know well, even if it has become quite a bit more affluent since my early days there. Fortunately, funky still competes with renovated on block after block.

In a nutshell, the couple had been wowed by Balile's honesty and preparedness, could see why people were sucked in by Stoney's glibness, abhorred Morrissey and put up a Clinton/Kaine sign mainly to prove there's no shame in doing so.

I liked them immensely after 10 minutes conversation and discovering that her name was the same as mine.

A few houses down, I passed a raised garden bed from which sprouted the white legs of an upside down mannequin with black combat boots on its feet.

Ah, there's the Floyd Avenue that originally seduced me back in the '90s.

Naturally, the local political scene was all we talked about over Middle Eastern dance music and shawermas, mainly because there's so much at stake. As an unexpected bonus, the owner decided to throw his support behind Baliles while we were there, so perhaps we brought good vibes or something.

Walking into the museum afterward, the guard told me to enjoy my evening, and when I assured him I would because I was coming to see "Shaft," his face lit up and then fell. "That's playing tonight?" he asked. "And I gotta work."

We agreed it was a shame for him.

Downstairs, my dining companion and I met up to find good seats for the 1971 film and got to talking about that era when he'd been a conscientious objector assigned to work on LBJ's War on Poverty in Kentucky.

This is why you see a period film with someone who lived through the period.

During the introduction, we learned that "Shaft" was considered revolutionary both in terms of its cinematic role and its cultural role, not to mention the Isaac Hayes soundtrack that won the Oscar that year.

Told we were seeing the unedited version, we were both curious how it would stack up against current movies in terms of violence, language and sex.

And I've got to say that those first few distinctive notes of the "Theme from Shaft" (and the full soundtrack version, not the radio edit) along with shots of John Shaft moving through Manhattan (past Corvairs and picketers carrying signs reading, "I got my job through the New York Times") set the tone for a total immersion into the early days of black power.

It was a far cry from director Gordon Parks's debut film, "The Learning Tree," which I'd seen last night, despite there being only two years between the films. That had been a soft-lens focus look back at a difficult coming of age story where "Shaft" was all manhood.

And don't get me started on Richard Roundtree's dimple or the superb way that man wore a turtleneck.

It warms my black heart to see you so concerned about us minority folk.

But, man, was it ever a reminder of what another lifetime 1971 was. Hotels with telephone switchboards behind the front desk. Vegetable vendors with their products in wooden carts with metal wheels. A bag of hot chestnuts for two bits. A poster on a boarded up wall for an upcoming Four Tops show. "Wop" insults hurled with abandon.

Taxi drivers who refused to stop for black passengers.

When you lead your revolution, whitey better be standing still because you don't run worth a damn no more.

Drug humor - "Billy, could you go turn on..." "Hey, man, I already turned on!" "No, no, turn on the lights?" was no surprise but sexuality openness was ("I'm gay"), although both spoke to the time, as did Shaft's bachelor pad, complete with shelves holding hardback books, a reel to reel player and a turntable.

A sex machine needs that stuff in order to play Isaac Hayes and Curtis Mayfield for any lady visitors. He apparently also needs to keep a spare pistol in a Baggie in the freezer, right next to the cans of Minute Maid orange juice every bachelor keeps around.

What did you get, Shaft? I got laid.

But my personal favorite was the sex scene, all soft focus and seen through a Calder mobile hanging above the white couch which provides such great contrast with Shaft's naked brown skin.

And while I knew intellectually that it was a blaxploitation movie, it came across more like a film noir with a black private dick in a fitted leather jacket. Suspenseful scenes were accompanied by Hayes' taut percussion and sometimes, the reddest fake blood you've ever seen.

After it ended, my companion and I couldn't wait to compare notes, starting with how even in its unedited form, it didn't come close to today's movie violence. Seems we've moved that needle so far in 45 years that a groundbreaking film like this just seems like business as usual with wide lapels. That brought up bell bottoms, which we hadn't seen a lot of in the movie.

Before I could even bring it up, he mentioned something I'd also noticed, namely the easily recognizable wallpaper ("I had that gray one in my house!" he tells me) and wall hangings (I had the green one in my first apartment) of that era. Bold, curved lines in dark and metallic colors had immediately taken me back to some of the hipper '70s homes I was in.

As we were leaving the museum, I paused to chat with the guard, telling him about all the '70s details, including Shaft's sound system.

"Reel to reels were the thing back then," he says, embracing the subject. "I still have mine and my turntable, but all my albums got warped."

Turns out he isn't the only reel to reel holdout because the activist still maintains two himself: one to play and the other to use for spare parts as needed. Come on, it sounds so good.

As Shaft would say, you're damn right. Relics that we are, we can dig it.

Enthusiasm is the Electricity of Life

The dichotomy of Richmond, that's what all those national publications fail to mention when they're singing our praises.

It's living in a town where a terrific and historic photography show such as "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott" results in a mini-Gordon Parks film festival, for which I immediately buy tickets.

But it's also arriving at the VMFA to find the misguided Sons of the Confederacy with their enormous Confederate flags standing on the corner in front of the museum as part of their endless protesting about the lost cause.

My first thought is what an unpleasant welcome they'll make for any black museum or film-goers, but it turns out they're just as unpleasant for me. Walking by three flag bearing, redneck-looking men to get to the steps, one looks me up and down, gives me a smarmy grin and says, "Hey, there, hot stuff" as if I might actually respond to him.

Negative.

It occurs to me that if all those national articles praising Richmond as a rising star and a shining example of the hip "new south" were to also mention this sort of nonsense, it might make for a far more realistic sense of this town.

Because, truthfully, it is all part of the flavor and color of who we are.

Inside the Cheek auditorium, I overhear some women behind me talking. One regrets not having read Parks' book "The Learning Tree" before seeing the film tonight. Another explains a friend's absence, saying she'll probably just watch the movie on Netflix.

The woman next to me shares that she's here because she'd read the book back in middle school and had just recently learned there was a film based on it. I'm amazed, but also older than she is, because I was certainly never assigned a black-penned book at that age.

The film is introduced as being the work of Renaissance man Parks, who not only wrote the screenplay, but directed, produced and wrote the music for it. Turns out it was also exceedingly difficult to locate, meaning that not seeing it tonight likely means not seeing it at all.

Shot on location in Fort Scott, the movie was the first by a black director in Hollywood, which makes me suddenly aware of how much was riding on what Parks did and how he did it with this film.

From the opening frame, the film was as gloriously Technicolor as you'd expect a major film to be in 1969. What I had a harder time reconciling was that although the film was set in the 1920s - straw boaters on the men's heads, candlestick phones - the women's clothing was pure late '60s with mini-dresses, low slung belts and knee socks.

Just as of the era was the young love montage, complete with teens feeding ducks and running hand in hand through sun-dappled fields in slow motion. Shades of Love's Baby Soft product commercials, for those who recall such things.

Judging by the fact that some people left during the screening, I'm guessing that they couldn't appreciate the particular nature of 1969 pacing, not to mention the overt sentimentality of how the story was told. To them I would say, consider what was at stake for the first black director's film.

Rather than join the curator-led gallery walk of the Parks exhibit afterward - in my own defense, I have seen it twice so far - I met my date in the atrium so we could scuttle upstairs for a glass of J. Mourat Rose before Amuse closed.

From there, we wandered over to Belmont Food Shop, running into my favorite mayoral candidate as we navigated a traffic circle on foot. "Stop writing nice things about me!" he joked.

Stop sharing my opinion? Never!

Although we were late arrivals, we were welcomed in to the fold of lingering diners and staff for dinner at the end of the bar while the usual '20s-era music played.

Continuing the evening's wine theme with a bottle of J. Mourat Rose, we began with gougeres and gizzard confit, followed by the bounty of the sea: crab and avocado, rare slices of tuna over frisee and seared scallops over squash and sausage.

When the chef finished up, he came out and joined us, providing an opportunity for me thank him for the surprise confit.

"My biggest stress in life is not enough duck fat," he explains semi-seriously.

It was while we were enjoying a fabulous butterscotch custard that a gentleman at the end of the bar brought out a 1989 bottle of wine for decanting, which the barkeep's research showed was one of only 13 left around.

Turning to those around him as the wine was poured into glasses for everyone in the room, the chef observed with a grin, "This is how we roll at Belmont Food Shop."

A deep garnet color, the nose on the Chateau Prieure-Lichine was earthy and full of dark fruit flavors, but its real beauty was with time, as the longer we sat, swirled and sipped, the more impressive the wine became.

That we'd accidentally happened into the generosity of a stranger only added to the pleasure of the wine. That such things happen as often as they do only adds to the running list of what's so wonderful about Richmond.

If I were writing those articles about our city, I'd mention such intimate attractions right along with the flamboyant flag wavers.

Because for better or for worse, all of it represents how we roll in Richmond.

Captured for Posterity

Tonight was #3 of 6 dates with a multi-talented dead man.

After twice seeing "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott" at the VMFA, I was ready for the lecture at University of Richmond entitled, "Gordon Parks from Kansas to New York: A Conversation."

Well...conversation may be a bit of a stretch - it was more of presentation, presentation, questions from moderator, questions from audience - but it did flesh out my knowledge of Parks and provide a bit of mental stimulation after an unusually intense day.

While Peter Kunhart, Jr., the executive director of the Parks Foundation, actually knew Parks (his grandfather was an editor at Life and a personal friend of Parks - he had a photo to prove it), it was Karen Haas, the photography curator at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, from whence the show originated, who brought unadulterated enthusiasm for everything Parks to the talk.

Rarely, she stressed, does a curator have such a fabulous opportunity to dig deep into a particular segment of an artist's work as she had done with the previously unpublished Fort Scott photographs and artist's notes.

As she pointed out in far more ladylike language, that's the kind of assignment curators have wet dreams about.

She'd even roped in her husband to do a road trip to retrace the places where Parks had gone as Life's first black staff photographer to capture his elementary school classmates as part of an assignment to honestly depict segregation issues.

It seems that while the magazine claimed to be pro-integration, they hadn't actually covered the subject in its pages before. In a stroke of brilliance, they sent a black photographer who took days getting comfortable with his subjects before shooting them.

What Parks discovered was that 11 of the 12 had left Fort Scott as part of southern blacks' great migration to northern cities in hopes of a better life. What Haas discussed was how nuanced were Parks' photos of these migratory families in the years just before the first stirrings of the Civil Rights movement began.

The photographer's goal, she explained, was to open the minds of Life's mostly white middle-class readership and he planned to do that with portraits of families in front of their homes (always in all-black neighborhoods), couples eating dinner, posed on couches and children playing piano with families singing along.

The latter was to be especially meaningful to whites because it showed the stability and strength of black middle class families engaged in cultured activities, no doubt images that would have been eye-openers for racist readers.

Except the piece never ran because of the little matter of the Korean conflict breaking out and taking precedence in the magazine (tell me about it - an assignment I turned in last March just ran this week).

But Parks' words and images never ran until this exhibition was mounted.

The importance of Fort Scott in shaping Parks came full circle during the Q & A period when a guy from Fort Scott pointed to a photo on the screen of black children standing on a platform behind rows of white people in seats watching a baseball game.

"I played on that field and my Dad coached me there," he shared, pointing at the image. "And in Fort Scott, Gordon Parks was like a god."

Fortunately for me, I have three more dates with that god.

Bumpersticker: No Music, No Life

It was pure poetry.

I'd worn my 2006 Pete Yorn "Nightcrawler" t-shirt - the one with holes under the arms from so many sweaty walks, so admittedly worse for the wear after a decade of use, but still the lightest and most breathable shirt I own - walking this morning and when I got in the car to go meet my dinner date, Yorn's "Life on a Chain" came blaring out of the radio.

There are no musical accidents, so I took it as a good sign that after a day tied to my desk writing on deadline, the night would be a fine one.

Because Pete Yorn never lets me down.

The plan was to meet in the atrium of the VMFA, which I always approach by cutting through the Early 20th century European art galleries -  home to French Modern and German Expressionism - an impossibility when I found them closed, the walls bare of art.

Since I'd been under the impression that they were permanent galleries, I made a beeline for the members' desk to get the scoop. "Off-view until September 28th," the knowledgeable staffer informs me, with no further explanation. Hmm...

Pondering what could be going on with the art between now and Wednesday, I almost ran into my evening's companion, only to hear that he'd been killing time waiting for me playing Frisbee outside with a stranger, at least until museum security told them the obvious: to knock it off.

We weren't hurting anything, he protested. Boys will be boys, I suggested.

Since he hadn't been to the VMFA since his Grandmother used to take him (we're talking decades), he put me in charge and I promptly led him to the outstanding "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott" photography exhibit for a shared interest in that era.

Make no mistake, I know how to show a newbie our museum.

From there, I led him to see the glorious American works that make up the new McGlothlin wing and while he had no existing knowledge of the brilliance of John Singer Sargent - or why some of those smaller genre scenes are so atypically Sargent - he strode across the gallery intent on contemplating what I consider a prime jewel of the collection: Julius Leblanc Stewart's "Yachting the Mediterranean."

Part of his attraction was the precariously heeling and enormous sailboat, but he was polite enough to listen to the reasons for my affection for the piece, which had little to do with the boat itself.

Since we still had daylight left, a walkabout seemed in order, and we took off through the sculpture garden, only to hear my name called out repeatedly from the balcony of Amuse.

A friend waved enthusiastically from above as we headed out to stroll around the Museum District where I lived for 13 years and he harbored happy memories of long-ago visits to his great grandparents house on Floyd Avenue.

One story he shared involved his great grandfather, a railroad engineer, and the multi-acre farm he owned a couple miles away, and how once he'd run into cows on the railroad tracks, only to realize they were his own.

Funny, not funny, if you know what I mean.

Ever the devoted tour guide (and, perhaps, over-sharer), I took him to see my hands-down favorite screened porch/side yard combination, explaining that while I'm very much a compact, city townhouse type, I have for 23 years found that this particular yard gives me a zen-like sense of porch perfection.

The house that porch is attached to, though, is large and appeals to me not at all. "What if you didn't have to take care of it?" he asked. I still don't want to occupy that much space on earth, I explained, a philosophy he shares despite living on three acres (but in a renovated house that maintained its original footprint, a fact I find impressive).

Further up Floyd, I randomly glanced at a couple with a baby sitting on their front porch and realized it was the people who'd lived across the street from me for 13 years. Calling out their names, they came over to greet us carrying their first grandchild and bringing me up to date on their six kids offspring.

Of course the youngest has just moved back home while he goes back for his master's degree.  Millennial children: gone but never for good.

A block or two up, I spotted a basket tied to a white picket fence with a sign offering up sage and bay leaves. "Take some, PLEASE!" the sign entreated. Grabbing a glossy branch of bay, I thanked the couple on the wide front porch.

"Take more!" she called with a grin, although a woman known for infrequent dinners at home only needs so many fresh bay leaves, you know?

Can Can was mobbed and noisy, so we moved on, opting for Belmont Food Shop and two stools at the very end of the bar, which was lively with Friday night revelers.

It wasn't long before we met the two next to us and dug into their story.

Together 20 years, used to live in Lynchburg, now live in (formerly groovy) Mount Pleasant (parkside condo purchased in 2001 before the real estate bubble priced such things out of their range) and in town for a wedding, staying at an Air BnB on Colonial. Last time they were here, they'd stayed at an Air BnB directly across from Belmont Food Shop but not eaten here, a faux pas they were correcting tonight.

Delightful dinner companions, in other words.

Our food was out just a few beats ahead of theirs, allowing us to eat and continue the conversation about what a dead town Lynchburg had been when they'd both worked at Randolph Macon Women's College and how wildly improved it had been when they'd gone back a couple of years ago.

Part of that, we all agreed, came about solely because crazy Christian Jerry Falwell finally kicked the bucket, leading to spirited conversation about how his son may be even scarier.

Then the unlikeliest and most amusing of sentences came out of my friend's mouth - "I have several Jerry Falwell stories if you care to hear them" - and we were off and running with his hilarious anecdotes.

Turns out he had a close friend who used to live next door to Falwell, resulting in a couple of engaging stories, one involving stealth painting of pot leaves on the evangelical's car (no repercussions) and another with a pie directed at his face (jail time).

Then food arrived and talk ceased.

Warm gougeres got us started, followed by an amuse bouche of cured salmon with trout row, then I had crab and avocado over an insanely flavorful smoked tomato coulis, followed by wrapped, smoked bluefish with frisee.

Dinner was followed with another walk, this one in darkness, as we chatted about the weekend and his plans to hike to a waterfall and get together with fellow musicians to jam. Me, I'll be trying to make a few more deadlines, so not nearly so enjoyable as his.

"Are you going to write a book?" he'd asked me, early in the evening and apropos of nothing.

Fair question, but who doesn't have a book in them by this age? Unless, of course, you prefer your life to be off-view.

The Hard Part

I'm going to call it like I see it. Gordon trumps Kehinde, hands down.

Friends were in from out of town, so we met up to see VMFA's summer blockbuster, "Kehinde Wiley: A New Republic," joining an unusually diverse crowd doing the same on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon.

And by diverse, I mean a trio of black women eagerly looking for more information in the exhibition catalog as they discussed several pieces and a couple of white women who blandly observed, "I love the background of these things."

Don't get me wrong, I completely appreciate what Wiley is going for by inserting people of color - all gorgeous individuals with not a blemish among them  - into compositions from traditional European (read: white) paintings and adding densely patterned overlays and backgrounds to them.

Not to mention the frames which were as much works of art as the paintings.

Without a doubt, the bronze busts were my favorite part of the show, particularly the one of a man in a dashiki with a pick in his hair, a monumental sculpture of black power and beauty.

Like a dutiful museum guest, I read about Wiley's process and was intrigued. He recruited everyday people off the street to model, then asked them to choose a painting from an art history book for him to recreate using their face and modern day clothes.

The randomly-chosen models made fascinating choices in some cases, choosing to be depicted as religious men, as part of biblical scenes, even as a white slave. One of the most interesting facets was the gender play throughout, men depicted as women and vice versa.

But there was also a soul-less quality to the work, a fact undoubtedly due to Wiley's large workshop crews who help bring the paintings to fruition. The figures had a photo-realistic quality that may have been the result of Wiley working from photographs of his models, but also made them feel more like copies than originals.

Where were the brushstrokes, the painterly qualities that give dimension to a painting? Granted, black skin tones were beautifully represented in shades from purple-hued to golden brown, but the overall effect came across like a highly decorative airbrushed picture.

The art historian in the group was disappointed that the information cards next to the paintings revealed little more than the title, year and painting's owner. Why was there no contextualization, explanation, inside scoop about the subject, source or method?

Shallow and disappointingly vapid, that's how the whole thing felt, like a Twitter feed trying to replace an actual book when what you seek is meaningful information.

Give me Gordon Parks' iconic black and white (occasionally color) photographs documenting his high school class revisited and there's some meat to chew on. The exhibition's information cards provide a satisfying backstory and update for every Fort Scott face looking out at you.

Since VMFA re-opened, they've been reminding us regularly that it's our art, a technicality which I embrace whole-heartedly.

But like anything I consider mine - books, clothes, music, friends - there are some that give me more pleasure than others. Those I choose to revisit repeatedly.

Life's too short to waste on the rest.

Stupid Girl, Only Happy When it Rains

When someone writes, "It was cool hanging out with you," couldn't they be saying you make them forget about the heat?

I'm fascinated to read today that the Washington Post labels people like me "heat deniers," a term that makes us sound more like morons but actually just addresses our rational acceptance of hot weather in summer.

Important to note: it's not that we deny that it's hot, just that it's unbearable. Buck up, weather wimps.

My solution to dealing with triple digit temperatures involves several pro moves, the only one of which I'll admit to publicly is wading out to waist-high depths in two different rivers over the course of two days.

Despite waiting out the sky's ominous threats in a breezy gazebo with friends and strangers, tonight's outdoor party got rained out, but not before some of us gathered for a fine dinner and lots of conversation about theater, hypocrisy and gifts of jewelry.

Because now, finally, I understand why women love being given a bijou or bauble.

To compensate for ankle-deep puddles, a wet dress and missed opportunities, I accept a friend's invitation to Amour for Le Petit Rouviere Rose and the accompanying thrill of seeing a sweetbread virgin's cherry popped after an octopus salad.

We finish with Cremant d'Alsace Rose and sorbet samplers, sharing cantaloupe pastis, blueberry, lychee rose, strawberry, coconut milk and pineapple, along with the heaviest of topics: why some people choose to take care of themselves while others slide into decay with abandon.

For that matter, the more things change, they more they stay just as unsatisfactory as they were.

Proof of just that abounded at the VMFA's fabulous new photography show, "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott," a collection of mid-century photographs, many of them chronicling just how little progress we've made in this, our so-called post-racial world.

Witness: An image of a man behind a newspaper with the screaming headline, "Seven Unarmed Negroes Shot in Cold Blood by L.A. Police" and another capturing five black men in suits and hats picketing with protest signs, including one reading, "Police Brutality Must Go."

A closer inspection of Parks' images of black life in the '50s and '60s tells stories so much bigger than a first glance offers up and surely must have been revelatory to Life Magazine's mostly white readership. The exhibit could not be more timely.

As for changing with the times, I thought that Old Saltes were the love of my life, but after years of devotion, I find that my head can be turned by a Pickering Pass.

Permanently? We shall see.