Submerged and Spiritual

According to Facebook, Mac and I have been friends for three years now.

I only know that because Mac was notified, along with photos, although only one of them was of us together and that was the shot taken on election day with Tim Kaine between us. Then there were our individual profile pictures, along with the snap Mac took of me standing by the murals on the Jamaican joint in J-Ward.

Not a very good representation of our friendship, if you ask me.

And really, you could say we celebrate Mac and Karen day every time we walk together, which is generally a few times a week. Like yesterday, when we did our usual walk down to the river to watch it raging. People were saying that at 16.2 feet, the James was higher than it had been in a decade and we wanted to see for ourselves.

Sure enough, besides sounding like a freight train, it was incredibly high, muddy and speeding by with whitecaps everywhere. We looked over the edge of Brown's Island only to see that the water had covered the path we usually take down to access the pipeline.

Now, mind you, we haven't been able to get on the pipeline from the west end of it since, what, October, but seeing the James raging was enough to make us curious about the state of the pipeline walkway. So we walked to the east end, ogling all the way the partially-submerged pipeline.

The place where Mac's keys had fallen 8 feet down into the river year before last? Water over the walkway. The bottom rungs of the ladder we use to climb up when walking east? Underwater. It was unlike anything we've seen down there and we've been regular pipeline walkers for years.

But at least we'd witnessed this aberration together.

Tonight we celebrated Mac and Karen day by walking over to the ICA in a light rain to see "Black Mother," an immersive film about Jamaica and its people, described as a "baptism by fire."

If you knew the kind of things Mac and I do together, you'd know that this was right up our alley.

"Thank you for coming out tonight and braving the Richmond drizzle," film curator Enjoli Moon said, tongue firmly in cheek, as she was preparing us for what was next. "This film is raw and real and if you have problems with that, you may want to exit stage left." I'm not sure if it was the weather or the timing - their film screenings are usually the second Wednesday of the month, so this was a bonus screening - but it was a smaller crowd than usual.

That said, I wasn't in my seat for two minutes when a DJ I know waved hi from across the auditorium.

More of a visual poem than a straightforward story, Khalik Allah's film was an ode to the island of his heritage (he's half Jamaican and half Iranian with a New York accent you couldn't cut with a knife) and its people. Introducing it, he explained that there were some parts that might make us want to close our eyes or let our mind drift and he approved of both responses since he'd made the film as a contemplation on a higher power.

Using multiple kinds of cameras and various voices talking, he used images of people staring back at him, talking and interacting with others and nature to demonstrate the range of Jamaica. As a photographer-turned-filmmaker, there was a definite sense that it was a photographer's documentary, each vignette a portrait.

What kinds of portraits? Scenes of a man eviscerating a fish he's just caught, of a pregnant woman getting a sonogram, of his grandfather's funeral and burial, of a baby being born and a woman dancing in the streets alternated with Jamaicans staring mutely at his lens. He said he saw his film as part island story, part colonization story, part tourism warning and part spiritual.

On a side note, as many times as I'd seen those murals on Marshall Street, only tonight did I learn that the one in the uniform was Jamaican-born Marcus Garvey.

After the dense film ended, he and Enjoli took the stage to talk about it. That's when we learned that he'd used friends in the movie as well as strangers, that his Mom had thought it was about her and on that dark day when 45 had been elected, he'd obtained his Jamaican citizenship "just to have an exit plan."

For Mac and me, our only exit plan was to walk back to my apartment knowing that we'd meet up again in the morning to walk and talk, the building blocks of our friendship. Now I'm thinking we're going to take a photo of us together so that next time Facebook declares a Mac and Karen Day, there's at least some photographic proof.

Chances are, any one of the strangers who say hello to us every morning would be happy to make us Facebook official by snapping a pic.

We love you, Tim, but you're kind of a fifth wheel when it comes to what matters most on this important day: Mac and me.

Life Shift

We had two strikes against us right off the bat.

Listen to me, I watch the Superbowl once and now I'm spouting sports metaphors.

The last two days of 72 degree weather had been enough to motivate Quirk Hotel to open their rooftop bar for sipping and sunset-watching, so that was the first thing on tonight's to-do list. At least it was, right up until it starting raining on our parade plans.

So instead, Mr. Wright and I walked over to Saison Market, passing the art scene-devoted Parker who was headed to Gallery 5, but not without mentioning that G5 is finally getting the new roof it's needed for years.

In Jackson Ward, that's big news.

Things were quiet at Saison Market, making it easy to score glasses of house Rose and order a couple of plates. Feeling far more wintery than the weather called for, grilled and fermented turnips in black garlic sauce delivered varying textures in a hearty dish meant to stick to your ribs. Arriving on a white plate with elaborate magenta squiggles, cured Arctic char gussied up with radishes, pickled onion, croutons and herbs were arranged atop the dramatic beet yogurt design.

You can be sure that design was a sloppy mess by the time we got through dredging our char in it and scoring more Rose.

Honestly, we could have sat there all evening talking about the upcoming Architecture and Design Film Festival in D.C. or the appeal of Tuscon or Austin in January, but we had places to be.

And that's where our second strike came in.

Weeks ago, I'd gotten an email blast alerting me that trumpeter Rex Richardson was playing at the ICA and put it on my calendar. I'm a long-time Rex fan, having discovered him back in the mid aughts when I saw his Rhythm and Brass group do a performance of his original work, plus stuff by the Beatles and Radiohead.

Hooked, that was the beginning of my Rex fandom.

Can't say I knew the trumpet could be so versatile until that night, but the many performances I've gone to since have only solidified my opinion. So of course I'd wanted to go the moment I saw the announcement.

My faux pas was in not going to the event page, where I would have learned that the event required tickets. Free tickets, but reserved tickets nonetheless, a fact I only learned this afternoon when I finally went to the event page and saw a big banner screaming "SOLD OUT."

And while that might have deterred a less savvy ICA-goer, I had experience in this arena. The first time Mac and I tried to go see a film there, I'd been the idiot who'd been unaware that tickets were required (yikes, I'm starting to see a pattern).

In my defense, most Afrikana Film events I'd been to before that hadn't required tickets. Still, I'm an idiot.

But Mac and I had gone anyway and learned that because the tickets are free, some people inevitably claim them and then don't show up. I told Mr. Wright and the woman at the front desk of the ICA that our plan was to occupy the seats held by unused ticket holders.

Worked like a charm and boom, we had second row seats, just a few down from Style's jazz critic and his posse.

Introducing Rex and the band was RVA music supporter extraordinaire Tim Timberlake (hey, D!)who correctly pointed out what an all-star line-up it was. Backing Rex were Brian Jones on drums, Randall Pharr on bass, Trey Pollard on guitar and J.C. Kuhl on saxophone, musicians I've seen dozens of times and will never tire of hearing.

Rex seemed impressed by the auditorium space, mentioning multiple times how great the space was and how gratified he was to see a sold-out crowd. Pshaw, as much as the man plays out all around the world, he was probably being modest since I'm guessing sold out venues are a frequent thing for him.

The performance was only an hour, but when the talent is that good, you take what they offer. Meanwhile, a cadre of students photographed and/or videotaped every moment for posterity, moving 360 degrees around the musicians for the best possible shots.

When Rex was introducing "The Tao of Heavy D," he mentioned that there was a good story behind it, but he wasn't telling it tonight. "One of these days, you're going to tell that story," sax player J.C. admonished him.

The band played several songs off Rex's "Blue Shift" album, including songs by Brian and Randall, and of course himself.

When the set finished up and Rex thanked us, Carlos of In Your Ear Studios - the studio sponsors the series - got up and asked the crowd if they wanted another one. When the room erupted, he responded, "I knew that!"

Speaking of his admiration for Wayne Shorter, Rex said they were going to do his "See No Evil," though he couldn't do it like Wayne, so they'd do it in a different time signature. "Here's 'See No Evil' in 7/4!" he said, clearly pleased with himself. "We'll see how this goes."

You want to know how it went? Magnificently, beautifully. Between the acoustics and the talent performing, you'd have been hard-pressed to find anyone looking at their cell phone (okay, except a couple of students I spotted). Everyone there knew they were in the presence of musical magic and focused their attention on the here and now.

Walking out of the auditorium, I ran into a favorite couple, long married and very happy, I hadn't seen in months. Explaining my absence, I admitted that since meeting Mr. Wright, I've had little time for some of my former pastimes.

"Yea, relationships take a lot of time," she confirmed with a big smile. "But you deserve it. And you look radiant!"

Not bad for a woman who came to bat with a lifetime of strikes behind her.

To Say and Do Whatever I Please

You want to spend a long holiday weekend in town? I'm your girl.

Make no mistake, if I'd gotten an invitation to the beach or river, I'd have been gone. But years gone by have also taught me the pleasures of staying in town when so many people are gone. Easy parking, half empty restaurants, leisurely pace. It's Richmond as a different animal.

Not to brag or anything, but if I'd been eager to show off the range of what Richmond has to offer, I'm not sure I could have done a finer job of doing so.

Friday night started at Hardywood for the Shangri-Lords, because a holiday weekend is best rung in with a man singing lead on girl group songs. Midway through their set, as I was admiring the matching go-go boots and stellar dance moves of the female back-up singers, a man approached me tentatively, saying, "Karen?"

Joe? That's how we wound up seated at a table with the former dean of VCU's art school and his wife, with both of the guys reveling in hearing the soundtrack of their youth. It was also, oddly enough, the second night in a row that I heard a cover of Leslie Gore's "You Don't Own Me."

C'mon, what are the chances?

Next came a stop at Carytown Gyro, which replaced Doner Kebab - a long-time fave of Mac's and mine - and while the chicken shawarma had good flavor, they don't make their own pita and the difference was disappointing. It was justa  few doors down to Garden Grove Brewing and Urban Winery for a couple of glasses of their Vidal Blanc/Chardonnay blend (which they don't bottle, an interesting side note) and a chance to enjoy the Brazilian music of Quatro na Bossa.

Unlike every other place this weekend, Garden Grove was mobbed with talkers who made hearing singer Laura Anne's beautiful voice challenging at best, so we left when the set ended. Who's so uncouth they talk loudly over such transcendent music anyway?

Saturday began with a pipeline walk before moving on to the ICA for artist Paul Rucker's talk about his exhibit, "Storm in the Time of Shelter," of colorfully patterned KKK robes and hoods and the array of lynching and anti-black memorabilia in the cases around the gallery. He was a forceful speaker on the topic of systemic and institutionalized racism, challenging the mostly white crowd on how well they knew their history.

Answer: rather poorly. But his talk was rich in commentary about the realities of race in this country circa 2018, just the kind of talk that makes white people uncomfortable. The kind of talk Mac and I seek out for that every reason.

We followed heavy talk with bagels at Nate's Bagels, notable because unlike every other visit, it was all but empty. But Nate was there and stopped to chat before heading home to his real family and leaving his bagel crew to carry on without him. And while they were out of everything bagels (holiday weekend, you know) we managed with one onion bagel and one rosemary and sea salt bagel instead.

On the plus side, I now know what something besides an everything bagel at Nate's tastes like. I've been called a creature of habit for good reason.

To fully embed a come-here into the myriad pleasures of Richmond, thrifting was also required. A stop at the Clothes Rack not only introduced a newcomer to its bargain pricing, but also provided a fitted summer wardrobe. Let's face it, we've got months of shorts-wearing weather left. The Hall Tree netted only a couple of shirts, but they were winners.

I like to remind people that recyclers do it over and over again.

Acacia offered proof positive that half the city was missing when we showed up at prime dinnertime and easily found stools at the bar, unheard of on a normal Saturday. We celebrated the first 24 hours of our extended play weekend with multiple glasses of Mimi Bulles Rose and an entire dinner (well, except for the chocolate cremeux) that had begun life in the sea: a salad of smoked salmon, cucumber, pickled onion, hard egg, radish and lettuces in a lemon dill vinaigrette, fresh caught rockfish over a luscious summer salad of heirloom tomatoes and greens in balsamic and shrimp, linguine and spinach in an obscene garlic butter sauce.

When we walked out, Cary Street was just this side of dead. On a Saturday night, mind you.

Come Sunday, we packed up an Ellwood Thompson picnic and headed to the mountains, namely King Family Winery, so that the newbie could see his first polo game. Situated under one of the few shade trees, we sipped King Family Viognier and watched riders taking their horses up and down the enormous field to score goals.

Only the obnoxious sound of an air horn marking the start and end of each chukka marred the idyllic setting at the foot of several mountains. By the time we broke camp, the staff was busy setting up for a wedding on the lawn and no doubt a glorious summer party afterward.

Polo-watching can be exhausting, which is why we only went two blocks for dinner. Tiny Victory, the colorful new Fillipino restaurant on Broad, welcomed us with a dish of shisito peppers, sweet corn on the cob, watermelon radishes and burnt honey.

Next came kinilaw of snapper with coconut, citrus and red onion, elevated with a thick shmear of avocado inside the bowl's edges. I swiped every bite of snapper with avocado as I brought it out of the bowl and then used the crispy shrimp chips to get the rest. We closed out the meal with pancit, a mixture of rice noodles, mushroom XO, Napa cabbage, spicy pickled carrot and crispy garlic that got raves from the healthy eater across from me. Me, I was already full from the first two courses.

Also, really glad to have a restaurant in that space again, given its proximity to my apartment.

Sunday meant a trip to the VMFA to see "Howardena Pindell: What Remains To Be Seen," a fascinating exhibition by a black, activist artist about whom we knew nothing. Located in two separate places in the museum, the show was enormous. Here was a woman who'd never been shy about exploring the intersection of racism, violence, feminism, slavery and exploitation since the '60s and doing it using unconventional materials like glitter, talcum powder, postcards and chads, in some cases, chads she'd taken the time to number.

Her attention to detail and the sheer amount of time her pieces took set her apart from other abstractionists of that era.

And while we'd gone to see her show, both of us were captivated by the small show of works on paper, "The Precisionist Impulse." Drawings, photographs, watercolors and prints, most - but not all - made between the World Wars showed a decidedly neo-Cubist bent and attraction to modern urban subjects such as architecture, infrastructure and mechanics.

When you talk about the benefits of a world-class museum in your home town (besides the absinthe drip upstairs at Amuse, still my favorite place to unwind at the VMFA), one of them has to be happening on a small, unexpected show (or work of art) that you hadn't come to see. It's like finding an extra Christmas gift tucked away once you start clearing out all the balled-up wrapping paper. Oh, look, something else for me?

Keeping to the theme started with Paul Rucker and continued through Howardena Pindell, "BlackkKlansman" seemed like a natural. Sure, I'd seen it, but I'd also left knowing I wanted to see it again, so here was my chance.

No surprise, Movieland wasn't the least bit crowded for a late afternoon Labor Day show, so when better for my partner-in-crime to see Spike Lee's latest? Much as I appreciated the film on many levels when Mac and I first saw it, I knew there was plenty I'd missed.

Not to mention plenty I wanted to see a second time, including that wonderful dance scene set to the Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose's "Too Late to Turn Back Now." Thank you, Spike Lee, for allowing the scene to unfold languorously and not as a quick cut.

Walking out, a woman in front of me summed up her impressions. "Spike Lee always teaches you something, doesn't he?" Indeed he does.

Once out of the theater, we must have sat in the car for at least a quarter of an hour, talking about the film: how it had been made, how it must have begun shooting before the Charlottesville incidents that close out the film even happened, how much the film concerned prejudice against Jews as well as blacks.

We met the challenge of finding an open restaurant on Labor Day by heading directly to My Noodle, which was mobbed. Our table was all but on top of the table of the couple next to us, but we can ignore practically anyone with chopsticks flying into plates of broccoli and chicken in black bean sauce.

Back in the Ward, it was obvious that cars and their owners were back in the city, even if things were still a bit quiet. We figured everyone was hunkered down, gearing up for work or the upcoming school year.

Not us. Instead, we got settled on my balcony for a night devoted to listening to cover albums - "Bleeker Street: Greenwich Village in the '60s," Shawn Colvin's "Cover Girl" and "If I Were A Carpenter," a '90s take on the music of the Carpenters. Overhead, puffy little clouds stayed visible in the night sky and an occasional breeze rewarded us with reasons to linger.

And if this Labor Day weekend in town was about anything, it was about the lingering. Why go when staying is this pleasurable?

That's a rhetorical question, by the way.

Raining on the Hard Conversations

Heat lightening gave way to a hard rain falling, just as I got home, the soothing sounds of rain just what I needed.

Mac and I had both brought umbrellas (the newsworthy part of that being that she'd remembered hers for a change) when we walked over to the ICA for this month's installment of their film series. And what a compelling choice it was: "Say Her Name: The Life and Death of Sandra Bland."

Unlike last month when we'd foolishly shown up without tickets (lesson learned), we not only had ours but also an extra one (because of someone's illness) which we donated back to the cause before going inside to claim second row seats.

The attendant at the door had told us early arrivals to sit at the far ends of the rows, but no one listened. As the couple next to me pointed out, "Why should we take the bad seats when we were the ones here on time?" I couldn't have said it better myself.

The screening was especially poignant because yesterday was the third anniversary of Bland's arrest after a minor traffic stop and tragically, Friday is the three year anniversary of when she was found hanging from a plastic trash bag noose (curiously without a single fingerprint on it) in her Waller County, Texas jail cell. A death labeled suicide.

Although I'm not one to watch police shooting videos, because Sandra Bland had not been shot, I'd actually seen some of the dash-cam footage from her traffic stop online back when it happened. But the documentary included far more of that footage than I'd seen before and almost all of it was highly disturbing, including how the cop deliberately moved Sandra out of the camera's range once he began assaulting her.

The counterpoint to the violence was all the clips we saw of "Sandy Speaks," a video series she'd done to share her thoughts online about race relations (unite, not incite), policing and the need for blacks and whites to have more friends of other races, a series that highlighted her activism goals but also her desire for all people to get along.

Given that it had happened in Texas, it was all I could do to watch the scenes where local law enforcement and the district attorney's office - good ol' boys, all of them -  tried to place all blame on Sandra and eventually, her family.

As always when leaning into the difficult conversations about race, Mac and I were left feeling emotionally exhausted when the lights came up. "I should've known to bring tissues," she told me. Honestly, there aren't enough tissues to absorb the tears of what happened to this determined 28-year old who was just driving to the grocery store.

After the film ended, the entire room took a moment o say Sandra Bland's name out loud before a few moments of silence to honor her.

Afrikana Film Festival creative director Enjoli had seen the film at the Tribeca Film Festival and managed to arrange an exclusive screening tonight ahead of its Fall theater release and presentation on HBO. But I'd have to say that the real coup was in bringing so many of the people shown in the film to the post-screening discussion.

Bland's mother and two of her sisters were there, along with the family's lawyer and the film's writer/director. It was moving to hear the people we'd just seen on camera talking about Sandra, the questions still unanswered about the case and their hopes for her legacy.

Director David Heilbroner wasn't the least bit shy about stating that whether she committed suicide or not, her death was a lynching based on the state of race relations and policing in this country. Sadly, there's a lot of truth in that assertion.

Had I been pulled over for failing to signal, I'd be willing to bet the farm I wouldn't be slapped, threatened, tasered, yanked from the car or knelt on top of by a cop, much less dragged off to jail.

That's some galling white privilege right there.

During the Q & A period, some people used their moment with a microphone to ask questions that couldn't be answered and belabor points already made, while others echoed their fears about something similar happening to them or their loved ones. Everyone seemed to agree that major retraining of police officers in de-escalation is essential.

But the most important thing was that we were a roomful of black and white Richmonders having a meaningful conversation about race disparity and how each of us needs to work on our own small solution to that, regardless of what others may be doing.

If Sandra Bland's legacy becomes uniting rather than inciting, maybe her death won't be in vain. Saying her name so she isn't forgotten feels like the first step.

Obligated to Be Among the First

If a tone was being set tonight, it was an admirable one.

The Institute for Contemporary Art was hosting its inaugural Cinema Series and first up was Afrikana International Film Festival with a program simply entitled, "Richmond Speaks: A Short Film Showcase."

Mac was at my house by 5:30 and we strolled over to the ICA, dodging the speeding and ineptly-driven cars carrying crazed relatives of soon-to-be high school graduates. These days, both the Seigel Center and the Altria Theater are churning out multiple graduating classes a day, meaning it's a congested mess to go anywhere from Jackson Ward. That includes going to Lowe's - I know because I tried it this afternoon - barely 3/4 of a mile away.

First up was walking the entire perimeter of the block that houses the ICA so we could see it from every angle, including looking east from Grace Street against the traffic. Once we got inside for the films, it was only to be stopped cold and red-faced because we were those idiots who hadn't reserved tickets and now they were all gone.

I don't know who was more surprised at the oversight, Mac or me. Generally, we're pros at these kind of events.

Since it was sold out, there was nothing to do but put our name on a waiting list and browse the galleries until they determined who didn't show up. Failing that, the plan was to stream it live in the lobby and we'd try to snag a seat on one of the couches. Either way, we'd get to see the films and the post-film discussion, so we were happy.

Things worked out well for us because of the people who'd gotten tickets and then been no-shows, so we nabbed seats in the second row just before Afrikana founder  Enjoli Moon greeted the audience with some heartfelt gratitude and a bit of a preview of what was to come. One point she repeatedly stressed was that as tonight's first audience for the series, we were witnessing the start of something important, something with the potential to encourage Richmond's much-needed race conversation.

Then to bring it to a close with full southern charm, she announced, "Without any further ado, I will hush my mouth," and the Richmond-made films began.

"May It Be So" showcased the grassroots effort of one woman to ensure that the city memorializes its black ancestors and their burial grounds, insisting that, "We have the right to take care of our own ancestors." Her one-woman campaign to keep pushing for a truthful acknowledgment of Richmond's past, including the uncomfortable parts, proves the power of every voice.

Part of a larger social justice series, "Adrian's Story" focused on a man who'd been in trouble with the law since he was 15 and served time and probation repeatedly. Finally, he became a barber's apprentice and began to see another way of life. Seeing him cut the hair of street people who can't afford haircuts almost has Mac and I in tears

I'd already seen the third film,  "Don't Touch My Hair RVA," a fascinating look at what Richmond women consider "going natural," interspersed with shots of every type of black hair imaginable: braids, Afro, straightened, corn rows, even a black albino woman with natural platinum blond hair. That it had been made by a VCU ph.D student who'd never made a film (or even held a camera) before only made it more compelling and fun.

During a panel discussion with the filmmakers, the young couple who'd made "Adrian" were asked about their choice of subject matter. "If we can use our white privilege to undermine white privilege, we believe we're obligated to do so," as clear a point as could be made if any racial progress is to be made.

The last talking point of the evening revolved around what the ICA's role in the community needs to be now that it's open, state-supported and smack dab in the middle of the city. Enjoli probably said it best, hoping that the ICA embraces its role as needing to be responsive to the entire community, not just the traditional audience (not to be confused with the inaugural audience) with wide-ranging programming.

As an inaugural audience member, I'm not sure the ICA could have had a stronger kickoff to their new film series, even if more than one wine glass was heard shattering when everyone stood up after the final applause. We put our money on glass being banned in the auditorium from here on out, but maybe it's just a learning curve.

Mac and I did our own post-film discussion at the counter of 821 Cafe over a massive platter of black bean nachos we couldn't finish, while the restaurant filled up behind us. Next to us, a couple of guys discussed alcoholism in the workplace and asked about the taco special, which had already sold out.

You snooze, you lose. Just like those idiots who'd gotten tickets for tonight's screening and then not come, who'll never be able to say they were there when the ICA was brand new and you could still score a last-minute seat in the auditorium to hear Richmond speak.

How fitting that the ICA gives us a place to hush our mouths and listen.