Weeping for Art

When we last left our intrepid duo intent on a methodical survey of the VMFA, they had finished the 21st-century gallery.

Where better to begin than with abstract expressionism on a late Saturday afternoon with a forecast of thunderstorms?

Especially after last night's Judith Godwin openings and the attendant paintings, it seemed only right to pick up at mid-century to connect up.

And all Judith's action painting cohorts from NYC in the '50s were there: Pollok, Kline, de Kooning.

Moving on, we came to the color field painters.

Morris Louis' "Claustral" was stunning but sly.

The beautiful lengths of color poured down the unprimed canvas had become nothing more than drips by the time they reached the other side.

Not content to deliver the expected, Louis had then turned the canvas upside down so that the drips were at the top.

The dribbles headed upward were a witty visual joke.

I'm a big fan of Robert Rauschenberg's combines, those works that combined painting and found objects.

"Co-existence" with its rusty baton and broken pieces of a wooden police barricade was a perfect example of the bridge between abstract expressionism and pop art.

In the pop art gallery, I was charmed by Ed Ruscha's quote, "I wish I'd kept some of my better known works. I weep over that."

Advice for the young painter, right there.

Pop art's ironic embrace of media and popular culture may have been a slap in the face to the abstract expressionists, but it certainly delivered a lighter message and look than its predecessors.

Our final gallery for today's foray was the "painterly abstraction" room with works from the '80s and '90s and demonstrating the much wider range of influences those artists had to pull from.

Sort of the difference in the influences to be absorbed by a post-punk band of the '80s versus how much more could be absorbed by a post-punk revival band of the aughts.

As we sat there admiring the return of a more painterly style, a guard came into tell us we had five minutes to clear out.

Obediently, we exited via my favorite Boulevard entrance.

So now it was 5:00 and time for a late lunch.

Since we were already in the Museum district, we opted for Deco.

My one and only visit had been a disappointment in that the kitchen was out of everything on the Sicilian street food menu.

Since I'm hardly a fan of traditional Italian (the whole rest of the menu), I was hoping for better luck tonight.

And indeed, we found it.

We were the first customers in, so early that they hadn't even turned the music on yet.

I made sure that was corrected toute suite.

It was a decent mix of standards ("The Look of Love," Billie Holiday) and at a volume that provided ambiance but didn't impede conversation.

Choosing wine was more challenging because there were only two red and two whites by the glass.

I'd always prefer at least three glass choices, because what if I wanted something more full-bodied than pinot grigio and didn't want Prosecco?

SOL, as they say.

We asked for the Annalissa pinot grigio and began ordering street food.

Poipettine (meatballs with currants and pine nuts) were meaty and moist, panelle (chickpea fritters) were fried up perfectly and made more addicting with a fresh-tasting pesto and a generous serving of caponata Siciliana (eggplant salad) provided a filling topping for bread.

The vibe was exactly what you'd want on a late Saturday afternoon - rain falling gently outside, standards testing our musical memories and basic street food executed well.

For our last course, we surprised our young server and got a cheese plate of aged Parmesan, creamo cavalli and primo sale, making for creamy, semi-hard and hard selections.

By that time, we'd been joined in the restaurant by a few other tables, all of whom opted to sit in the other dining room, leaving us to wonder if it was something we had said.

Not that we cared.

The company, music and food were right.

About the only thing I could have wished for (had a genie come along) would have been to see the rain dripping up the window rather than down.

But I wouldn't weep over that.

I understand  that Mother Nature is no color field painter.

Art Geek Meets Art Goddess

Conversation is the great equalizer.

A few weeks ago, I got the enviable job of doing a phone interview with painter Judith Godwin, a legend in the world of abstract expressionism.

We talked on the phone for over an hour, she sharing stories of life as an artist in NYC in the '50s and me drinking in every word.

In between my interview questions, we discussed gardening, what we like to drink and our heights.

If I'd been expecting an aloof and self-important "artiste," I'd have been disappointed.

The very vibrant and funny artist shared tales of names I knew only from art history textbooks and museums, names like Mark Rothko, Hans Hofman and Jackson Pollok.

She talked about breaking rules at VCU in the '50s and I was fascinated with how she'd brought about change.

And when all was said and done three phone calls later, I wrote about her for "Style Weekly," here.

Naturally, there was no way I was missing her talk with VCU arts dean Joe Seipel and  McNay Art Museum curator Rene Barilleaux at the Grace Street Theater tonight.

When Judith and I had spoken last, one of our topics had been gardening.

Her father was a landscape gardener and she'd been an avid one, too, still regularly working the dirt with her hands, she said.

When I'd asked her on the phone what her favorite flower was, she'd said gardenias.

Coincidentally, at that moment I had two gardenias floating in a bowl on my desk and told her so.

"You must bring me one when I come to Richmond," she'd insisted and I'd promised to.

But today when I went out to fetch a gardenia, my seven-foot tall bush was bloom-less.

Curses!

So I did the only thing I could think of.

I took a cluster of gardenia leaves, cut a big, fat pink zinnia bloom and wrapped them up to take them to the abstract expressionist who loves gardenias.

When I arrived at the Grace Street Theater, flower in hand, I found my lecture companion saving seats for us in the third row center.

With little fanfare, the talk began and Judith's feisty personality, the one I'd discovered on the phone, was immediately apparent.

When the Anderson Gallery's director introduced Judith and Joe as old friends, he looked at her nodding.

She looked right back, shaking her head no.

He suggested she share some stories of her parents involvement in politics and she responded with a resounding, "No!"

When he tried to slide the topic back in, she clarified her position. "We're not going to talk about politics."

As some of her paintings were shown on the screen, she shared her thoughts on them.

An early piece she dismissed as "academic."

She rhapsodized about her move to NYC after college. "I felt I was free, no longer stuck in a classroom."

There were stories of the hard-working wives and girlfriends off the male painters she knew.

"Artists need someone to take care of them," she said, mentioning that one time she'd said that at a talk and all the artists' partners had not only applauded, but stood to thank her for the acknowledgment.

We heard of picnics in the country side ("Back when you could still do that") with other artists during her self-proclaimed Japanese period.

Talking about the Martha Graham dance performance she had been instrumental in making happen while a student at Mary Baldwin College in 1950, she said, "Everybody in Staunton loved it. They'd never seen anything like it before."

Graham had wanted her to study dance but Judith said she was far too shy.

Let's rewind that statement: Martha Graham, modern dance pioneer and vaunted choreographer had thought Judith had the ability to dance.

Must be flattering.

Judith's humor shone throughout the evening, never more than when curator Barilleaux mentioned seeing the influence of Franz Kline in one of Judith's paintings.

"I see the influence just the opposite," Seipel noted.

"So do I," said Judith without missing a beat as she gave a deadpan look to the curator.

We heard how she hadn't quite understood what was happening when pop art began to take over, eventually leaving NYC and moving to Connecticut for eight years.

"I needed to think a bit and decide if I should proceed or give up," she explained. "I decided I was going to do my thing, no matter what.

Looking at a painting from 2005 made after her apprenticeships to a Polish plasterer and an Italian mason, she noted of the painting as if seeing it for the first time, "I see structure in that."

"You're a latent sculptor is what you're telling me," Seipel, ever the sculptor, said, teasing her.

She smacked his crossed leg in response.

"I think abstract expressionism has come back," she observed. "I've lived that long. I wanted to produce work that would last, that wasn't a fad. I felt strongly about it. I felt in my heart that this was what I wanted to do."

The evidence is in her paintings and the two exhibits that open tomorrow, one at the Anderson Gallery and one at VMFA.

When asked about what still motivates her to paint, she was blunt.

"It takes a lot to get going sometimes," she admitted. "Like a drink or a lovely phone call."

And speaking of lovely phone calls, since I'd promised this magnificent woman a gardenia, the least I could do after the talk was take her my zinnia surrounded by gardenia leaves.

As the crowd began to leave the theater, I approached the stage to deliver my offering.

Judith took my hand in one of hers and my flower in the other, reminding me what a great talk we'd had and asking when we were going to get together.

There is something truly magical about how the two of us, two women who'd led very different lives, had bonded over a long chat on the phone.

Then one of the female painting pioneers of the mid-century blew me a kiss as I left.

For the record, this art history nerd has died and gone to heaven.

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