According to the artist, if there's not wine, he's not interested.
So I knew that I'd find an abundance of grape at the Anderson Gallery for Myron Helfgott's talk about his retrospective, "An Inventory of My Thoughts."
The audience was a who's who of Richmond's art scene of the past 40 years along with all of us Johnny-come-latelys who'd met Myron since the turn of the last century.
As if to prove the point, gallerist Ashley began by announcing that although it's not usually the Anderson's policy to allow wine in the downstairs galleries, "This is Myron Helfgott!"
'Nuff said.
Myron began the talk by saying that his daughter had called, not to check on what he'd be saying at the talk, but to question what he was wearing. When he told her, she asked if those were the pants that were too short and if so, to wear matching socks. He had.
Are there any straight men alive who can dress themselves properly?
"I rarely go to gallery talks," Myron went on, "Because they're so damn boring. So if you decide to leave in the middle of my talk, feel good about it. If there's nothing you can steal from my lecture, see you later!"
That's his charm. It may sound like humor but Myron really means it.
From there, he went on in his typical irascible way to say that people use the word "beauty" when they mean pretty and "form" only to refer to three dimensional objects. And don't get him started on "composition" in art.
"I don't care if it looks like crap. I want it to be powerful!" That led into an analogy about New Yorker theater critic John Lahr (son of Cowardly Lion Bert Lahr) and his book "Astonish Me" about going to the theater expecting to be dazzled.
Myron saw a parallel. "We ought to demand to be astonished at art shows," he insisted. "Unless there's free wine." He was kidding, of course. Sort of.
"You, the viewer, should have to work to make art whole. You should learn something from the piece."
His tangent about Cezanne was brilliant, explaining how the master's works were meant to reveal themselves slowly over a lifetime, not immediately. He likened it to his own process. If he likes a piece the minute he finishes it, he destroys it. If he doesn't then but still likes it 3 weeks later, it may be a keeper.
Citing his influences as literature and music, he name-checked Nabokov' "The Gift" (I thought I'd read all of Nabokov's work, but apparently not) as his favorite because criticism of the book is woven into the body of the work.
Myron had tried to accomplish this once, providing his own criticism of his work for a friend's wife to read as part of the work. She refused because the wording was so unkind.
No one is harder on himself than Myron is on his work and that's the way he likes it.
Listening to his talk was really no different than having a conversation with him - something I've done many times - except that he was dressed better and had on a microphone.
His strong intellect, self-deprecating humor and crotchety personality were the perfect addition to a gallery full of his work, including three busts on a pedestal behind him silently keeping watch over him.
Because he's Myron, he finished with a Jessie Ventura quote ("Win if you can, lose if you must, but always cheat") and dismissed us all to go downstairs and drink wine with him.
Had he even noticed that no one had walked out on his talk despite his permission to do so? Probably not.
I've been in the Anderson plenty of times but always playing by the rules, so it was different to be sipping in the gallery as people mingled and admired the work.
There were lots of familiar faces - the glamorous artist who's about to celebrate her one year elope-aversary, the painter who recently friended me on Facebook 15 years after we met, the photographer who'd had a beer in the car on the way over, the dean who was smiling from the gallery's wall in a photograph of Myron's, the globe-trotting musician who'd been at my house yesterday - milling about and, yes, sipping wine in his honor.
The man himself sat at a table signing copies of the exhibition's catalog, his cup of red wine within easy reach. When I handed him my copy of the gorgeous book, he threatened to sign it, "From one old codger to another," but thought better of it.
I told him all I wanted was for him to astonish me. He did and I bade him and his short pants farewell.
Of all the unlikely places for me to head next, I was going to a dinner party in the condo directly underneath Myron's studio/condo in Carver. Complete coincidence.
While not as large as his unit, the condo was spectacular, with 11-foot carved wooden doors, a record collection display rack and the same impressively deep windows.
Hosted by a musician who used to run track, the party was small enough that I could remember the other guests' names from the first introduction.
The delicious smell emanating from the oven was courtesy of the host's Puerto Rican mother's recipe, a classic we were told Mom had always served for Thanksgiving.
Just as inviting was the music, starting with "Somethin' Else," a seminal Blue Note album of Cannonball Adderley's featuring Miles Davis as a sideman. In the high-ceilinged condo, the warm sound of jazz on vinyl set the party tone in a way that no digital recording could ever do.
Wine was poured as people got to know each other, eventually even talking about things they were working on. I admit to being fascinated to hear about one involving collecting oral histories, much the way the WPA did during FDR's tenure, in this case about school integration in Chesterfield County.
Two of us who try to do as little cooking as possible bonded over how we'd both unexpectedly made pots of stew and chili during last week's snow.
While we were all chatting and munching on guacamole scooped up with Red Hot Blues, our host slipped out to run across the street to Kroger for a forgotten herb, back before we'd even finished our first glasses of vino.
Shortly thereafter, a voice from the kitchen called out, polling us all, asking, "Internal temperature for chicken, 170, right?" which launched a discussion of meat thermometers, something only the host and I had ever bothered to use. Everyone else admitted to being afraid of them or at least too unsure to know what to do with them.
Half a dozen candles adorned the table when we sat down to dinner about 9:30, everyone pleasantly lubricated and far more comfortable with (and knowledgeable about) the others than when we'd arrived.
Only the host and I coveted the dark meat (fine with me, more for us), but everyone loved the herbed vegetables that had been cooked along with the yard bird: carrots, parsnips, onions, turnips, you know, all the usual Puerto Rican suspects to sauce up the fowl and rice.
The dark bread for tonight's meal had come from Sub Rosa and our host explained that it was the house custom to truly "break bread," that is, not to cut it into slices, but to tear off hunks and the bread lover in me appreciated the primal nature of this method.
While we devoured multiple plates of food, the high school teacher regaled us with stories of prom-planning ("There's an all-night after-party to keep them from drinking and fornicating") and student Halloween costumes (her favorite was the fuzzy bunny from "Donny Darko").
Everyone except me was a rabid podcast listener (Mr. Fine Wine is my sole podcast and that's just music), with raves for "Love and Radio" and thumbs down for a bro-centric edition of "StarTalk" with Seth Meyers.
Dessert was twofold: flourless dark chocolate bourbon brownies were homemade and the other treat came in a white bag from Williamsburg's Black Bird Bakery. Dubbed "toffee cinder blocks," two bricks of honeycomb-like toffee were covered in a thick coat of the darkest chocolate, stuck one on top of the other at an angle.
It came close to astonishing me.
We immediately discerned that there was no good way to cut into this without shattering the toffee, so the Williamsburger began breaking off pieces with her bare hands, Sub Rosa-style. It was completely unique, sort of a giant piece of candy being shared as dessert.
One of the guests who'd learned enough about me to know a little, said, "At least you got to taste something new to you tonight."
Lingering over bits of chocolate and wine, we realized that hours had passed and for some people, it was a school night.
Even the lure of more wine didn't win them over. All I can say is, they're no Myron. But then, who is?
Showing posts with label anderson gallery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anderson gallery. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Saturday, January 17, 2015
What Will Be, Will Be
Let's spend Friday night looking at life, shall we?
In the case of the Anderson Gallery's new exhibit "Myron Helfgott: An Inventory of My Thoughts," it was a wide-ranging retrospective covering the 45-year artistic career of one of my favorite curmudgeons. I can say that because I've known Myron for 15 years and besides, he'd say it about himself.
Despite the multiple hours and afternoons spent in his studio interviewing him for my profile, here, in Style Weekly, I'd only seen a fraction of the work that made it into the show. So tonight's three-level exhibit was as much a surprise to me as to the rest of the world.
In 1971's "Salute," hands cast in lead were captured in a box with a lead flag on top. Lead, so different a material than the plywood and paper pieces he's been creating the past few years. Pieces such as "Windows" from 2013, a segmented view of the Kroger parking lot from his condo.
I was captivated by "We Share the Same Interests," a mixed media piece from 1981-82, comprised of a metal figure of a woman that Myron had taken all around town - Monument Avenue, MCV, VMFA - and had himself photographed with. The dated photos were part of the piece and provided a glimpse into Myron long before I met him in 2000.
Immediately recognizable was "Waterfall after Duchamp" from 1990 because it had been in the foyer of his condo when I'd first interviewed him. Here the motorized waterfall took its place among the many pieces powered by small motors.
"33 years and 6 months" was another lead piece, this one from 1970, showing a pair of men's underwear. "Don't look at that too long. People will talk!" a man stage-whispered in my ear as I gazed at it.
Listening to reactions from the ever-growing crowd, I overheard, "Phenomenal work" and "This is the shit, man. The shit!" High praise, indeed.
I went through all three floors of Myron's art twice, knowing full well I'll need to come back when the crowds are gone to enjoy it all without the socializing distractions. And they were many tonight, with all that old '70s VCU art crowd in attendance.
When I finally made it back to the tent, there was Myron, wine in hand, holding court. He pinched my cheek, he hugged me and he thanked me profusely for my article, especially thrilled that I hadn't talked about his work.
Who needs to try to describe astonishing art when there's a crabby old man with a lifetime's worth of opinions to share instead? Not that the work doesn't tell an amazing story of a man who never stopped evolving, but anyone with eyes can see that.
People were still pouring in to the gallery when I left to meet my theater date for dinner at Bistro 27, finding him at the bar with a Cosmopolitan in hand. The hostess raved about how cute my tights were and seated us with a great view of Adams Street. I kept my meal simple - Caesar salad with grilled shrimp - to offset a decadent chocolate torte for dessert.
Over dinner, we covered the multiple months' worth of life that had happened since we'd last gone to a play together. We compared notes on "Mame," made plans to see "Sister Act," exchanged Christmas vacation trip stories and restaurant gossip. Then we high-tailed it to Richmond Triangle Players for another kind of look at life.
It was opening night for 5th Wall's production of "The Lyons," a black comedy I'd first seen a sample of at the 5th Wall preview party last August. Even that snippet had been enough to see the potential of the play about nothing more than family relations, which is to say, everything.
But what a family! In a magnificent brown curly wig, Jacqueline Jones chewed up the scenery and spit it out as Rita, the matriarch of the Lyons family. This is an actress I've seen in all kinds of roles and never have I seen her so completely inhabit a character. She will be undoubtedly be honored come awards time next year for this part.
When her dying husband (the always excellent Alan Sader) muses that he may go to hell, she shoots him down succinctly. "What have you ever done to go to Hell? Who are you?" Nobody in this family seems to have a kind word for anyone.
The first act was mesmerizing as the parents had their adult children (a gay writer and recovering alcoholic mother with two kids) come to the hospital room to learn that their father was dying. Despite the seriousness of it, the family immediately devolves into bickering and bringing up old family issues. Meanwhile, Rita peruses decorating magazines, planning to redo their tawdry living room once husband Ben is dead.
No one feels comfortable when they're intimate.
Your mother used to vomit a lot.
Watching this family argue - the father endlessly cursing because he has nothing to lose, listening to Rita criticize her dying husband and messed-up children - was like eavesdropping on a majorly dysfunctional family. Awkward but utterly compelling.
Significantly, playwright Nicky Silver even weaves in the particular bond of siblings; they may not like each other or respect each other's choices, but they share secrets that Mom and Dad were never privy to. That's real life.
Romance is a treacherous arena.
At intermission, my friend and I discussed how director B.C. Maupin had created a tightly wound production that never ceased to elicit reaction from the audience, whether we were squirming in our seats, anticipating discomfort, embroiled in embarrassment or mortified at how this family treated each other.
Meanwhile, a cadre of black-clad crew miraculously turned the hospital room set into a much, larger studio apartment, as big a set change as I've seen at RTP, a feat only believable if you saw the transformation.
After the first act, my friend had commented on the robust laughter coming from the back of the room and, sure enough, the Man About Town (the source of that laugh) stopped by to discuss Myron's show and our enjoyment of the play we were seeing.
Writing short stories is like selling Victrolas.
If the first act had set some people's teeth on edge, the second began with a scene uncomfortable in about a dozen more ways. As it unfolded with missed signals, over-reactions and brutality, little of the dark humor remained.
The set was again changed back to the hospital room, this time without an intermission, but it was accomplished briskly and efficiently while the audience listened to "Que Sera, Sera." It was so impressively done that the crowd broke out in spontaneous applause for the crew.
Since when do you talk like a character from "Cagney and Lacey"?
The final scene begins with the father dead, but the remaining members no less unhappy or rude to each other. Hello, real life.
Watching the widow tell her son and daughter that she's decided to go on with her life in a manner that appalls them becomes one of the most satisfying moments in the play. Changing from power pumps to pink slides before a flight to Aruba, Jones makes a compelling case for delayed happiness after a loveless marriage that's almost worth standing up to cheer for.
Some people are happy, some people are lonely, some people are mean and sad. That's the way of the world.
As 5th Wall's production so ably demonstrates, it's every person's choice to decide which of those people they want to be. As if I weren't already in the first category, a superbly-executed production such as this one makes me even happier because Carol Piersol is back at the helm of a cutting edge theater company in Richmond.
Here's to long, artistic lives. Fortunately, they seem to thrive in this town.
In the case of the Anderson Gallery's new exhibit "Myron Helfgott: An Inventory of My Thoughts," it was a wide-ranging retrospective covering the 45-year artistic career of one of my favorite curmudgeons. I can say that because I've known Myron for 15 years and besides, he'd say it about himself.
Despite the multiple hours and afternoons spent in his studio interviewing him for my profile, here, in Style Weekly, I'd only seen a fraction of the work that made it into the show. So tonight's three-level exhibit was as much a surprise to me as to the rest of the world.
In 1971's "Salute," hands cast in lead were captured in a box with a lead flag on top. Lead, so different a material than the plywood and paper pieces he's been creating the past few years. Pieces such as "Windows" from 2013, a segmented view of the Kroger parking lot from his condo.
I was captivated by "We Share the Same Interests," a mixed media piece from 1981-82, comprised of a metal figure of a woman that Myron had taken all around town - Monument Avenue, MCV, VMFA - and had himself photographed with. The dated photos were part of the piece and provided a glimpse into Myron long before I met him in 2000.
Immediately recognizable was "Waterfall after Duchamp" from 1990 because it had been in the foyer of his condo when I'd first interviewed him. Here the motorized waterfall took its place among the many pieces powered by small motors.
"33 years and 6 months" was another lead piece, this one from 1970, showing a pair of men's underwear. "Don't look at that too long. People will talk!" a man stage-whispered in my ear as I gazed at it.
Listening to reactions from the ever-growing crowd, I overheard, "Phenomenal work" and "This is the shit, man. The shit!" High praise, indeed.
I went through all three floors of Myron's art twice, knowing full well I'll need to come back when the crowds are gone to enjoy it all without the socializing distractions. And they were many tonight, with all that old '70s VCU art crowd in attendance.
When I finally made it back to the tent, there was Myron, wine in hand, holding court. He pinched my cheek, he hugged me and he thanked me profusely for my article, especially thrilled that I hadn't talked about his work.
Who needs to try to describe astonishing art when there's a crabby old man with a lifetime's worth of opinions to share instead? Not that the work doesn't tell an amazing story of a man who never stopped evolving, but anyone with eyes can see that.
People were still pouring in to the gallery when I left to meet my theater date for dinner at Bistro 27, finding him at the bar with a Cosmopolitan in hand. The hostess raved about how cute my tights were and seated us with a great view of Adams Street. I kept my meal simple - Caesar salad with grilled shrimp - to offset a decadent chocolate torte for dessert.
Over dinner, we covered the multiple months' worth of life that had happened since we'd last gone to a play together. We compared notes on "Mame," made plans to see "Sister Act," exchanged Christmas vacation trip stories and restaurant gossip. Then we high-tailed it to Richmond Triangle Players for another kind of look at life.
It was opening night for 5th Wall's production of "The Lyons," a black comedy I'd first seen a sample of at the 5th Wall preview party last August. Even that snippet had been enough to see the potential of the play about nothing more than family relations, which is to say, everything.
But what a family! In a magnificent brown curly wig, Jacqueline Jones chewed up the scenery and spit it out as Rita, the matriarch of the Lyons family. This is an actress I've seen in all kinds of roles and never have I seen her so completely inhabit a character. She will be undoubtedly be honored come awards time next year for this part.
When her dying husband (the always excellent Alan Sader) muses that he may go to hell, she shoots him down succinctly. "What have you ever done to go to Hell? Who are you?" Nobody in this family seems to have a kind word for anyone.
The first act was mesmerizing as the parents had their adult children (a gay writer and recovering alcoholic mother with two kids) come to the hospital room to learn that their father was dying. Despite the seriousness of it, the family immediately devolves into bickering and bringing up old family issues. Meanwhile, Rita peruses decorating magazines, planning to redo their tawdry living room once husband Ben is dead.
No one feels comfortable when they're intimate.
Your mother used to vomit a lot.
Watching this family argue - the father endlessly cursing because he has nothing to lose, listening to Rita criticize her dying husband and messed-up children - was like eavesdropping on a majorly dysfunctional family. Awkward but utterly compelling.
Significantly, playwright Nicky Silver even weaves in the particular bond of siblings; they may not like each other or respect each other's choices, but they share secrets that Mom and Dad were never privy to. That's real life.
Romance is a treacherous arena.
At intermission, my friend and I discussed how director B.C. Maupin had created a tightly wound production that never ceased to elicit reaction from the audience, whether we were squirming in our seats, anticipating discomfort, embroiled in embarrassment or mortified at how this family treated each other.
Meanwhile, a cadre of black-clad crew miraculously turned the hospital room set into a much, larger studio apartment, as big a set change as I've seen at RTP, a feat only believable if you saw the transformation.
After the first act, my friend had commented on the robust laughter coming from the back of the room and, sure enough, the Man About Town (the source of that laugh) stopped by to discuss Myron's show and our enjoyment of the play we were seeing.
Writing short stories is like selling Victrolas.
If the first act had set some people's teeth on edge, the second began with a scene uncomfortable in about a dozen more ways. As it unfolded with missed signals, over-reactions and brutality, little of the dark humor remained.
The set was again changed back to the hospital room, this time without an intermission, but it was accomplished briskly and efficiently while the audience listened to "Que Sera, Sera." It was so impressively done that the crowd broke out in spontaneous applause for the crew.
Since when do you talk like a character from "Cagney and Lacey"?
The final scene begins with the father dead, but the remaining members no less unhappy or rude to each other. Hello, real life.
Watching the widow tell her son and daughter that she's decided to go on with her life in a manner that appalls them becomes one of the most satisfying moments in the play. Changing from power pumps to pink slides before a flight to Aruba, Jones makes a compelling case for delayed happiness after a loveless marriage that's almost worth standing up to cheer for.
Some people are happy, some people are lonely, some people are mean and sad. That's the way of the world.
As 5th Wall's production so ably demonstrates, it's every person's choice to decide which of those people they want to be. As if I weren't already in the first category, a superbly-executed production such as this one makes me even happier because Carol Piersol is back at the helm of a cutting edge theater company in Richmond.
Here's to long, artistic lives. Fortunately, they seem to thrive in this town.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Play What You Know
If I'd been a student, my teacher would have told me to stop horsing around.
Walking up the brick walkway to happy hour at the Anderson Gallery, I spotted tonight's musical guest - Dave Watkins -being posed for some pictures under a tree.
I could have paused to stay out of frame, could have breezed by and into the gallery, but, no, I all but ran up behind him and used my hand to stick rabbit ears behind his head.
His newly shorn head, I might add, since Dave was sporting a very attractive curly on top, high and tight on the sides summer do.
It was my first time photo-bombing, just for the record, and I'm pretty pleased with myself about it.
Saying hello to a gallerist and an artist, I was almost immediately joined by other members of the Dave Watkins fan club: neighbors from J-Ward, the photographer and his cute wife, the motorcyclist, the DJ, the one with the new state job.
Hail, hail, the gang's all here.
A friend immediately complimented my hair, asking me where I'd gotten it cut. As if. I love how much credit people give me.
When I told her it had been Hair Cuttery in August 2013, she told me she asks her husband to just lop off the end of her ponytail when she needs a trim (he won't, by the way). I guess we'll just keep growing it out then, she and I.
Once everyone in our little group had a beverage in hand, we sat outside on the brick patio catching up.
The couple who'd just returned from the Red Wing Roots music festival told a funny story of having their pirate flag stolen from the pole (which they didn't steal) beside their tent. Far more valuable stuff was ignored, but the thieves got the skull and crossbones.
My friend loved the poetry of a pirate flag having been pirated.
Because there are even more music shows this week than normal, we all compared notes to see who is going to which shows.
An artist I know from another lifetime came over and told me she had seen me running up behind Dave and how great I looked. "You never change," she said, "no matter how many years go by. I hope that means you're happy!"
I dare say I am.
When we moved inside for music, Dave proceeded to not only blow minds with his music but also put on a sound-activated light show on the walls of the gallery.
Is there nothing the man can't do?
Building up layers of musical phrases with his electric dulcitar - you know, the one he built himself just like the new haircut he gave himself - and looping them so he could produce the sound of an entire band instead of just one guy, I watched minds being blown as first-timers became part of the cult of Dave.
Me, I've been a card-carrying member of his fan club for five years now and he knows it.
When his set ended, there was major applause and extended mingling. My neighbors asked me to join them for dinner, but I had plans. Neither was surprised.
"Do you go out every night?" the husband asked. I do, I told him. I can't think of a good reason not to.
The plans that kept me from eating with them were at Richmond Triangle Players where brothers Evan and Chris Nasteff were doing a cabaret/rock show.
Plus it was going to be an interactive show so every attendee got to put two song requests in the hat (bribes were suggested). The only rule was that there could be no show tune requests because they didn't know what a show tune was until eight years ago and show tunes are difficult...or so they claimed.
Considering Evan's an actor (I'd seen him do a terrific job in "Cabaret" last month), their aversion to show tunes was unexpected.
No surprise, I ran into an actor friend and we got to talking about auditions for "Hedwig and the Angry Inch," my excitement over The Basement (the new theater space coming to my neighborhood where "Hedwig" will play) and, of all things, the Pump House in Byrd Park, which he'd heard was finally being renovated.
If the Pump House is ever redone, he thinks the preview event should be a tea dance to kick off pride week. I can't think of a better way to christen the old dance floor than having a bunch of queens break it in. Can I get an amen?
Finally taking my seat in the second row, when I was asked where I'd come from, I said happy hour.
"Are you happy?" he wanted to know. Oh, yes, I'm happy.
All of a sudden tonight's star, Evan, was onstage and demanding of the room, "Sit down!" followed by his best "Cabaret" German accent saying, "You VILL sit down!" so we did.
He and his band - brother Chris on guitar, Grant on guitar, Bobby on bass and Bentley on drums- were all in tank tops and they enthusiastically crashed into the Beatles' "I Saw Her Standing There," making for a fabulous start to the evening.
We all yelled our approval.
Partway through, Richmond icon Marjorie Lee Stewart VanderCamp (aka Maggie) took the stage before being shooed away while Chris and Grant got out their acoustic guitars and did "And I Love Her" with Bentley hand drumming, which I love the sound of.
Meanwhile, the Nasteff parents were in the front row, alternately taking pictures and looking rather proud.
Next Evan called the platinum blond Grey up (she's currently doing "Hair," which I'd also just seen) and she took the stage looking like a million bucks in pink satin pants, a black sequin top and silver platform shoes before destroying the room (or at least me) doing a slow burn of the Foundations' "Baby, Now That I Found You" with Chris on guitar.
You better believe I hooted and hollered after that one.
The next guest was the ringer. Nick, also taking a night off from "Hair" joined Chris and Evan on Crosby, Stills and Nash's magnificently alliterative "Helplessly Hoping," complete with three part harmonies. Absolutely beautiful.
Afterwards, Evan quipped, "As you can see by the words written all over Nick's arms, that's not his last song with us." Sure enough, both arms were covered in lyrics.
Admitting that they couldn't stand John Mayer but admired his music, the band rocked through "3 x 5" and then went in a whole different direction with Chris doing R. Kelly's "Remix of Ignition" and I screamed even louder at the end.
After singing about stroking it and feeling that body, Chris looked over at the woman who had birthed him and said, eyes down, "Hi, Mom."
And what better to follow sexual pleading than with "Hey Ya," with the line, "I don't wanna meet your Mama, I just want to make you come-a"?
Sorry, Mama Nasteff.
The always energetic Matt did a couple of Green Day songs - "She" and "Pullin' Teeth"- with Marjorie, claiming they only learned them yesterday. If so, well done, you two.
Who needed show tunes when these guys were killing it with rock?
That was when we got to the request box and Evan pulled out some wiseacre's suggestion for Lindsay Buckingham pre-Fleetwood Mac.
"Are you kidding?" Evan said, tossing it aside. "I'm going to take your dollar anyway."
The next request was for "Genie in a Bottle," followed by a another for the same song. Who are you people?
Only problem was Evan didn't have his phone so he couldn't look up the chords. Aw, too bad.
"Yea, we thought this through," Chris deadpanned at the mic for the third time tonight, his go-to announcement every time things got chaotic onstage.
They decided the smart thing to do was break for intermission, let everyone get drinks, they'd find the chords and start the second act with "Genie."
After a mad rush for the bar (with Will Smith playing on the sound system) and a friend saying to me, "This is crazier than the Ghostlight after party," which is really saying something because that's always a pretty silly evening, the audience mostly took their drinks to their seats so the Nasteffs could carry on.
Because that's what they'd come to do and, by gum, they were going to do it.
Evan sang lead on "Genie," while Marjorie did the best interpretive dance and backing vocals and the band members just cracked up the entire time.
When you think about it, that's actually an appropriate reaction to that silly song.
Midway through the Killers' "When You Were Young," Evan flashed Chris a smile and said, "See, I did learn that last chord." Apparently brotherly one-upmanship never dies.
Nick returned, studying his lyric-filled arm during the intro to "My Sharona," before belting it out which got lots of audience squeals, but then they went into OK Go's "Here We Go Again" sung by Evan, before reverting to "Sharona."
Ye gads, a medley!
Walking offstage, someone called to Nick asking, "Who's Sharona?" and he yelled, "Mine!"
Chris did "Life in the Slaw Lane," an acoustic ode to fruits and vegetables that had the crowd cracking up with every line of wordplay ("Her name was Peaches, a soiled but radishing beauty with huge gourds"), laughing himself at points.
Naturally they had to follow that with something crazy like Tenacious D, resulting in Papa Nasteff calling out from the first row, "Play something you know!"
No matter how old you get, they still think they're the boss of you. Pipe down, Daddio.
"We're gonna do a Dire Straits song as re-imagined by the Killers because we're not old as shit," Evan said before trading off vocals with Chris on "Romeo and Juliet," a song I admit I hadn't heard before and I am old as shit, despite what artists might tell me.
Nick and Majorie returned ("Yes, Nick, it's that arm!"), ready to regale us with a song from "School of Rock" while having a dance-off with each other. "Teacher's Pet" was definitely the song where the band rocked out hardest.
"Rock and roll!" someone shouted as they finished. That's what we'd come for.
"We're gonna play our encore as our last song and then do one request," Evan said before "Hey, Jude" and the whole audience joining in for the "na, na, na" chorus, a true kumbaya moment.
Because I've been to the Ghostlight after party plenty, I more or less was certain that "Hit Me, Baby, One More Time" would be the big finale (Evan always closes the show doing it) and I wasn't disappointed.
With the band cracking up, the crowd singing along, tonight's cabaret/rock show ended on the happiest of notes.
The brothers who have always wanted to do a show together can now scratch that off their bucket list after a well-executed performance.
I'm pretty sure they were having as good a time as we were.
Some things you don't have to think through.
Walking up the brick walkway to happy hour at the Anderson Gallery, I spotted tonight's musical guest - Dave Watkins -being posed for some pictures under a tree.
I could have paused to stay out of frame, could have breezed by and into the gallery, but, no, I all but ran up behind him and used my hand to stick rabbit ears behind his head.
His newly shorn head, I might add, since Dave was sporting a very attractive curly on top, high and tight on the sides summer do.
It was my first time photo-bombing, just for the record, and I'm pretty pleased with myself about it.
Saying hello to a gallerist and an artist, I was almost immediately joined by other members of the Dave Watkins fan club: neighbors from J-Ward, the photographer and his cute wife, the motorcyclist, the DJ, the one with the new state job.
Hail, hail, the gang's all here.
A friend immediately complimented my hair, asking me where I'd gotten it cut. As if. I love how much credit people give me.
When I told her it had been Hair Cuttery in August 2013, she told me she asks her husband to just lop off the end of her ponytail when she needs a trim (he won't, by the way). I guess we'll just keep growing it out then, she and I.
Once everyone in our little group had a beverage in hand, we sat outside on the brick patio catching up.
The couple who'd just returned from the Red Wing Roots music festival told a funny story of having their pirate flag stolen from the pole (which they didn't steal) beside their tent. Far more valuable stuff was ignored, but the thieves got the skull and crossbones.
My friend loved the poetry of a pirate flag having been pirated.
Because there are even more music shows this week than normal, we all compared notes to see who is going to which shows.
An artist I know from another lifetime came over and told me she had seen me running up behind Dave and how great I looked. "You never change," she said, "no matter how many years go by. I hope that means you're happy!"
I dare say I am.
When we moved inside for music, Dave proceeded to not only blow minds with his music but also put on a sound-activated light show on the walls of the gallery.
Is there nothing the man can't do?
Building up layers of musical phrases with his electric dulcitar - you know, the one he built himself just like the new haircut he gave himself - and looping them so he could produce the sound of an entire band instead of just one guy, I watched minds being blown as first-timers became part of the cult of Dave.
Me, I've been a card-carrying member of his fan club for five years now and he knows it.
When his set ended, there was major applause and extended mingling. My neighbors asked me to join them for dinner, but I had plans. Neither was surprised.
"Do you go out every night?" the husband asked. I do, I told him. I can't think of a good reason not to.
The plans that kept me from eating with them were at Richmond Triangle Players where brothers Evan and Chris Nasteff were doing a cabaret/rock show.
Plus it was going to be an interactive show so every attendee got to put two song requests in the hat (bribes were suggested). The only rule was that there could be no show tune requests because they didn't know what a show tune was until eight years ago and show tunes are difficult...or so they claimed.
Considering Evan's an actor (I'd seen him do a terrific job in "Cabaret" last month), their aversion to show tunes was unexpected.
No surprise, I ran into an actor friend and we got to talking about auditions for "Hedwig and the Angry Inch," my excitement over The Basement (the new theater space coming to my neighborhood where "Hedwig" will play) and, of all things, the Pump House in Byrd Park, which he'd heard was finally being renovated.
If the Pump House is ever redone, he thinks the preview event should be a tea dance to kick off pride week. I can't think of a better way to christen the old dance floor than having a bunch of queens break it in. Can I get an amen?
Finally taking my seat in the second row, when I was asked where I'd come from, I said happy hour.
"Are you happy?" he wanted to know. Oh, yes, I'm happy.
All of a sudden tonight's star, Evan, was onstage and demanding of the room, "Sit down!" followed by his best "Cabaret" German accent saying, "You VILL sit down!" so we did.
He and his band - brother Chris on guitar, Grant on guitar, Bobby on bass and Bentley on drums- were all in tank tops and they enthusiastically crashed into the Beatles' "I Saw Her Standing There," making for a fabulous start to the evening.
We all yelled our approval.
Partway through, Richmond icon Marjorie Lee Stewart VanderCamp (aka Maggie) took the stage before being shooed away while Chris and Grant got out their acoustic guitars and did "And I Love Her" with Bentley hand drumming, which I love the sound of.
Meanwhile, the Nasteff parents were in the front row, alternately taking pictures and looking rather proud.
Next Evan called the platinum blond Grey up (she's currently doing "Hair," which I'd also just seen) and she took the stage looking like a million bucks in pink satin pants, a black sequin top and silver platform shoes before destroying the room (or at least me) doing a slow burn of the Foundations' "Baby, Now That I Found You" with Chris on guitar.
You better believe I hooted and hollered after that one.
The next guest was the ringer. Nick, also taking a night off from "Hair" joined Chris and Evan on Crosby, Stills and Nash's magnificently alliterative "Helplessly Hoping," complete with three part harmonies. Absolutely beautiful.
Afterwards, Evan quipped, "As you can see by the words written all over Nick's arms, that's not his last song with us." Sure enough, both arms were covered in lyrics.
Admitting that they couldn't stand John Mayer but admired his music, the band rocked through "3 x 5" and then went in a whole different direction with Chris doing R. Kelly's "Remix of Ignition" and I screamed even louder at the end.
After singing about stroking it and feeling that body, Chris looked over at the woman who had birthed him and said, eyes down, "Hi, Mom."
And what better to follow sexual pleading than with "Hey Ya," with the line, "I don't wanna meet your Mama, I just want to make you come-a"?
Sorry, Mama Nasteff.
The always energetic Matt did a couple of Green Day songs - "She" and "Pullin' Teeth"- with Marjorie, claiming they only learned them yesterday. If so, well done, you two.
Who needed show tunes when these guys were killing it with rock?
That was when we got to the request box and Evan pulled out some wiseacre's suggestion for Lindsay Buckingham pre-Fleetwood Mac.
"Are you kidding?" Evan said, tossing it aside. "I'm going to take your dollar anyway."
The next request was for "Genie in a Bottle," followed by a another for the same song. Who are you people?
Only problem was Evan didn't have his phone so he couldn't look up the chords. Aw, too bad.
"Yea, we thought this through," Chris deadpanned at the mic for the third time tonight, his go-to announcement every time things got chaotic onstage.
They decided the smart thing to do was break for intermission, let everyone get drinks, they'd find the chords and start the second act with "Genie."
After a mad rush for the bar (with Will Smith playing on the sound system) and a friend saying to me, "This is crazier than the Ghostlight after party," which is really saying something because that's always a pretty silly evening, the audience mostly took their drinks to their seats so the Nasteffs could carry on.
Because that's what they'd come to do and, by gum, they were going to do it.
Evan sang lead on "Genie," while Marjorie did the best interpretive dance and backing vocals and the band members just cracked up the entire time.
When you think about it, that's actually an appropriate reaction to that silly song.
Midway through the Killers' "When You Were Young," Evan flashed Chris a smile and said, "See, I did learn that last chord." Apparently brotherly one-upmanship never dies.
Nick returned, studying his lyric-filled arm during the intro to "My Sharona," before belting it out which got lots of audience squeals, but then they went into OK Go's "Here We Go Again" sung by Evan, before reverting to "Sharona."
Ye gads, a medley!
Walking offstage, someone called to Nick asking, "Who's Sharona?" and he yelled, "Mine!"
Chris did "Life in the Slaw Lane," an acoustic ode to fruits and vegetables that had the crowd cracking up with every line of wordplay ("Her name was Peaches, a soiled but radishing beauty with huge gourds"), laughing himself at points.
Naturally they had to follow that with something crazy like Tenacious D, resulting in Papa Nasteff calling out from the first row, "Play something you know!"
No matter how old you get, they still think they're the boss of you. Pipe down, Daddio.
"We're gonna do a Dire Straits song as re-imagined by the Killers because we're not old as shit," Evan said before trading off vocals with Chris on "Romeo and Juliet," a song I admit I hadn't heard before and I am old as shit, despite what artists might tell me.
Nick and Majorie returned ("Yes, Nick, it's that arm!"), ready to regale us with a song from "School of Rock" while having a dance-off with each other. "Teacher's Pet" was definitely the song where the band rocked out hardest.
"Rock and roll!" someone shouted as they finished. That's what we'd come for.
"We're gonna play our encore as our last song and then do one request," Evan said before "Hey, Jude" and the whole audience joining in for the "na, na, na" chorus, a true kumbaya moment.
Because I've been to the Ghostlight after party plenty, I more or less was certain that "Hit Me, Baby, One More Time" would be the big finale (Evan always closes the show doing it) and I wasn't disappointed.
With the band cracking up, the crowd singing along, tonight's cabaret/rock show ended on the happiest of notes.
The brothers who have always wanted to do a show together can now scratch that off their bucket list after a well-executed performance.
I'm pretty sure they were having as good a time as we were.
Some things you don't have to think through.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
As To a Story They Told
The Anderson Gallery was hosting a happy hour with some pretty fabulous enticements: overhead projectors and tales of sexuality.
Of course, they didn't state it that way on the invitation page. Oh, no, they just said to come out for an encore performance of "Nonesuch Tales of Ardea Herodias," the best in show winner from this past year's InLight down on the Canal Walk.
Since I'd only seen their performance for a short time that night, I was eager to see more of the story of Shockoe Bottom, with vignettes about the great blue heron, a fisherman's ride on a sturgeon in the James River and, perhaps most fascinating of all, a bit of James Branch Cabell's comic fantasy novel, "Jurgen: A Comedy of Justice."
I arrived early, got a seat and chatted with the gallery director, who inquired, "Do you go out every night?" It wasn't even a rhetorical question.
I never know what I might see or hear when I'm out, so yes, I do.
Tonight, Laurids Sonne and Rachel Cohn manned the projectors while Michael Ashley (whom I of course know from his restaurant job) provided the music as we watched the stories unfold on the gallery wall.
The Danish Laurids began by turning a roll of transparencies across the screen to set the scene showing the ocean and slave boats before Rachel put on transparencies of blue water and blue herons flying over on her projector.
As a bonus, during this part I learned that a colony of herons is called a heronry. That's not quite as cool as a murder of crows, but close.
Next came scenes of a man fishing with Michael making burbling sounds of water until the man got hold of the sturgeon and began riding it.
The final section was taken from chapter 22 of Cabell's 1919 book, entitled "As to a veil they broke," and at this point, we had no clue as to what to expect.
Beautiful hand painted images of figures walking through green caverns with yellow marble soon gave way to a much juicier story.
What we got was Jurgen being stroked by women's tongues, fingernails and nipples.
What we got was the love god of Dahomey and his phallic symbol.
What we got was Jurgen's pursuit of curious pleasures and his sexual adventures with the queen.
It had to be the best story ever presented on transparencies and an overhead projector.
If the kids in the AV club in junior high had seen this stuff, their heads would have exploded.
What we experienced was a unique and beautifully evoked fantasy tale by a Richmonder so prominent his name is on buildings, translated to a light show by three talented artists using an old school device with minimal media interference to tell a century old story visually and sonically.
With the things I end up experiencing at happy hours, why on earth would I stay home at night?
Of course, they didn't state it that way on the invitation page. Oh, no, they just said to come out for an encore performance of "Nonesuch Tales of Ardea Herodias," the best in show winner from this past year's InLight down on the Canal Walk.
Since I'd only seen their performance for a short time that night, I was eager to see more of the story of Shockoe Bottom, with vignettes about the great blue heron, a fisherman's ride on a sturgeon in the James River and, perhaps most fascinating of all, a bit of James Branch Cabell's comic fantasy novel, "Jurgen: A Comedy of Justice."
I arrived early, got a seat and chatted with the gallery director, who inquired, "Do you go out every night?" It wasn't even a rhetorical question.
I never know what I might see or hear when I'm out, so yes, I do.
Tonight, Laurids Sonne and Rachel Cohn manned the projectors while Michael Ashley (whom I of course know from his restaurant job) provided the music as we watched the stories unfold on the gallery wall.
The Danish Laurids began by turning a roll of transparencies across the screen to set the scene showing the ocean and slave boats before Rachel put on transparencies of blue water and blue herons flying over on her projector.
As a bonus, during this part I learned that a colony of herons is called a heronry. That's not quite as cool as a murder of crows, but close.
Next came scenes of a man fishing with Michael making burbling sounds of water until the man got hold of the sturgeon and began riding it.
The final section was taken from chapter 22 of Cabell's 1919 book, entitled "As to a veil they broke," and at this point, we had no clue as to what to expect.
Beautiful hand painted images of figures walking through green caverns with yellow marble soon gave way to a much juicier story.
What we got was Jurgen being stroked by women's tongues, fingernails and nipples.
What we got was the love god of Dahomey and his phallic symbol.
What we got was Jurgen's pursuit of curious pleasures and his sexual adventures with the queen.
It had to be the best story ever presented on transparencies and an overhead projector.
If the kids in the AV club in junior high had seen this stuff, their heads would have exploded.
What we experienced was a unique and beautifully evoked fantasy tale by a Richmonder so prominent his name is on buildings, translated to a light show by three talented artists using an old school device with minimal media interference to tell a century old story visually and sonically.
With the things I end up experiencing at happy hours, why on earth would I stay home at night?
Saturday, January 18, 2014
To Make Me Happy
My mother decided this morning was the time to lecture me about my life choices.
I worry about you traveling at night by yourself and with no cell phone. I'm not sure how much longer you can get by without a full-time job and a guaranteed income. I realize you're doing what you love but you're living with no security. End of lecture. I just want you to have a normal life. Love, Mom
Normal? Did she think I ever aspired to a normal life?
My abnormal evening began at Bellytimber, where I found Nate, an oddball local fixture on the scene sitting on the bench out front smoking a cigarette. He had one pant leg pushed up over his knee as if to catch some sun on his fish belly-white calf.
I met Nate years ago at 821 Cafe, but I have run into him at a dozen different city restaurants, usually drinking coffee and willing to talk to just about anyone.
He's a talented artist and I have one of his drawings framed in my living room, a reminder that you can't judge talent by coherent speech.
Today, he asked me what I did and informed me that sometimes he needs a writer, so he may be in touch about my services.
Then he rolled that pant leg down and I went inside to interview a cute, well-spoken and fast-talking scientist over a drink.
That's normal, right?
After a fascinating conversation about the intersection of science and art, I left for the Anderson Gallery's opening.
VCU students as well as local artists and even a VMFA curator had beat me to the shows, making for a lively crowd.
Esther Partegas' "You Are Here" was a black and white wraparound installation broken up by several large-scale color photos in light boxes showing city and nature scenes interrupted by rips and folds, proof that they came off of signs rather than reality.
Upstairs, LaToya Ruby Frazier's "A Haunted Capital" showed another kind of reality, this one that of the artist's hometown, Braddock, Pennsylvania.
Using herself, her mother and grandmother as models, the black and white photographs told a grim story of a once-bustling industrial town now a decaying home to the few people remaining despite unemployment and the destruction of the area's only hospital.
Part of "Race, Place and Identity," the multi-venue show currently happening all over town, it's a moving and evocative look at some people's reality.
As a woman said to me as we stood in front of a photograph, "It's hard to feel poor when you look at these."
Maybe I should take my mother to see the show for some perspective on my well-being.
Leaving VCU for eastward-ho destinations, I arrived at Globehopper Coffee and Lounge before even the musicians scheduled to play did.
Luckily, I found friends, got a cup of hot chocolate ("Whipped?" the barista inquired. Why wouldn't I? "No good reason," she concurred) and found a table near the front.
Soon singer/guitarist Josh Small and singer/harmonica player Andrew Ali took chairs in the front window and began the show.
Performing a variety of songs they'd each written, a standard or two and some collectively-written tunes, they proceeded to capture the attention of everyone in the room except the bored-looking children.
Josh is a self-taught musician, claiming that everything he knows he learned from his musician father who only knew one chord.
Josh knows far more than that and demonstrated it by playing songs inspired by cartoons, friendship and stories, songs like "South in My Mouth," "The Tallest Tree" (which he'd recently performed at SPARC's Live Art event) and Andrew's "My Stomp," a blues song about being able to write the blues despite being young.
They did an original called "So Long," which had my favorite lyric of the evening: I can try to make you happy with some music and a bottle of wine.
Before doing Howlin' Wolf's "44," Josh told us he'd been playing that song in Monroe Park during the "Occupy Monroe Park" demonstration when he'd heard the strains of a harmonica in the crowd; it was Andrew chiming in.
"That's how we met," Josh said before they sang the menacing song.
For two musicians, seems to me that's almost a meeting-cute story. not to mention the socially conscious angle.
They closed with "Front Porch," Andrew's ode to Richmond's abiding porch culture.
And aren't we the richer for it? Even those of us with limited income can enjoy porch-side pleasures in this town.
Page Bond Gallery was my next stop for painter Will Berry's opening, "I saw the Sun," a series of paintings on luminescent, gold, sort of an exploration of light reminiscent of ancient sun worshiping.
Black imagery, some organic-looking and some geometric, on shiny, gold backgrounds made for jewel-like panels on the wall, a rich effect.
I'd love to go back and see it in the daylight to see if it resonates any differently.
From there, I went to a friend's house for wine and dessert, a merely incidental gathering after an extensive happy hour on their part and a mere four stops on mine.
He is the only person I know besides my parents who still gets the Times Disgrace delivered and since the wine writer had recently raved about a South African wine, the Curator White, he'd purchased a few bottles.
I never have to be talked into drinking South African and this chenin blanc, chardonnay and viognier blend, described in the article as, "big, juicy, exotic fruit and mouth-filling" was more than fine by me.
Over dessert of vanilla gelato with a decadent homemade chocolate sauce, we listened to Fairport Convention ("Britain's version of Peter, Paul and Mary") and BBC recordings of the Kimks.
Our host's fave song on that compilation was "This Strange Effect," to which he played air guitar and I marveled at how un-Kinks-like it sounded.
I regaled my girlfriend with the story about my mother (a woman who met the love of her life at 22 and is still happily enjoying his company decades later) and her concern for my status and she bit her lip chuckling.
"That's so sweet," she said sincerely. "In an Eisenhower kind of way."
Bingo.
When they got ready to crash due to early morning wake-up calls for their real jobs, I still had time to get to Strange Matter to catch two bands of a four-band bill.
I tucked a $5 bill in my glove and walked in, handing it still folded to the door guy, who looked at it, cocked an eyebrow and asked, "Origami?"
Something like that.
I found the master of lighting, Dave, at the controls of his light set-up and took up residence next to him, centered in the room for best sound.
The room was solidly full with lots of new faces and just enough familiar ones to assure me that I'd know people. With VCU back in session, it looked like a lot of people had decided to check out some local music.
Clair Morgan, who had morphed from Clair and a female backup singer when I last saw him in October at, of all places, Globehopper, to a quintet with drummer (Michael, whom I knew from the long-ago Mermaid Skeletons), another guitarist, bassist and keyboard player (the backup singer from last time).
They were good, the kind of good where some people can't even pick out just one thing they like about them.
I was partial to the strong guitars while another friend was taken with a song with three drummers. But mostly it was how seamlessly they blended pop with more technical elements.
Listening to their take on '90s alternative, I couldn't help but think how the band members were evoking music from their childhoods.
No complaints from me; if I liked something the first time around, I'm always interested in hearing it interpreted by a generation who can fill in with influences from subsequent years as well.
They're definitely a band to watch.
Headlining were Snowy Owls, a band that won my musical heart years ago with their reverb-drenched sound.
The only thing that's changed over the years is leader Matt's hair gets longer (thus obliterating more of his face when he sings) and the band gets tighter.
Allen's bass still screams, much to my delight.
Lighting wizard Dave had a surprise in store tonight, adding into his usual colorful swirling geometric light effects a video called, "Kitten Party."
So amid psychedelic swirls of color and shape, we'd see a kitten licking itself. Or looking up at the camera adoringly.
This is notable mainly because Matt is known for two obsessions, his music and his cat. He posts as many pictures of his feline on Facebook as new mothers do of their offspring.
So if you knew Matt, it was particularly funny to see him playing fuzzed-out guitar and singing in his understated way with cat images peeking out behind him.
Dancing in place to my favorite kind of music-from-a-cave while a groovy light show featuring cats played behind the band, I have to admit, I was totally into what passes for normal in my life.
Absolutely loving it.
Oh, Mom...At least I'm happy!
Love, Karen
I worry about you traveling at night by yourself and with no cell phone. I'm not sure how much longer you can get by without a full-time job and a guaranteed income. I realize you're doing what you love but you're living with no security. End of lecture. I just want you to have a normal life. Love, Mom
Normal? Did she think I ever aspired to a normal life?
My abnormal evening began at Bellytimber, where I found Nate, an oddball local fixture on the scene sitting on the bench out front smoking a cigarette. He had one pant leg pushed up over his knee as if to catch some sun on his fish belly-white calf.
I met Nate years ago at 821 Cafe, but I have run into him at a dozen different city restaurants, usually drinking coffee and willing to talk to just about anyone.
He's a talented artist and I have one of his drawings framed in my living room, a reminder that you can't judge talent by coherent speech.
Today, he asked me what I did and informed me that sometimes he needs a writer, so he may be in touch about my services.
Then he rolled that pant leg down and I went inside to interview a cute, well-spoken and fast-talking scientist over a drink.
That's normal, right?
After a fascinating conversation about the intersection of science and art, I left for the Anderson Gallery's opening.
VCU students as well as local artists and even a VMFA curator had beat me to the shows, making for a lively crowd.
Esther Partegas' "You Are Here" was a black and white wraparound installation broken up by several large-scale color photos in light boxes showing city and nature scenes interrupted by rips and folds, proof that they came off of signs rather than reality.
Upstairs, LaToya Ruby Frazier's "A Haunted Capital" showed another kind of reality, this one that of the artist's hometown, Braddock, Pennsylvania.
Using herself, her mother and grandmother as models, the black and white photographs told a grim story of a once-bustling industrial town now a decaying home to the few people remaining despite unemployment and the destruction of the area's only hospital.
Part of "Race, Place and Identity," the multi-venue show currently happening all over town, it's a moving and evocative look at some people's reality.
As a woman said to me as we stood in front of a photograph, "It's hard to feel poor when you look at these."
Maybe I should take my mother to see the show for some perspective on my well-being.
Leaving VCU for eastward-ho destinations, I arrived at Globehopper Coffee and Lounge before even the musicians scheduled to play did.
Luckily, I found friends, got a cup of hot chocolate ("Whipped?" the barista inquired. Why wouldn't I? "No good reason," she concurred) and found a table near the front.
Soon singer/guitarist Josh Small and singer/harmonica player Andrew Ali took chairs in the front window and began the show.
Performing a variety of songs they'd each written, a standard or two and some collectively-written tunes, they proceeded to capture the attention of everyone in the room except the bored-looking children.
Josh is a self-taught musician, claiming that everything he knows he learned from his musician father who only knew one chord.
Josh knows far more than that and demonstrated it by playing songs inspired by cartoons, friendship and stories, songs like "South in My Mouth," "The Tallest Tree" (which he'd recently performed at SPARC's Live Art event) and Andrew's "My Stomp," a blues song about being able to write the blues despite being young.
They did an original called "So Long," which had my favorite lyric of the evening: I can try to make you happy with some music and a bottle of wine.
Before doing Howlin' Wolf's "44," Josh told us he'd been playing that song in Monroe Park during the "Occupy Monroe Park" demonstration when he'd heard the strains of a harmonica in the crowd; it was Andrew chiming in.
"That's how we met," Josh said before they sang the menacing song.
For two musicians, seems to me that's almost a meeting-cute story. not to mention the socially conscious angle.
They closed with "Front Porch," Andrew's ode to Richmond's abiding porch culture.
And aren't we the richer for it? Even those of us with limited income can enjoy porch-side pleasures in this town.
Page Bond Gallery was my next stop for painter Will Berry's opening, "I saw the Sun," a series of paintings on luminescent, gold, sort of an exploration of light reminiscent of ancient sun worshiping.
Black imagery, some organic-looking and some geometric, on shiny, gold backgrounds made for jewel-like panels on the wall, a rich effect.
I'd love to go back and see it in the daylight to see if it resonates any differently.
From there, I went to a friend's house for wine and dessert, a merely incidental gathering after an extensive happy hour on their part and a mere four stops on mine.
He is the only person I know besides my parents who still gets the Times Disgrace delivered and since the wine writer had recently raved about a South African wine, the Curator White, he'd purchased a few bottles.
I never have to be talked into drinking South African and this chenin blanc, chardonnay and viognier blend, described in the article as, "big, juicy, exotic fruit and mouth-filling" was more than fine by me.
Over dessert of vanilla gelato with a decadent homemade chocolate sauce, we listened to Fairport Convention ("Britain's version of Peter, Paul and Mary") and BBC recordings of the Kimks.
Our host's fave song on that compilation was "This Strange Effect," to which he played air guitar and I marveled at how un-Kinks-like it sounded.
I regaled my girlfriend with the story about my mother (a woman who met the love of her life at 22 and is still happily enjoying his company decades later) and her concern for my status and she bit her lip chuckling.
"That's so sweet," she said sincerely. "In an Eisenhower kind of way."
Bingo.
When they got ready to crash due to early morning wake-up calls for their real jobs, I still had time to get to Strange Matter to catch two bands of a four-band bill.
I tucked a $5 bill in my glove and walked in, handing it still folded to the door guy, who looked at it, cocked an eyebrow and asked, "Origami?"
Something like that.
I found the master of lighting, Dave, at the controls of his light set-up and took up residence next to him, centered in the room for best sound.
The room was solidly full with lots of new faces and just enough familiar ones to assure me that I'd know people. With VCU back in session, it looked like a lot of people had decided to check out some local music.
Clair Morgan, who had morphed from Clair and a female backup singer when I last saw him in October at, of all places, Globehopper, to a quintet with drummer (Michael, whom I knew from the long-ago Mermaid Skeletons), another guitarist, bassist and keyboard player (the backup singer from last time).
They were good, the kind of good where some people can't even pick out just one thing they like about them.
I was partial to the strong guitars while another friend was taken with a song with three drummers. But mostly it was how seamlessly they blended pop with more technical elements.
Listening to their take on '90s alternative, I couldn't help but think how the band members were evoking music from their childhoods.
No complaints from me; if I liked something the first time around, I'm always interested in hearing it interpreted by a generation who can fill in with influences from subsequent years as well.
They're definitely a band to watch.
Headlining were Snowy Owls, a band that won my musical heart years ago with their reverb-drenched sound.
The only thing that's changed over the years is leader Matt's hair gets longer (thus obliterating more of his face when he sings) and the band gets tighter.
Allen's bass still screams, much to my delight.
Lighting wizard Dave had a surprise in store tonight, adding into his usual colorful swirling geometric light effects a video called, "Kitten Party."
So amid psychedelic swirls of color and shape, we'd see a kitten licking itself. Or looking up at the camera adoringly.
This is notable mainly because Matt is known for two obsessions, his music and his cat. He posts as many pictures of his feline on Facebook as new mothers do of their offspring.
So if you knew Matt, it was particularly funny to see him playing fuzzed-out guitar and singing in his understated way with cat images peeking out behind him.
Dancing in place to my favorite kind of music-from-a-cave while a groovy light show featuring cats played behind the band, I have to admit, I was totally into what passes for normal in my life.
Absolutely loving it.
Oh, Mom...At least I'm happy!
Love, Karen
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Universal Communication
You have to admire a man who's willing to destroy his own art.
The Anderson Gallery was hosting a talk by Bohyun Yoon, whose "Neighbors" exhibit is currently showing.
Born in South Korea, and now teaching at VCU, he began by apologizing for his English eloquently. "Language is just a tool, not a bright idea. Art is the universal communication."
His chosen medium is glass ("It's a fragile and dangerous material") and he began by making glass masks.
When he accidentally cut a mask in half, the remainder reminded him of a bowl, which he filled with water, placed on his head and began making music with it, much the way a wine glass rim can be rubbed to elicit sound.
Much of his art was performance-based, like the transparent business suit he created and wore through the streets while being filmed.
While in Salzburg, Austria, he did a guerrilla piece where he divided a street with signs directing tourists to go one way and citizens the other for no stated reason and then filmed two friends as they motioned to people who happened to be walking down the street.
Apparently it's not just Americans who are easily led.
The most interactive part of his talk involved glass tubes of varying lengths which had metal mesh inserts at one end.
He would torch the mesh and as the air moved up the tube, it made a melodic sound ("Water, glass, sound, they're all transparent"), changing when he shifted the position of the tube.
Taking it to the next level, he solicited a volunteer to do the torching, the better for him to move the tubes to make more elaborate music.
Clearly enjoying himself, he suddenly stopped and said, "I'm just playing, like in my studio. Thank you," thereby ending the talk and starting the question period.
When asked about destroying glass, I'm sure I wasn't the only one surprised to hear him say, "Breaking glass is beautiful."
Seems he likes it when his performance lives on only in the memory. To prove the point, he torched a tube and as sound emanated from it, used a small hammer to break part of the tube.
Damned if he wasn't right; while a very different sound, the breaking was as interesting to hear as the sound produced by the air moving.
He tried torching the stub of the tube, but it was so short now that the sound created was too low for us to hear.
Talk about a mesmerizing way to end a talk.
Looking at his "Neighbors" installation afterwards showed yet another facet of his fascination with light and glass.
150 portraits of his neighbors In Philadelphia had been silk-screened onto glass panels in vivid colors.
Hung from a framework that mimicked the shape of the room, the lone bulb hanging in the center projected the images onto the walls with one major difference.
On the walls, all the images were black and white, making for a stunning contrast with the brightly-colored plates.
Very cool.
Mind properly fed, it was time for the rest of me so I walked over to Jackson Ward's newest eatery, Max's on Broad.
After taking what felt like an eternity to renovate and build out, Tarrant's Belgian sibling had finally opened its doors.
Just from the initial impression, I'd have to say they nailed the Parisian brasserie vibe pretty well.
White tablecloths with white paper on top, huge gold-framed mirrors, vintage music, dim lighting.
It was a promising start.
There appeared to be more staff than customers but I didn't immediately go upstairs to see how many people were up there.
Owner Ted came over to say hello and when asked about the direction of the place explained, "Well, I always liked French food. And I couldn't very well do the same thing I was doing across the street."
Well, you could have, but that would have been just stupid.
And while I was alone at the bar when I sat down, it didn't take long before I had plenty of company.
One of those was a guy who sat down a stool away, ordered two tripels ("Those are high-alcohol," the barkeep warned him. "So am I," the guy answered) and the check at the same time, but eschewed a menu because, "I'm just here 'cause I like to look at fixtures."
With a buzz, apparently.
Another was local wine god Bob Talcott, no doubt curious to see what a brasserie on this side of town looked like.
He not only approved of the look, likening it to Brasserie Julien in Paris, he was downright tickled with the wine list, which had only one California wine and the rest French.
Meanwhile, I started my meal with a half endive salad with arugula, housemade pickles, tomato, onion and dried apricot and a passion fruit vinaigrette.
Once again, let me give a shout-out to restaurants who offer salads (or entrees, for that matter) in half and whole portions, a boon for those of us who don't want too much of any one taste.
I debated on what to have next, except that if the sign outside was calling this place a Belgian restaurant, what else could I get but moules frites?
They had probably a half dozen choices for broth, of which I chose the unlikeliest one for me: Hoegaarden, bacon and onion.
For while I could put bacon and onion in almost anything I eat, beer rarely finds its way into my food.
On the other hand, why the hell not?
As one of the bartenders said, those three things make everything better. My jury's still out on the beer part, but I was game.
The mussels came in a lid-covered pot with a cone of frites beside them. So far, so good.
I passed on any sauces for my fries and began eating the P.E.I. mussels, noting the yeasty finish on each bite.
After I got about six mussels in, I was offered a seafood fork but after a few more, I had a request of my own.
Here I was putting empty shells on my bread plate, as was the guy eating mussels next to me, so I asked if we weren't supposed to have a bowl for our discards.
I mean, that's pretty standard-issue for mussels, right?
Clearly it made sense to her, she acknowledged as much, and returned with bowls for all the mussel-eaters at the bar.
There! I helped a local J-Ward establishment better serve the neighborhood.
Several servers had told me to be sure to check out the upstairs, so I walked up there to see the space that overlooks the triangle on Broad, a space that will no doubt be a zoo come Friday night during the artwalk.
Back downstairs, I told one of the managers I was glad there was another restaurant in the neighborhood.
"What side of Broad do you live on?" she asked, pointing at Tarrant's and pointing at Jackson Ward.
Duh. J-Ward, I told her.
"You're ours!" she said with glee. "No more Tarrant's for you!"
My dear, I gave up on Tarrant's long ago, so that's not the issue.
As to that ownership claim, I'll reserve judgement and say what my mom used to say to us as kids when she hadn't made up her mind yet.
We'll see.
The Anderson Gallery was hosting a talk by Bohyun Yoon, whose "Neighbors" exhibit is currently showing.
Born in South Korea, and now teaching at VCU, he began by apologizing for his English eloquently. "Language is just a tool, not a bright idea. Art is the universal communication."
His chosen medium is glass ("It's a fragile and dangerous material") and he began by making glass masks.
When he accidentally cut a mask in half, the remainder reminded him of a bowl, which he filled with water, placed on his head and began making music with it, much the way a wine glass rim can be rubbed to elicit sound.
Much of his art was performance-based, like the transparent business suit he created and wore through the streets while being filmed.
While in Salzburg, Austria, he did a guerrilla piece where he divided a street with signs directing tourists to go one way and citizens the other for no stated reason and then filmed two friends as they motioned to people who happened to be walking down the street.
Apparently it's not just Americans who are easily led.
The most interactive part of his talk involved glass tubes of varying lengths which had metal mesh inserts at one end.
He would torch the mesh and as the air moved up the tube, it made a melodic sound ("Water, glass, sound, they're all transparent"), changing when he shifted the position of the tube.
Taking it to the next level, he solicited a volunteer to do the torching, the better for him to move the tubes to make more elaborate music.
Clearly enjoying himself, he suddenly stopped and said, "I'm just playing, like in my studio. Thank you," thereby ending the talk and starting the question period.
When asked about destroying glass, I'm sure I wasn't the only one surprised to hear him say, "Breaking glass is beautiful."
Seems he likes it when his performance lives on only in the memory. To prove the point, he torched a tube and as sound emanated from it, used a small hammer to break part of the tube.
Damned if he wasn't right; while a very different sound, the breaking was as interesting to hear as the sound produced by the air moving.
He tried torching the stub of the tube, but it was so short now that the sound created was too low for us to hear.
Talk about a mesmerizing way to end a talk.
Looking at his "Neighbors" installation afterwards showed yet another facet of his fascination with light and glass.
150 portraits of his neighbors In Philadelphia had been silk-screened onto glass panels in vivid colors.
Hung from a framework that mimicked the shape of the room, the lone bulb hanging in the center projected the images onto the walls with one major difference.
On the walls, all the images were black and white, making for a stunning contrast with the brightly-colored plates.
Very cool.
Mind properly fed, it was time for the rest of me so I walked over to Jackson Ward's newest eatery, Max's on Broad.
After taking what felt like an eternity to renovate and build out, Tarrant's Belgian sibling had finally opened its doors.
Just from the initial impression, I'd have to say they nailed the Parisian brasserie vibe pretty well.
White tablecloths with white paper on top, huge gold-framed mirrors, vintage music, dim lighting.
It was a promising start.
There appeared to be more staff than customers but I didn't immediately go upstairs to see how many people were up there.
Owner Ted came over to say hello and when asked about the direction of the place explained, "Well, I always liked French food. And I couldn't very well do the same thing I was doing across the street."
Well, you could have, but that would have been just stupid.
And while I was alone at the bar when I sat down, it didn't take long before I had plenty of company.
One of those was a guy who sat down a stool away, ordered two tripels ("Those are high-alcohol," the barkeep warned him. "So am I," the guy answered) and the check at the same time, but eschewed a menu because, "I'm just here 'cause I like to look at fixtures."
With a buzz, apparently.
Another was local wine god Bob Talcott, no doubt curious to see what a brasserie on this side of town looked like.
He not only approved of the look, likening it to Brasserie Julien in Paris, he was downright tickled with the wine list, which had only one California wine and the rest French.
Meanwhile, I started my meal with a half endive salad with arugula, housemade pickles, tomato, onion and dried apricot and a passion fruit vinaigrette.
Once again, let me give a shout-out to restaurants who offer salads (or entrees, for that matter) in half and whole portions, a boon for those of us who don't want too much of any one taste.
I debated on what to have next, except that if the sign outside was calling this place a Belgian restaurant, what else could I get but moules frites?
They had probably a half dozen choices for broth, of which I chose the unlikeliest one for me: Hoegaarden, bacon and onion.
For while I could put bacon and onion in almost anything I eat, beer rarely finds its way into my food.
On the other hand, why the hell not?
As one of the bartenders said, those three things make everything better. My jury's still out on the beer part, but I was game.
The mussels came in a lid-covered pot with a cone of frites beside them. So far, so good.
I passed on any sauces for my fries and began eating the P.E.I. mussels, noting the yeasty finish on each bite.
After I got about six mussels in, I was offered a seafood fork but after a few more, I had a request of my own.
Here I was putting empty shells on my bread plate, as was the guy eating mussels next to me, so I asked if we weren't supposed to have a bowl for our discards.
I mean, that's pretty standard-issue for mussels, right?
Clearly it made sense to her, she acknowledged as much, and returned with bowls for all the mussel-eaters at the bar.
There! I helped a local J-Ward establishment better serve the neighborhood.
Several servers had told me to be sure to check out the upstairs, so I walked up there to see the space that overlooks the triangle on Broad, a space that will no doubt be a zoo come Friday night during the artwalk.
Back downstairs, I told one of the managers I was glad there was another restaurant in the neighborhood.
"What side of Broad do you live on?" she asked, pointing at Tarrant's and pointing at Jackson Ward.
Duh. J-Ward, I told her.
"You're ours!" she said with glee. "No more Tarrant's for you!"
My dear, I gave up on Tarrant's long ago, so that's not the issue.
As to that ownership claim, I'll reserve judgement and say what my mom used to say to us as kids when she hadn't made up her mind yet.
We'll see.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Two L'heures Happy
Any man who can drive safely while kissing a pretty girl is simply not giving the kiss the attention it deserves. ~ Albert Einstein
Before Einstein, there was Henry Box Brown.
Meaning that my evening began at the Anderson Gallery happy hour for Jefferey Ruggles' talk on Henry Box Brown, the man who mailed himself to Philly to escape life as a slave.
I arrived and found a seat on the bench with a good view of the screen and close access to the cheese and cookies, as a nearby attendee pointed out.
Soon, I was joined by a WRIR DJ who, like me, was eager to glean some new information about an escaped slave with a plan.
As we awaited the start of the talk, we discussed Floyd Avenue and Cambridge, MA, and their very different worthiness as bike routes.
As a former thirteen-year resident of Floyd Avenue, I felt his pain about present-day Floyd.
Ruggles was funny, losing sight of his slide show as he shared endless details about Brown's journey from boxed cargo to globe-trotting entertainer, sharing his panoramics about life in Africa and as a slave with audiences all over the world.
Our speaker had even acquired original drawings of "A Nubian Slave," an illustrated and devastating series about the journey of an African destined for the New World.
At one point in the slide presentation, we saw a slide of Boston, the Charles River and Cambridge on the other side, necessitating me observing, "Speaking of..."
"Yea, I know, right?" the DJ agreed, referencing our earlier conversation.
The lecture was fascinating for its story of Brown's life, his struggle and his success at creating a life in Canada after abolitionists found fault with how he squandered his new-found freedom.
Wine, women, gambling and song.
Like it was their job to judge.
Friend and I bolted once the lecture ended, both with plans that would not wait.
Mine involved Amour Wine Bistro's l'heure heureuse, a happy hour involving four small plates for $12.
Who wouldn't be happy with such a deal?
They were the ones who had posted the Einstein quote and, frankly, anyone sharing that sentiment was speaking to me directly.
Moments after I sat down, I ordered a flight of roses and soon a man joined me at the bar, ogling my array of pink wines.
"That looks good!" he said, clearly coveting my roses.
What's not to love about Pere Cabouche 2012, Chateau de Valcombe 2012, L'Opale de la Presqu'ile de Saint Tropez 2011 and Bandol Mas de la Rouviere 2011?
Inquiring of the owner if any of my roses were not sweet (duh), he was assured that sweet was not an issue here.
He promptly ordered the exact same flight.
Oohing and ahhing over the array of roses, he told me that he'd been out shopping for his 32nd anniversary tomorrow.
The VMFA had yielded the jewelry for his wife's gift and Mongrel (natch) had supplied the card.
Just as he'd finished there, wifey had called and asked him to pick up dog food.
A side trip to PetCo. had delivered the dog chow, leaving him hot and sweaty (there is a heat wave going on, after all) and craving a glass of wine.
Sadly, he'd come in looking for a glass of Pinot Grigio.
It was only once he spied my four pink glasses that he'd succumbed to something far better.
As if I hadn't inspired enough envy, I proceeded to rub salt in the wounds by taking advantage of Amour's happy hour deal of four small plates for $12.
In short order, I devoured smoked trout "sushi" (English cucumber and smoked trout in orange-poached carrot roll with wasabi-soy-shitake reduction and candied ginger), marinated scallops with aioli and the freshest of melon and red onion salsas, summer gazpacho of English cukes and chilled watermelon gazpacho with a pickled veggie salsa and, finally, crispy prosciutto (baked prosciutto cups with tomato basil soubise, shaved Parmesan and the reddest of grilled tomato).
My pre-anniversary-celebrating friend was pea-green with envy.
Why not? In a city where all of a sudden every restaurant in town is doing early-evening specials, these four dishes were superb examples of big flavors and small prices.
Translation: score.
But he was also marveling at the array of stellar roses we were both drinking and eventually wised up, purchasing a bottle of the Bandol Mas de la Rouviere 2011, flattering me by saying he never would have a) tasted it, much less, b) bought a bottle if he hadn't seen me enjoying it.
I love being the reason people experience (and buy) wine.
Besides, I bet his wife will have a better anniversary because of that bottle, so my work here was done.
To his credit, he has a successful 32-year relationship under his belt, a fact he said causes amazement among his friends.
Once he left, I enjoyed dessert, a trio of ice creams - lime, white peach and cocoa- with the ideal accompaniment, Muscadet de Beaume de Venise Domaine Saint Dominique.
Two words: perfect pairing.
I may be allergic to stone fruit, but I will never pass up white peach anything and the creamy mouth-feel of this peach ice cream was swoon-worthy.
Let my tongue swell and my mouth itch, for it is well worth the reaction.
The cocoa delivered raptures and I heard that there are people driving from D.C. to enjoy that cocoa bliss.
No surprise there.
While savoring dessert, I heard of the owner's impending trip to Paris and Provence, two destinations I have yet to experience and yet two places I long to know.
Even better, he's meeting a mutual friend there, a man who will ensure that they visit the best dance clubs and experience all that both cities have to offer.
A perfect travel companion, in other words.
By the time I finished the last of my flight, the final dinner guests were leaving and I knew it was time for me to clear out, too.
Driving home alone, I wasn't threatening anyone's driving with my kissing, but I was awfully satisfied with the direction my happy hours had taken.
Tomorrow's goal: preventing a man from driving safely.
I can dream, can't I?
Before Einstein, there was Henry Box Brown.
Meaning that my evening began at the Anderson Gallery happy hour for Jefferey Ruggles' talk on Henry Box Brown, the man who mailed himself to Philly to escape life as a slave.
I arrived and found a seat on the bench with a good view of the screen and close access to the cheese and cookies, as a nearby attendee pointed out.
Soon, I was joined by a WRIR DJ who, like me, was eager to glean some new information about an escaped slave with a plan.
As we awaited the start of the talk, we discussed Floyd Avenue and Cambridge, MA, and their very different worthiness as bike routes.
As a former thirteen-year resident of Floyd Avenue, I felt his pain about present-day Floyd.
Ruggles was funny, losing sight of his slide show as he shared endless details about Brown's journey from boxed cargo to globe-trotting entertainer, sharing his panoramics about life in Africa and as a slave with audiences all over the world.
Our speaker had even acquired original drawings of "A Nubian Slave," an illustrated and devastating series about the journey of an African destined for the New World.
At one point in the slide presentation, we saw a slide of Boston, the Charles River and Cambridge on the other side, necessitating me observing, "Speaking of..."
"Yea, I know, right?" the DJ agreed, referencing our earlier conversation.
The lecture was fascinating for its story of Brown's life, his struggle and his success at creating a life in Canada after abolitionists found fault with how he squandered his new-found freedom.
Wine, women, gambling and song.
Like it was their job to judge.
Friend and I bolted once the lecture ended, both with plans that would not wait.
Mine involved Amour Wine Bistro's l'heure heureuse, a happy hour involving four small plates for $12.
Who wouldn't be happy with such a deal?
They were the ones who had posted the Einstein quote and, frankly, anyone sharing that sentiment was speaking to me directly.
Moments after I sat down, I ordered a flight of roses and soon a man joined me at the bar, ogling my array of pink wines.
"That looks good!" he said, clearly coveting my roses.
What's not to love about Pere Cabouche 2012, Chateau de Valcombe 2012, L'Opale de la Presqu'ile de Saint Tropez 2011 and Bandol Mas de la Rouviere 2011?
Inquiring of the owner if any of my roses were not sweet (duh), he was assured that sweet was not an issue here.
He promptly ordered the exact same flight.
Oohing and ahhing over the array of roses, he told me that he'd been out shopping for his 32nd anniversary tomorrow.
The VMFA had yielded the jewelry for his wife's gift and Mongrel (natch) had supplied the card.
Just as he'd finished there, wifey had called and asked him to pick up dog food.
A side trip to PetCo. had delivered the dog chow, leaving him hot and sweaty (there is a heat wave going on, after all) and craving a glass of wine.
Sadly, he'd come in looking for a glass of Pinot Grigio.
It was only once he spied my four pink glasses that he'd succumbed to something far better.
As if I hadn't inspired enough envy, I proceeded to rub salt in the wounds by taking advantage of Amour's happy hour deal of four small plates for $12.
In short order, I devoured smoked trout "sushi" (English cucumber and smoked trout in orange-poached carrot roll with wasabi-soy-shitake reduction and candied ginger), marinated scallops with aioli and the freshest of melon and red onion salsas, summer gazpacho of English cukes and chilled watermelon gazpacho with a pickled veggie salsa and, finally, crispy prosciutto (baked prosciutto cups with tomato basil soubise, shaved Parmesan and the reddest of grilled tomato).
My pre-anniversary-celebrating friend was pea-green with envy.
Why not? In a city where all of a sudden every restaurant in town is doing early-evening specials, these four dishes were superb examples of big flavors and small prices.
Translation: score.
But he was also marveling at the array of stellar roses we were both drinking and eventually wised up, purchasing a bottle of the Bandol Mas de la Rouviere 2011, flattering me by saying he never would have a) tasted it, much less, b) bought a bottle if he hadn't seen me enjoying it.
I love being the reason people experience (and buy) wine.
Besides, I bet his wife will have a better anniversary because of that bottle, so my work here was done.
To his credit, he has a successful 32-year relationship under his belt, a fact he said causes amazement among his friends.
Once he left, I enjoyed dessert, a trio of ice creams - lime, white peach and cocoa- with the ideal accompaniment, Muscadet de Beaume de Venise Domaine Saint Dominique.
Two words: perfect pairing.
I may be allergic to stone fruit, but I will never pass up white peach anything and the creamy mouth-feel of this peach ice cream was swoon-worthy.
Let my tongue swell and my mouth itch, for it is well worth the reaction.
The cocoa delivered raptures and I heard that there are people driving from D.C. to enjoy that cocoa bliss.
No surprise there.
While savoring dessert, I heard of the owner's impending trip to Paris and Provence, two destinations I have yet to experience and yet two places I long to know.
Even better, he's meeting a mutual friend there, a man who will ensure that they visit the best dance clubs and experience all that both cities have to offer.
A perfect travel companion, in other words.
By the time I finished the last of my flight, the final dinner guests were leaving and I knew it was time for me to clear out, too.
Driving home alone, I wasn't threatening anyone's driving with my kissing, but I was awfully satisfied with the direction my happy hours had taken.
Tomorrow's goal: preventing a man from driving safely.
I can dream, can't I?
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Lotus and Lemons
It must be summer because the Anderson Gallery began their happy hour series tonight.
The kick-off was a reprise of one of my favorite events there, the WRIR scavenger hunt, where audio meets visual and guests like me get to figure out which matches are made in heaven.
Using the Anderson's two new excellent summer shows, "Sanford Biggers: Codex" and "Jacob Lawrence: The Harriet Tubman Series," DJ Michael Miracle had come up with songs to match fifteen of the artworks.
There were boomboxes in all the galleries as people took their list of songs and art and tried to match up which were inspired by what.
While Michael's show "Lotus Land" played on the boomboxes, we moved from gallery to gallery trying to see what he had seen in the art, all the while listening to his show.
The challenge was how thematically similar the works in each exhibit were, meaning certain songs could have gone with more than one piece of art.
But he's a clever one, that Michael Miracle, and as I chatted with others doing the hunt, I found that many of them were stymied in the same way I was.
And just like the first scavenger hunt two years ago, a big part of the pleasure of it was going back through the exhibits repeatedly, seeing new details each time.
While others finished up or gave up and went outside for the ice cream social part of the evening, I kept at it, sure I could figure this thing out.
When they announced the two-minute deadline, I turned my sheet in, still questioning two every similar song titles and not sure which painting went with which.
And, ta-da. It was a three-way tie and, no, I wasn't one of the three.
Sure enough, the two I'd gotten wrong were the two I'd repeatedly switched back and forth, not quite certain which was which.
So at least in my own head, I knew how close I'd been. In fact, if I'd turned in my sheet earlier before I started erasing, it might have been a four-way tie.
I consoled myself with romance.
The Westhampton was showing the Danish film "The Bald Hairdresser," which had been renamed for American sensibilities "Love is All You Need."
The perceived need to do that says so much about us as a people, doesn't it?
One of my favorite things about the film was how the characters moved seamlessly between Danish, English and Italian, with only occasional subtitles.
All the Danes had great big, beautiful blue eyes.
Another perk was that most of it was set in sunny and lemon-filled Sorrento, Italy, as gorgeous a place for romance as could be imagined.
That I was there just last Fall and remembered it well didn't hurt, either, especially given the magnificent cinematography.
Because the main characters are middle-aged, it wasn't a typical romantic comedy, instead showing two people who'd been around the block a few times and took a while to acknowledge the feelings developing between them instead of immediate sunshine and rainbows.
You know, like in middle-aged real life.
They even quoted Henry Miller.
The one thing we can never get enough of is love. And the one thing we never give enough of is love.
A truism, even at middle age.
Give me a Danish rom-com any time and hold the corny Americanized title.
The kick-off was a reprise of one of my favorite events there, the WRIR scavenger hunt, where audio meets visual and guests like me get to figure out which matches are made in heaven.
Using the Anderson's two new excellent summer shows, "Sanford Biggers: Codex" and "Jacob Lawrence: The Harriet Tubman Series," DJ Michael Miracle had come up with songs to match fifteen of the artworks.
There were boomboxes in all the galleries as people took their list of songs and art and tried to match up which were inspired by what.
While Michael's show "Lotus Land" played on the boomboxes, we moved from gallery to gallery trying to see what he had seen in the art, all the while listening to his show.
The challenge was how thematically similar the works in each exhibit were, meaning certain songs could have gone with more than one piece of art.
But he's a clever one, that Michael Miracle, and as I chatted with others doing the hunt, I found that many of them were stymied in the same way I was.
And just like the first scavenger hunt two years ago, a big part of the pleasure of it was going back through the exhibits repeatedly, seeing new details each time.
While others finished up or gave up and went outside for the ice cream social part of the evening, I kept at it, sure I could figure this thing out.
When they announced the two-minute deadline, I turned my sheet in, still questioning two every similar song titles and not sure which painting went with which.
And, ta-da. It was a three-way tie and, no, I wasn't one of the three.
Sure enough, the two I'd gotten wrong were the two I'd repeatedly switched back and forth, not quite certain which was which.
So at least in my own head, I knew how close I'd been. In fact, if I'd turned in my sheet earlier before I started erasing, it might have been a four-way tie.
I consoled myself with romance.
The Westhampton was showing the Danish film "The Bald Hairdresser," which had been renamed for American sensibilities "Love is All You Need."
The perceived need to do that says so much about us as a people, doesn't it?
One of my favorite things about the film was how the characters moved seamlessly between Danish, English and Italian, with only occasional subtitles.
All the Danes had great big, beautiful blue eyes.
Another perk was that most of it was set in sunny and lemon-filled Sorrento, Italy, as gorgeous a place for romance as could be imagined.
That I was there just last Fall and remembered it well didn't hurt, either, especially given the magnificent cinematography.
Because the main characters are middle-aged, it wasn't a typical romantic comedy, instead showing two people who'd been around the block a few times and took a while to acknowledge the feelings developing between them instead of immediate sunshine and rainbows.
You know, like in middle-aged real life.
They even quoted Henry Miller.
The one thing we can never get enough of is love. And the one thing we never give enough of is love.
A truism, even at middle age.
Give me a Danish rom-com any time and hold the corny Americanized title.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Support the Delusion
You'd think that I'd run in the opposite direction from a screening of a film called "The Store."
I do, after all, hate to shop and avoid it like the plague, excepting grocery and wine shopping.
But as part of the Brian Ulrich show at the Anderson Gallery, "Coppia," they're doing a four-week film series and tonight's was "The Store."
It was a 1983 documentary about Neiman Marcus' flagship store in Dallas, done without narration or point of view.
Just the facts, folks. Heaven to us documentary dorks.
Let's just say the comedic value was almost as high as the cultural snapshot of life in the early '80s.
For those who may not remember, those were both the "Dynasty" and Reagan years, two tragic and concurrent periods in our country's cultural decline.
A man comes in to buy a fur for his honey and compares wild sable and farm-raised sable jackets, with the salesman telling him, "Sable is a great Texas coat."
He's leaning toward the $45,000 wild caught one (more silver hairs).
In another scene, a woman tries on $25,000 rings while her blase husband looks on.
Over in the cosmetic department, a male associate does a makeover on a woman.
At a staff meeting to discuss N-M's new "international market," the store manager explains that they can't just stack salamis seven-deep.
"We can't sell butter cream cakes with blue roses next to kiwi tarts," he explains, meaning there will be no butter cream cakes at Neiman-Marcus.
But it wasn't retail that interested me, it was the times.
The time when all the women wore power suits with shoulder pads and blouses that tied in bows at the neck.
The time when half the staff smoked during sales meetings.
For that matter, customers smoked in the store, like the hacking old biddy who's ordering china from an accommodating salesman.
The time when stores had in-house seamstresses, telephone operators answering the switchboard and in-store jewelers.
I know it sounds like I'm describing mid-century America, but it was really just thirty years ago.
The security manager talks losses, theft and how the store had "four shoplifters this month."
Four? Four?
For a minute, the '80s seemed like the Eisenhower years.
Probably the coolest shots were at the founders' 75th anniversary celebration for the store.
Getting out of a limo was none other than Lady Bird Johnson. Columnist Art Buchwald spoke at the event.
Seeing both of them was like seeing a newsreel but from long past the days of newsreels.
Other than them, though, it seemed to focus on a lot of nouveau riche Texas types who, as my grandmother used to say, had more money than sense.
I, on the other hand, have way more sense than scratch.
So, naturally, a free show appeals to me.
Like tonight's at Balliceaux with Izzy and the Catastrophics, part of a two-week tour to Florida that just began for the group.
We are just off I-95 South, after all.
The quartet of guitar, upright bass, drums and sax began by saying that no two set lists were ever the same because each member of the band gets to pick the next song in turn.
The small crowd was enthusiastic about this fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants plan.
Front man Izzy was a force of nature on guitar, singing and theatrics.
We heard "Shiek of Araby" with its repeating chorus of, "Ain't got no pants," and that took us from Dixieland to surf guitar for the next song.
It appeared that Izzy was going to take us on an interesting ride tonight.
But not before explaining that the drummer and bass player were new to the group.
So new that this was their first gig with him.
When someone picked "Freeborn Man" for the next song, Izzy held up a finger to us.
"Let me explain to the drummer how this one goes and I'll be right back with you."
He and Steve had a tete a tete, he was back and the song was some solid testifying.
They followed that with Izzy saying, "I was feeling really bitter about a relationship when I wrote this song. It's about a bad breakup."
And, yes, "Mambo on Your Grave" had some bitter lyrics but the mambo beat underneath kept it lively.
"Beggin' for Megan" came about when Izzy was in New Orleans and talking with his then-band about girls.
"Everyone in the band had been involved with a Meagan there," he shared. "Whether or not they were all the same Meagan is still controversial."
And just for the record, more than one current member ended up on the stage begging.
The good news was it also got one couple dancing frenetically.
Emiliano, the sax player, chose "Had Some Loving" for his next pick, because that's the kind of song Italians choose.
Between songs, Izzy announced, "This might be a good time t to mention that we don't have a place to stay tonight."
"Yes, you do!" said a genial guy in the front row.
"Do you have beer?" Izzy asked of his generous host. He did.
Addressing the rest of us, Izzy checked his options first. "Anyone else have panthers or hot tubs?
We looked on blankly.
"No? Okay, we're staying with you."
And a bro-sleepover is born.
No judging here.
Then Izzy was back to business, asking the bass player what he wanted to play.
Instead of answering, the bass player, Jeff, began playing.
Three notes in, Izzy said, "Oh, that's a good one," and the band kicked into, "Ciao, Bella."
I should probably mention here that Izzy is quite theatrical, so hand gestures, posturing and stage movements were part of the price of admission, not that there was one.
After hearing about a burlesque dancer from home (Brooklyn), Dirty Martini, we were treated to a song, "Dirty Martini in a String Bikini." about her.
The bump and grind that accompanied that song had to be seen to be fully appreciated.
That said, they did a snappy version of "Honeysuckle Rose," with Izzy saying, "I only like songs I wrote or songs written by people I idolize. And I idolize Fats Waller."
Hence the honeysuckle.
There was a Hank Williams song ("My Bucket's Got a Hole in It") that was played while Emiliano traded his sax for a guitar case to collect ducats for their "Taco Bell fund" which they claimed was running dangerously low.
"Support the delusion!" Izzy exhorted. I did.
I was just glad I'd seen them having a wholesome Balliceaux meal before performing or I'd be worried sick.
For "I'm Gonna Knock You Out with My Love," one of Izzy's songs, there may have even been a hint of (was it?) yodeling.
Soon came an instrumental, introduced as such, with Izzy saying, "We haven't had time to practice it and this is their first gig. I wanna see what happens with it."
For their last song, the Italian sax player, Emiliano, chose Charlie Parker's "Ornithology" to close the performance.
Bebop was definitely the way to go out, as evidenced by the couple dancing madly throughout- sometimes terrifyingly fast, sometimes just side to side rhythmically, but never able to stop moving.
I wouldn't be surprised if the same kind of thing doesn't go down at that bro p.j. party.
I do, after all, hate to shop and avoid it like the plague, excepting grocery and wine shopping.
But as part of the Brian Ulrich show at the Anderson Gallery, "Coppia," they're doing a four-week film series and tonight's was "The Store."
It was a 1983 documentary about Neiman Marcus' flagship store in Dallas, done without narration or point of view.
Just the facts, folks. Heaven to us documentary dorks.
Let's just say the comedic value was almost as high as the cultural snapshot of life in the early '80s.
For those who may not remember, those were both the "Dynasty" and Reagan years, two tragic and concurrent periods in our country's cultural decline.
A man comes in to buy a fur for his honey and compares wild sable and farm-raised sable jackets, with the salesman telling him, "Sable is a great Texas coat."
He's leaning toward the $45,000 wild caught one (more silver hairs).
In another scene, a woman tries on $25,000 rings while her blase husband looks on.
Over in the cosmetic department, a male associate does a makeover on a woman.
At a staff meeting to discuss N-M's new "international market," the store manager explains that they can't just stack salamis seven-deep.
"We can't sell butter cream cakes with blue roses next to kiwi tarts," he explains, meaning there will be no butter cream cakes at Neiman-Marcus.
But it wasn't retail that interested me, it was the times.
The time when all the women wore power suits with shoulder pads and blouses that tied in bows at the neck.
The time when half the staff smoked during sales meetings.
For that matter, customers smoked in the store, like the hacking old biddy who's ordering china from an accommodating salesman.
The time when stores had in-house seamstresses, telephone operators answering the switchboard and in-store jewelers.
I know it sounds like I'm describing mid-century America, but it was really just thirty years ago.
The security manager talks losses, theft and how the store had "four shoplifters this month."
Four? Four?
For a minute, the '80s seemed like the Eisenhower years.
Probably the coolest shots were at the founders' 75th anniversary celebration for the store.
Getting out of a limo was none other than Lady Bird Johnson. Columnist Art Buchwald spoke at the event.
Seeing both of them was like seeing a newsreel but from long past the days of newsreels.
Other than them, though, it seemed to focus on a lot of nouveau riche Texas types who, as my grandmother used to say, had more money than sense.
I, on the other hand, have way more sense than scratch.
So, naturally, a free show appeals to me.
Like tonight's at Balliceaux with Izzy and the Catastrophics, part of a two-week tour to Florida that just began for the group.
We are just off I-95 South, after all.
The quartet of guitar, upright bass, drums and sax began by saying that no two set lists were ever the same because each member of the band gets to pick the next song in turn.
The small crowd was enthusiastic about this fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants plan.
Front man Izzy was a force of nature on guitar, singing and theatrics.
We heard "Shiek of Araby" with its repeating chorus of, "Ain't got no pants," and that took us from Dixieland to surf guitar for the next song.
It appeared that Izzy was going to take us on an interesting ride tonight.
But not before explaining that the drummer and bass player were new to the group.
So new that this was their first gig with him.
When someone picked "Freeborn Man" for the next song, Izzy held up a finger to us.
"Let me explain to the drummer how this one goes and I'll be right back with you."
He and Steve had a tete a tete, he was back and the song was some solid testifying.
They followed that with Izzy saying, "I was feeling really bitter about a relationship when I wrote this song. It's about a bad breakup."
And, yes, "Mambo on Your Grave" had some bitter lyrics but the mambo beat underneath kept it lively.
"Beggin' for Megan" came about when Izzy was in New Orleans and talking with his then-band about girls.
"Everyone in the band had been involved with a Meagan there," he shared. "Whether or not they were all the same Meagan is still controversial."
And just for the record, more than one current member ended up on the stage begging.
The good news was it also got one couple dancing frenetically.
Emiliano, the sax player, chose "Had Some Loving" for his next pick, because that's the kind of song Italians choose.
Between songs, Izzy announced, "This might be a good time t to mention that we don't have a place to stay tonight."
"Yes, you do!" said a genial guy in the front row.
"Do you have beer?" Izzy asked of his generous host. He did.
Addressing the rest of us, Izzy checked his options first. "Anyone else have panthers or hot tubs?
We looked on blankly.
"No? Okay, we're staying with you."
And a bro-sleepover is born.
No judging here.
Then Izzy was back to business, asking the bass player what he wanted to play.
Instead of answering, the bass player, Jeff, began playing.
Three notes in, Izzy said, "Oh, that's a good one," and the band kicked into, "Ciao, Bella."
I should probably mention here that Izzy is quite theatrical, so hand gestures, posturing and stage movements were part of the price of admission, not that there was one.
After hearing about a burlesque dancer from home (Brooklyn), Dirty Martini, we were treated to a song, "Dirty Martini in a String Bikini." about her.
The bump and grind that accompanied that song had to be seen to be fully appreciated.
That said, they did a snappy version of "Honeysuckle Rose," with Izzy saying, "I only like songs I wrote or songs written by people I idolize. And I idolize Fats Waller."
Hence the honeysuckle.
There was a Hank Williams song ("My Bucket's Got a Hole in It") that was played while Emiliano traded his sax for a guitar case to collect ducats for their "Taco Bell fund" which they claimed was running dangerously low.
"Support the delusion!" Izzy exhorted. I did.
I was just glad I'd seen them having a wholesome Balliceaux meal before performing or I'd be worried sick.
For "I'm Gonna Knock You Out with My Love," one of Izzy's songs, there may have even been a hint of (was it?) yodeling.
Soon came an instrumental, introduced as such, with Izzy saying, "We haven't had time to practice it and this is their first gig. I wanna see what happens with it."
For their last song, the Italian sax player, Emiliano, chose Charlie Parker's "Ornithology" to close the performance.
Bebop was definitely the way to go out, as evidenced by the couple dancing madly throughout- sometimes terrifyingly fast, sometimes just side to side rhythmically, but never able to stop moving.
I wouldn't be surprised if the same kind of thing doesn't go down at that bro p.j. party.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Enlightening and Dismal
It's good to be reminded of alternate mindsets.
I found that out by going to the Anderson Gallery for Brian Ulrich's talk on his current shows, "Coppia" and "Closeout," which I'd already seen once, here.
Walking to the front of the gallery to talk to the room-overflowing crowd, a good percentage of whom were students, he gestured at the mic and asked, "Do I need this?"
Pause. "It would be awesome if it had some reverb on it."
I knew exactly what he meant.
He settled on moving the stand nearer him and perching on a stool to talk about his photographs.
Explaining that after September 11th he lost interest in the kind of autobiographical work he'd been doing, he began explaining the overwhelming sadness that had permeated the country in the weeks after.
He referred to an overall "grieving umbrella" that we all had fallen under then.
As he continued to explain something so obvious, it occurred to me.
Most of the people in the room had been 8,9,10 years old when the attack had happened.
Children.
No matter what they recall of the events and the effects, they did not process it as adults and their take on it would almost have to be less fully informed.
Ergo Brian's setting the cultural scene for them.
What I saw as quite obvious had to laid out for them.
While describing shooting the thrift stores for the second part of the project, he said, "I was working in thrift stores while I was an undergraduate. It was an enlightening and dismal experience."
He sheepishly shared how he'd removed things from "dark" malls long closed.
When it came to the end, he concluded by saying, "I feel like that was the longest run-on sentence."
There was big talk, "Discover a commitment to an idea," and reassurances, "I think I'm making dumb, bad pictures and then something clicks."
Hell, that could be considered the kernel of artistic endeavor.
But the reality is his shopping photographs are, as he admits, "Not living room art. People have to get it."
Talking about people redefining what their definition of success is had him instantly mindful of his audience.
"That was definitely not meant to be ironic," he clarified.
Again, what I saw as quite obvious had to be laid out for them.
Wow. I'm not old, I'm just pre-ironic.
I always enjoy hearing questions from students trying to wrap their heads around hearing from an adult who's succeeding artistically.
I left the grasshoppers to the master to head over to Steady Sounds for comedy.
My neighborhood record store was sponsoring #14 (I think) of the Midnight Suggestion upstairs under the world's lowest ceiling.
Waiting for things to get started, I perused the bins, deciding which had the best come-ons on them.
The winner: Imperial Teen's "Feel the Sound" with the Rolling Stone tease, "California new wave trash pop deviants."
If you ask me, Trash Pop Deviants is a much better band name than Imperial Teen anyway.
Gradually people began moving upstairs for a quartet of Austin comedians.
There I saw an acquaintance who'd just discovered he and his wife are having triplets, so I had to ask if he'd seen his life flash before his eyes when he'd heard the news.
"Yea, that first day was a black day," he admitted, mentioning a morning drink before adjusting to the very big news.
No wonder he'd come to laugh.
I met a couple of guys next to me, one of whom's wife told him, "You're in fat's cross hairs."
I'm sure she only told him for his own good, but a couple of us laughed out loud.
Marty, one of Steady's owners came up to turn on the air conditioning, worried that on this unseasonably warm, windy and humid night, that we might need cooling down.
It was a good call.
Our emcee had not had time to come up with any clever puns of introduction for the comedians, but he plucked a few things from the "Times" headlines for some last-minute topical humor.
Then we were on to Shawn who introduced himself as "White Man #2," when he moved to the front of the room to crack wise.
Train travel was described as preferable to flying because if there was a murder, the passengers would solve it.
That could even be called literary humor.
Aging came up when he mentioned he'd looked in the mirror and realized that, at age 33, he wasn't going to be very "desirable" in prison.
"That's sweet," he said of being left alone, "And kind of bitter."
Humor.
The next guy was Jesse (I think?) and he led with smoking, mentioning how bad bowling allies smelled and how they were better than the patch or gum for quitting motivation.
Honestly, I had no idea there were still places that allowed smoking.
He even included a public service announcement, "Tip your bartenders well!" so he was also teaching us life lessons.
Bill wore a vest, perhaps so would be remembered as the comedian who wore a vest.
He said he used to do Cafe Diem, notable mainly because of the superior graffiti on its bathroom walls.
That degenerated into ghosts and oral pleasures before he brought us back to his breakup.
Is there a more reliable comedy crutch?
But we weren't to fret for him because he'd used the opportunity to go on OKCupid, the salvation of the single and the broken-hearted.
Or so I've heard.
Immediately a woman in the audience challenged him on it and he asked what her issue with it was.
"You gotta have game!" she threw out.
He worked that into his routine which was basically about a girl not liking the kind of sex he wanted.
"Dump her!" the heckler suggested.
But his best line of the night was, "I'm tired of irony."
Aren't we all?
Last up was Joe, who obviously didn't know his crowd when he began by saying, "I'm not a vegetarian. That shit annoys me."
I give Joe credit, though; he taught me about otherkins, those people who see themselves as partially non-human.
Oh, yes, they do. Part kitty cat, maybe.
He got me laughing when he mentioned Spike TV and its tag line, "TV for Men," saying, "I thought all TV stations were."
Now I know they do a show called "Manswers," in which men ask questions and are given testosterone-fueled answers.
Hysterical.
Just as funny was his gun bit wherein he likened the NRA's suggestion that the solution to the gun problem is more guns by suggesting that the problem for diabetes is Sweet Tarts.
The headliner had been a funny guy. For that matter, they'd all been funny.
Texas new wave trash comedy deviants, even.
People just have to get it.
I found that out by going to the Anderson Gallery for Brian Ulrich's talk on his current shows, "Coppia" and "Closeout," which I'd already seen once, here.
Walking to the front of the gallery to talk to the room-overflowing crowd, a good percentage of whom were students, he gestured at the mic and asked, "Do I need this?"
Pause. "It would be awesome if it had some reverb on it."
I knew exactly what he meant.
He settled on moving the stand nearer him and perching on a stool to talk about his photographs.
Explaining that after September 11th he lost interest in the kind of autobiographical work he'd been doing, he began explaining the overwhelming sadness that had permeated the country in the weeks after.
He referred to an overall "grieving umbrella" that we all had fallen under then.
As he continued to explain something so obvious, it occurred to me.
Most of the people in the room had been 8,9,10 years old when the attack had happened.
Children.
No matter what they recall of the events and the effects, they did not process it as adults and their take on it would almost have to be less fully informed.
Ergo Brian's setting the cultural scene for them.
What I saw as quite obvious had to laid out for them.
While describing shooting the thrift stores for the second part of the project, he said, "I was working in thrift stores while I was an undergraduate. It was an enlightening and dismal experience."
He sheepishly shared how he'd removed things from "dark" malls long closed.
When it came to the end, he concluded by saying, "I feel like that was the longest run-on sentence."
There was big talk, "Discover a commitment to an idea," and reassurances, "I think I'm making dumb, bad pictures and then something clicks."
Hell, that could be considered the kernel of artistic endeavor.
But the reality is his shopping photographs are, as he admits, "Not living room art. People have to get it."
Talking about people redefining what their definition of success is had him instantly mindful of his audience.
"That was definitely not meant to be ironic," he clarified.
Again, what I saw as quite obvious had to be laid out for them.
Wow. I'm not old, I'm just pre-ironic.
I always enjoy hearing questions from students trying to wrap their heads around hearing from an adult who's succeeding artistically.
I left the grasshoppers to the master to head over to Steady Sounds for comedy.
My neighborhood record store was sponsoring #14 (I think) of the Midnight Suggestion upstairs under the world's lowest ceiling.
Waiting for things to get started, I perused the bins, deciding which had the best come-ons on them.
The winner: Imperial Teen's "Feel the Sound" with the Rolling Stone tease, "California new wave trash pop deviants."
If you ask me, Trash Pop Deviants is a much better band name than Imperial Teen anyway.
Gradually people began moving upstairs for a quartet of Austin comedians.
There I saw an acquaintance who'd just discovered he and his wife are having triplets, so I had to ask if he'd seen his life flash before his eyes when he'd heard the news.
"Yea, that first day was a black day," he admitted, mentioning a morning drink before adjusting to the very big news.
No wonder he'd come to laugh.
I met a couple of guys next to me, one of whom's wife told him, "You're in fat's cross hairs."
I'm sure she only told him for his own good, but a couple of us laughed out loud.
Marty, one of Steady's owners came up to turn on the air conditioning, worried that on this unseasonably warm, windy and humid night, that we might need cooling down.
It was a good call.
Our emcee had not had time to come up with any clever puns of introduction for the comedians, but he plucked a few things from the "Times" headlines for some last-minute topical humor.
Then we were on to Shawn who introduced himself as "White Man #2," when he moved to the front of the room to crack wise.
Train travel was described as preferable to flying because if there was a murder, the passengers would solve it.
That could even be called literary humor.
Aging came up when he mentioned he'd looked in the mirror and realized that, at age 33, he wasn't going to be very "desirable" in prison.
"That's sweet," he said of being left alone, "And kind of bitter."
Humor.
The next guy was Jesse (I think?) and he led with smoking, mentioning how bad bowling allies smelled and how they were better than the patch or gum for quitting motivation.
Honestly, I had no idea there were still places that allowed smoking.
He even included a public service announcement, "Tip your bartenders well!" so he was also teaching us life lessons.
Bill wore a vest, perhaps so would be remembered as the comedian who wore a vest.
He said he used to do Cafe Diem, notable mainly because of the superior graffiti on its bathroom walls.
That degenerated into ghosts and oral pleasures before he brought us back to his breakup.
Is there a more reliable comedy crutch?
But we weren't to fret for him because he'd used the opportunity to go on OKCupid, the salvation of the single and the broken-hearted.
Or so I've heard.
Immediately a woman in the audience challenged him on it and he asked what her issue with it was.
"You gotta have game!" she threw out.
He worked that into his routine which was basically about a girl not liking the kind of sex he wanted.
"Dump her!" the heckler suggested.
But his best line of the night was, "I'm tired of irony."
Aren't we all?
Last up was Joe, who obviously didn't know his crowd when he began by saying, "I'm not a vegetarian. That shit annoys me."
I give Joe credit, though; he taught me about otherkins, those people who see themselves as partially non-human.
Oh, yes, they do. Part kitty cat, maybe.
He got me laughing when he mentioned Spike TV and its tag line, "TV for Men," saying, "I thought all TV stations were."
Now I know they do a show called "Manswers," in which men ask questions and are given testosterone-fueled answers.
Hysterical.
Just as funny was his gun bit wherein he likened the NRA's suggestion that the solution to the gun problem is more guns by suggesting that the problem for diabetes is Sweet Tarts.
The headliner had been a funny guy. For that matter, they'd all been funny.
Texas new wave trash comedy deviants, even.
People just have to get it.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Buy Less, See More, Eat Anything
All I'm shooting for is to be a better person. That's all.
But I'm a lousy consumer, I've got no faith and I say yes to blood.
So, yea, it was just another Friday night.
First up was the opening of Brian Ulrich's shows, "Copia" and "Closeout" at the mobbed Anderson Gallery.
(sniff) Wasn't it just a few weeks ago when we were all reveling in unlimited parking and the absence of students when, wham, bam, thank you ma'am, they're back and looking earnest and trying to understand photographs from the mid-20th century?
The show was a fascinating look at our culture of consumerism, from surreptitious photos taken in big box stores to posed thrift stores shots to vintage photographs of people during the Great Prosperity.
While the photographs taken since 9/11 had an uneasy familiarity, not to mention over-saturated colors, the pre-1970 black and white photos had a dense sense of texture and tone that gave them a rich look no longer attainable with a digital camera.
And while the show raises all sorts of questions about how we buy and why, I can rest assured that my infrequent trips to the thrift store have little in common with the desire to own more of the latest and greatest.
From the VCU campus, it was but a short trip to exchange the artsy student crowd for the rabid theater crowd for the Acts of Faith Festival preview.
Walking into the November Theater, a concession stand host called out that the orchestra seating was full, so to head upstairs to the balcony.
Once comfortably ensconced in the front row of said balcony, a look down confirmed that there were still plenty of available seats downstairs.
The couple who sat down next to me mentioned the same thing.
Then he said, "I'm not sure I've been here since I saw John McCutcheon here 25 years ago."
Well, my dear sir, then you aren't getting out enough.
The Reverend Alex Evans began the evening by welcoming us to the 9th year of the Acts of Faith Festival and then doing a roll call of all the church groups represented tonight.
Each one clapped and hooted to show their presence, but since he didn't call out a category for "heathen," i had no opportunity to clap or hoot.
Let's not leave out the faithless, Reverend.
We have lack of faith and surely that's part of the festival, too.
From there, we were off and running with a preview of the 18 plays that will comprise the festival.
Some had casts to do a scene (Henley Street's "Faith Healer"), some had films or stills because the show was already in production tonight (Virginia Rep's Children Theater's "Magic Flute) and some had key people talking about the play-to-come concerning bright young things (Noel Coward's "Hay Fever").
A couple had full musical numbers (Hanover Tavern and "Breast in Show"), one taught us an Arabic greeting (For Our Children Productions), and one began with the reliably amusing Evan Nasteff dressed circa 1984 as an announcer (Cadence's "Sons of the Prophet").
Not surprisingly, the announcement and arrival of Carol Piersol (formerly of the beleaguered Firehouse Theater Company) got a standing ovation from the theater-savvy in the room.
The little company that could (TheaterLab) did a rousing scene from "Riding the Bull," with two Ghostlight Afterparty regulars, Deejay Gray and Maggie Boop.
Richmond Shakespeare performed an act of faith when they had an actor do a monologue from "The Tempest" when rehearsals don't even start until next week.
It was a pleasant surprise to learn that Friends of Dogwood Dell are now doing a winter season and the talented Todd Schall-Vass was part of the cast for "ECCE."
Richmond Triangle Players had one of the best lines ("The 1970s have a great deal to answer for") and the always-hilarious Chris Hester as a manchild in porcupine-land.
All in all, it was a satisfying look at the plays that will provide the community talkbacks about all kinds of issues of faith for the next couple of months.
As someone pointed out, national theater performance groups are looking at our model of how the faith and theater communities can work together annually to engage the community in meaningful conversation about important issues.
So, yea, we're pretty cool. Even the heathen part of the audience, I might add.
But here's the dilemma.
Say we've evolved to where Richmond has a vibrant scene, where on any given Friday night, a person can go to a compelling art opening followed by a theater preview and when she walks out at 10:15, she's yet to have dinner.
Where in this happening city can a person go have something more than bar food, something as interesting as the art and theater she's seen tonight?
This person decided on Belmont Food Shop, knowing that they have a late night cook's menu that offers no choices and impressive offerings.
I slid in next to a couple discussing music with a musician next to them and was immediately at home.
The wine list yielded up Negroamaro Corte Salice Salentino Riserva, which the barkeep promised would deliver "black and bitter," as fitting a match for whatever was going to come out on the cook's plate as I could hope for.
Meanwhile, the pleasantly chatty couple ("You look familiar," she said, leaning in. "Are you a singer?" Ha! It is to laugh) next to me were sharing desserts and ordering after-dinner drinks and coffee.
The bartender made up a drink to accompany her French silk pie and after one taste of the amaretto/elderflower/bubbly concoction, she noted, "Well, that'll make me a better person."
What more could a person ask of a drink?
My cook's plate arrived and it was magnificent: chicken leg confit with frisee, radishes with butter, sliced lamb heart with pickled okra and pickled onion and blood sausage cake with a fried quail egg atop it. Oh, yes, and wedges of bread.
There may be people who would turn up their nose at this array of offbeat and offal, but I was thrilled and dove in like I hadn't eaten since afternoon (I hadn't).
I think it's brilliant for Belmont to offer a safe menu for evening dining and to pull out the interesting stuff for late night adventurous types.
Hell, I don't even care what's on the plate because the kitchen is so adept at deciding what to offer.
My bar companions asked me where I liked to go for music, acting like they'd hit the jackpot when I began over-sharing my favorite haunts and why.
More black and bitter followed to accompany a chocolate truffle and some candied orange peel, the latest sweet offerings from a kitchen that always seems to be trying something new.
Sitting there finishing my Italian wine, listening to music from the '20s, with the bartender singing along to "Ain't Misbehaving," the server and I got in a discussion of the pleasures of green Chartreuse.
I told her of an impossibly hot, humid summer night on nearby Floyd Avenue with a a handful of overheated friends and a bottle of Chartreuse that was still memorable fifteen years later.
"Wow, yea, I'll have to try that," she said, clearly intrigued by my story of misbehaving, no ain't about it.
It should make her a better person. Or, at the very least, a heathen.
But I'm a lousy consumer, I've got no faith and I say yes to blood.
So, yea, it was just another Friday night.
First up was the opening of Brian Ulrich's shows, "Copia" and "Closeout" at the mobbed Anderson Gallery.
(sniff) Wasn't it just a few weeks ago when we were all reveling in unlimited parking and the absence of students when, wham, bam, thank you ma'am, they're back and looking earnest and trying to understand photographs from the mid-20th century?
The show was a fascinating look at our culture of consumerism, from surreptitious photos taken in big box stores to posed thrift stores shots to vintage photographs of people during the Great Prosperity.
While the photographs taken since 9/11 had an uneasy familiarity, not to mention over-saturated colors, the pre-1970 black and white photos had a dense sense of texture and tone that gave them a rich look no longer attainable with a digital camera.
And while the show raises all sorts of questions about how we buy and why, I can rest assured that my infrequent trips to the thrift store have little in common with the desire to own more of the latest and greatest.
From the VCU campus, it was but a short trip to exchange the artsy student crowd for the rabid theater crowd for the Acts of Faith Festival preview.
Walking into the November Theater, a concession stand host called out that the orchestra seating was full, so to head upstairs to the balcony.
Once comfortably ensconced in the front row of said balcony, a look down confirmed that there were still plenty of available seats downstairs.
The couple who sat down next to me mentioned the same thing.
Then he said, "I'm not sure I've been here since I saw John McCutcheon here 25 years ago."
Well, my dear sir, then you aren't getting out enough.
The Reverend Alex Evans began the evening by welcoming us to the 9th year of the Acts of Faith Festival and then doing a roll call of all the church groups represented tonight.
Each one clapped and hooted to show their presence, but since he didn't call out a category for "heathen," i had no opportunity to clap or hoot.
Let's not leave out the faithless, Reverend.
We have lack of faith and surely that's part of the festival, too.
From there, we were off and running with a preview of the 18 plays that will comprise the festival.
Some had casts to do a scene (Henley Street's "Faith Healer"), some had films or stills because the show was already in production tonight (Virginia Rep's Children Theater's "Magic Flute) and some had key people talking about the play-to-come concerning bright young things (Noel Coward's "Hay Fever").
A couple had full musical numbers (Hanover Tavern and "Breast in Show"), one taught us an Arabic greeting (For Our Children Productions), and one began with the reliably amusing Evan Nasteff dressed circa 1984 as an announcer (Cadence's "Sons of the Prophet").
Not surprisingly, the announcement and arrival of Carol Piersol (formerly of the beleaguered Firehouse Theater Company) got a standing ovation from the theater-savvy in the room.
The little company that could (TheaterLab) did a rousing scene from "Riding the Bull," with two Ghostlight Afterparty regulars, Deejay Gray and Maggie Boop.
Richmond Shakespeare performed an act of faith when they had an actor do a monologue from "The Tempest" when rehearsals don't even start until next week.
It was a pleasant surprise to learn that Friends of Dogwood Dell are now doing a winter season and the talented Todd Schall-Vass was part of the cast for "ECCE."
Richmond Triangle Players had one of the best lines ("The 1970s have a great deal to answer for") and the always-hilarious Chris Hester as a manchild in porcupine-land.
All in all, it was a satisfying look at the plays that will provide the community talkbacks about all kinds of issues of faith for the next couple of months.
As someone pointed out, national theater performance groups are looking at our model of how the faith and theater communities can work together annually to engage the community in meaningful conversation about important issues.
So, yea, we're pretty cool. Even the heathen part of the audience, I might add.
But here's the dilemma.
Say we've evolved to where Richmond has a vibrant scene, where on any given Friday night, a person can go to a compelling art opening followed by a theater preview and when she walks out at 10:15, she's yet to have dinner.
Where in this happening city can a person go have something more than bar food, something as interesting as the art and theater she's seen tonight?
This person decided on Belmont Food Shop, knowing that they have a late night cook's menu that offers no choices and impressive offerings.
I slid in next to a couple discussing music with a musician next to them and was immediately at home.
The wine list yielded up Negroamaro Corte Salice Salentino Riserva, which the barkeep promised would deliver "black and bitter," as fitting a match for whatever was going to come out on the cook's plate as I could hope for.
Meanwhile, the pleasantly chatty couple ("You look familiar," she said, leaning in. "Are you a singer?" Ha! It is to laugh) next to me were sharing desserts and ordering after-dinner drinks and coffee.
The bartender made up a drink to accompany her French silk pie and after one taste of the amaretto/elderflower/bubbly concoction, she noted, "Well, that'll make me a better person."
What more could a person ask of a drink?
My cook's plate arrived and it was magnificent: chicken leg confit with frisee, radishes with butter, sliced lamb heart with pickled okra and pickled onion and blood sausage cake with a fried quail egg atop it. Oh, yes, and wedges of bread.
There may be people who would turn up their nose at this array of offbeat and offal, but I was thrilled and dove in like I hadn't eaten since afternoon (I hadn't).
I think it's brilliant for Belmont to offer a safe menu for evening dining and to pull out the interesting stuff for late night adventurous types.
Hell, I don't even care what's on the plate because the kitchen is so adept at deciding what to offer.
My bar companions asked me where I liked to go for music, acting like they'd hit the jackpot when I began over-sharing my favorite haunts and why.
More black and bitter followed to accompany a chocolate truffle and some candied orange peel, the latest sweet offerings from a kitchen that always seems to be trying something new.
Sitting there finishing my Italian wine, listening to music from the '20s, with the bartender singing along to "Ain't Misbehaving," the server and I got in a discussion of the pleasures of green Chartreuse.
I told her of an impossibly hot, humid summer night on nearby Floyd Avenue with a a handful of overheated friends and a bottle of Chartreuse that was still memorable fifteen years later.
"Wow, yea, I'll have to try that," she said, clearly intrigued by my story of misbehaving, no ain't about it.
It should make her a better person. Or, at the very least, a heathen.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Twin Peaks
It was First Fridays on steroids.
The fun began at the Anderson Gallery for the opening of "Judith Godwin: Early Abstractions."
After hearing the artist's talk last night, I was eager to see her work firsthand.
It was fascinating to watch the progression of her work from her junior year in college through the late '60s.
From the earliest academic painting where she was clearly trying to break down form, through the exquisite "Martha Graham: Lamentation," with its otherworldly blues and suggestion of a black figure in motion to what she called her "Japanese period," I was mesmerized by her development as an artist.
Walking by a student on gallery duty, I heard her lament, "As a young painter, I can't imagine what it felt like to live through that period she did."
I didn't have the heart to tell her that the period she's living through has the potential to be just as impressive to an artist-to-be not yet born.
Assuming, that is, that she and her artistic-minded peers persevere and stay true to themselves.
And if the work of the young Judith Godwin in the galleries there didn't inspire her to that, she was already hopeless.
By the end, I concluded that my favorite was probably "Blue Storm" from 1963 for its evocation of the range of dark blues where horizon separates sky and sea in the run-up to a bad storm.
Coinciding with that show was the VMFA's "Gesture: Judith Godwin and Abstract Expressionism," which included work from her entire career as well as that of other artists in the collection.
Making my way around the gallery, it was a shock to finally see one of Godwin's works from the '70s.
The progression was clear and only became more so with the '80s and '90s works.
Her brushstrokes became looser, her palette lighter with softer colors.
It was a crash course in the art of one woman, surrounded by other second wave abstract expressionists, including several Virginians.
I don't know how a young painter, or anyone with a shred of interest in painting, could walk away without a profound appreciation for the talent of a woman who fought the very male mainstream of the time and stayed true to her vision.
But maybe I should check with a young painter just to be sure.
After getting a healthy dose of Godwin, we moved upstairs to Amuse for dinner.
When we sat down at the bar, the bartender reminded me that I was sitting next to a neighbor.
Sure enough, the woman sitting there lives a half a block from me.
It's a small world after all at the VMFA.
It was a lovely time to be in Amuse, with the last hour of daylight making for a pale and then deep blue sky.
With the impending opening of the museum's Asian galleries, Amuse's menu has taken a turn eastward.
After scoring Michael Shaps' VMFA viognier and a split of Cristalino cava, we couldn't resist the pork buns stuffed with cucumber and scallions served with pickled onions and hoisin sauce.
Let's just say that the kitchen clearly has a knack for Asian flavors.
We were told about a dish so brand-new that it hadn't even made it on to tonight's menu, so that was our decision made.
General Tso's chicken used thigh meat and came over jasmine rice with tempura asparagus atop it.
The bartender had recommended the Kung Pao beef for its Szechuan spiciness, but admitted that she hadn't had the new dish, so she was unsure about its spiciness.
The first bite yielded the answer; there was a subtle but distinct heat on the finish that delivered the kicker.
Take-out Tso's never tasted so good.
Conversation ranged all over the place, with our bartender frequently supplying her opinion.
Burning issues like what percentage of men 20 to 60 recognize a good woman when they meet one?
I got one 50% and one 10%, so no conclusions could be drawn.
While making up our mind about dessert, we shared a new drink on the cocktail menu, the Ice Cube.
It came in a glass with only a straw sized opening, but inside the glass was tequila, Chambord, agave, lime juice, grapefruit juice and Sprite.
Oh, yes, and a big, round Chambord-colored ice cube.
It was like a ship in a bottle. How did that big cube get in a glass with only a straw-sized hole?
Hint: you'll need to drink one to find out.
Given the subtlely blended flavors, that shouldn't be too difficult.
I'm not even a cocktail drinker and I slurped down my half.
Dessert was a chocolate hazelnut tort, an extremely moist way to end a meal.
And for possibly the first time since Picasso, I did not end my meal with an absinthe drip.
The Ice Cube had taken precedence.
By the time we left, I had to hightail it back to J-Ward to catch a couple of major shows.
My first stop was Ghostprint Gallery for "Josh George: The Scientific Method," a show of much larger works than I'd seen from him before.
But having just come from Godwin's shows, I was already adjusted to paintings done large.
George uses paint and collage and the pieces in this show, done over a five-month period he told me, were darker than the ones I'd seen last fall.
Even the titles were darker: "First Line of Defense in the Frozen Yogurt Wars" and "The Organ Harvesters."
The artist was there, but as usual, we talked more restaurants than art.
I was happy to hear that the show will be up for two months so I can take a friend and see it again.
Leaving Ghostprint so they could lock up, my final stop was Gallery 5 for "&@$#!: An Exhibition of Comic Artists."
Walking in, I caught the last song of trio Houdan the Mystic, billed as "three beards playing instruments."
Honestly, that's most every band in town with number of beards the only variable.
I wouldn't want to judge any band by one song, but I did like what I heard of their psychedelic math rock.
From there, I went upstairs to check out the comic art.
Before I could even begin, I ran into Lily, the talented and ambitious woman who creates the large-scale puppets for the upcoming Halloween parade as well as the annual May Day parade.
She's busy preparing for the Halloween parade and told me this year's theme.
Saints and sinners and Virginia General Assembly puppets will represent the sinners.
How brilliant is that?
We hadn't seen each other in ages, so we took the time to catch up while the friend she was with patiently waited through our girl talk.
Suddenly I noticed something.
Peking out from Lily's dress was a black polka-dotted bra.
I immediately asked her friend to unzip my dress six inches.
Without so much as an inquiry why, he did so, allowing me to show Lily the top of my identical black polka-dotted bra.
So there we were, two grown women holding the tops of our twin bras next to the other one.
Lily turned to her unzipping friend. "Did you have any idea where that was going?"
Apparently he hadn't but was willing to go along for the ride.
You gottta love men.
That business addressed, I said my adieus and moved on to the art.
I found myself drawn to Julia Scott's work, including "Sirens" and "Joey," an ink, watercolor and Pentel piece.
My eye was captured by the shades of green and black that evoked the capped and bearded Joey.
Naturally I was attracted to James Callahan's "Barf Comics Cover" of the first-ever issue, with its cover tease of "Holy freakin' collector's item! You should probably buy two of 'em!!!"
That sense of humor is one of my favorite things about Callahan's work and one of the reasons I have a Callahan hanging in my apartment.
Greg Roth's three pieces of ink on paper showed very different scenes.
One was "Conan: Born in the Battlefield" of men in horned helmets with swords, while the other two, "Freaks of the Heartland" were of figures in overalls out in a rural setting.
By the time I finished reading comics, I heard music starting and headed downstairs.
Quintet Way, Shape or Form was playing their second show tonight.
As they began to play, I stood near the window where I could see the fire performers finishing up their acts of derring-do to the beats of two DJs.
What I didn't expect was that when the fire performers stopped, the music was cranked louder and spontaneous dancing in the street began as the audience took over center stage.
After a few minutes, things got very Soul Train with a group of four guys taking turns trying to outdo each other with their moves.
But I wanted to pay attention to WSoF because their electronic indie pop was awfully catchy.
The lead singer had a great voice and was kept busy turning knobs and playing guitar.
All of a sudden I had company at the window when a woman came over to look outside and found the dance party in full swing.
"Her momma should have taught her not to go out in shorts like that," the woman clucked about the leopard-print shorts as short as any underwear and even tighter.
For the record, the woman speaking was probably no more than ten years older than the girl dancing, but was clearly calling it as she saw it.
I left her to her voyeurism and went back to figuring out what I was liking about WSoF.
With hints of chillwave, post rock and enough electronica to get some of the dance party stragglers moving now that they'd moved inside, I found a lot to like.
And if this really was their second show, bravo, boys.
But they were full of youthful energy/enthusiasm and when they finished their set, said they were heading down two blocks to do another show at the Bug house with some other electronic bands.
Tempting as that sounded, I already had plans to walk down two blocks and finally bring my first Friday to a close.
I just hope I didn't miss the show of a lifetime.
Come on, the bug house?
Only in Jackson Ward and only on first Friday.
The fun began at the Anderson Gallery for the opening of "Judith Godwin: Early Abstractions."
After hearing the artist's talk last night, I was eager to see her work firsthand.
It was fascinating to watch the progression of her work from her junior year in college through the late '60s.
From the earliest academic painting where she was clearly trying to break down form, through the exquisite "Martha Graham: Lamentation," with its otherworldly blues and suggestion of a black figure in motion to what she called her "Japanese period," I was mesmerized by her development as an artist.
Walking by a student on gallery duty, I heard her lament, "As a young painter, I can't imagine what it felt like to live through that period she did."
I didn't have the heart to tell her that the period she's living through has the potential to be just as impressive to an artist-to-be not yet born.
Assuming, that is, that she and her artistic-minded peers persevere and stay true to themselves.
And if the work of the young Judith Godwin in the galleries there didn't inspire her to that, she was already hopeless.
By the end, I concluded that my favorite was probably "Blue Storm" from 1963 for its evocation of the range of dark blues where horizon separates sky and sea in the run-up to a bad storm.
Coinciding with that show was the VMFA's "Gesture: Judith Godwin and Abstract Expressionism," which included work from her entire career as well as that of other artists in the collection.
Making my way around the gallery, it was a shock to finally see one of Godwin's works from the '70s.
The progression was clear and only became more so with the '80s and '90s works.
Her brushstrokes became looser, her palette lighter with softer colors.
It was a crash course in the art of one woman, surrounded by other second wave abstract expressionists, including several Virginians.
I don't know how a young painter, or anyone with a shred of interest in painting, could walk away without a profound appreciation for the talent of a woman who fought the very male mainstream of the time and stayed true to her vision.
But maybe I should check with a young painter just to be sure.
After getting a healthy dose of Godwin, we moved upstairs to Amuse for dinner.
When we sat down at the bar, the bartender reminded me that I was sitting next to a neighbor.
Sure enough, the woman sitting there lives a half a block from me.
It's a small world after all at the VMFA.
It was a lovely time to be in Amuse, with the last hour of daylight making for a pale and then deep blue sky.
With the impending opening of the museum's Asian galleries, Amuse's menu has taken a turn eastward.
After scoring Michael Shaps' VMFA viognier and a split of Cristalino cava, we couldn't resist the pork buns stuffed with cucumber and scallions served with pickled onions and hoisin sauce.
Let's just say that the kitchen clearly has a knack for Asian flavors.
We were told about a dish so brand-new that it hadn't even made it on to tonight's menu, so that was our decision made.
General Tso's chicken used thigh meat and came over jasmine rice with tempura asparagus atop it.
The bartender had recommended the Kung Pao beef for its Szechuan spiciness, but admitted that she hadn't had the new dish, so she was unsure about its spiciness.
The first bite yielded the answer; there was a subtle but distinct heat on the finish that delivered the kicker.
Take-out Tso's never tasted so good.
Conversation ranged all over the place, with our bartender frequently supplying her opinion.
Burning issues like what percentage of men 20 to 60 recognize a good woman when they meet one?
I got one 50% and one 10%, so no conclusions could be drawn.
While making up our mind about dessert, we shared a new drink on the cocktail menu, the Ice Cube.
It came in a glass with only a straw sized opening, but inside the glass was tequila, Chambord, agave, lime juice, grapefruit juice and Sprite.
Oh, yes, and a big, round Chambord-colored ice cube.
It was like a ship in a bottle. How did that big cube get in a glass with only a straw-sized hole?
Hint: you'll need to drink one to find out.
Given the subtlely blended flavors, that shouldn't be too difficult.
I'm not even a cocktail drinker and I slurped down my half.
Dessert was a chocolate hazelnut tort, an extremely moist way to end a meal.
And for possibly the first time since Picasso, I did not end my meal with an absinthe drip.
The Ice Cube had taken precedence.
By the time we left, I had to hightail it back to J-Ward to catch a couple of major shows.
My first stop was Ghostprint Gallery for "Josh George: The Scientific Method," a show of much larger works than I'd seen from him before.
But having just come from Godwin's shows, I was already adjusted to paintings done large.
George uses paint and collage and the pieces in this show, done over a five-month period he told me, were darker than the ones I'd seen last fall.
Even the titles were darker: "First Line of Defense in the Frozen Yogurt Wars" and "The Organ Harvesters."
The artist was there, but as usual, we talked more restaurants than art.
I was happy to hear that the show will be up for two months so I can take a friend and see it again.
Leaving Ghostprint so they could lock up, my final stop was Gallery 5 for "&@$#!: An Exhibition of Comic Artists."
Walking in, I caught the last song of trio Houdan the Mystic, billed as "three beards playing instruments."
Honestly, that's most every band in town with number of beards the only variable.
I wouldn't want to judge any band by one song, but I did like what I heard of their psychedelic math rock.
From there, I went upstairs to check out the comic art.
Before I could even begin, I ran into Lily, the talented and ambitious woman who creates the large-scale puppets for the upcoming Halloween parade as well as the annual May Day parade.
She's busy preparing for the Halloween parade and told me this year's theme.
Saints and sinners and Virginia General Assembly puppets will represent the sinners.
How brilliant is that?
We hadn't seen each other in ages, so we took the time to catch up while the friend she was with patiently waited through our girl talk.
Suddenly I noticed something.
Peking out from Lily's dress was a black polka-dotted bra.
I immediately asked her friend to unzip my dress six inches.
Without so much as an inquiry why, he did so, allowing me to show Lily the top of my identical black polka-dotted bra.
So there we were, two grown women holding the tops of our twin bras next to the other one.
Lily turned to her unzipping friend. "Did you have any idea where that was going?"
Apparently he hadn't but was willing to go along for the ride.
You gottta love men.
That business addressed, I said my adieus and moved on to the art.
I found myself drawn to Julia Scott's work, including "Sirens" and "Joey," an ink, watercolor and Pentel piece.
My eye was captured by the shades of green and black that evoked the capped and bearded Joey.
Naturally I was attracted to James Callahan's "Barf Comics Cover" of the first-ever issue, with its cover tease of "Holy freakin' collector's item! You should probably buy two of 'em!!!"
That sense of humor is one of my favorite things about Callahan's work and one of the reasons I have a Callahan hanging in my apartment.
Greg Roth's three pieces of ink on paper showed very different scenes.
One was "Conan: Born in the Battlefield" of men in horned helmets with swords, while the other two, "Freaks of the Heartland" were of figures in overalls out in a rural setting.
By the time I finished reading comics, I heard music starting and headed downstairs.
Quintet Way, Shape or Form was playing their second show tonight.
As they began to play, I stood near the window where I could see the fire performers finishing up their acts of derring-do to the beats of two DJs.
What I didn't expect was that when the fire performers stopped, the music was cranked louder and spontaneous dancing in the street began as the audience took over center stage.
After a few minutes, things got very Soul Train with a group of four guys taking turns trying to outdo each other with their moves.
But I wanted to pay attention to WSoF because their electronic indie pop was awfully catchy.
The lead singer had a great voice and was kept busy turning knobs and playing guitar.
All of a sudden I had company at the window when a woman came over to look outside and found the dance party in full swing.
"Her momma should have taught her not to go out in shorts like that," the woman clucked about the leopard-print shorts as short as any underwear and even tighter.
For the record, the woman speaking was probably no more than ten years older than the girl dancing, but was clearly calling it as she saw it.
I left her to her voyeurism and went back to figuring out what I was liking about WSoF.
With hints of chillwave, post rock and enough electronica to get some of the dance party stragglers moving now that they'd moved inside, I found a lot to like.
And if this really was their second show, bravo, boys.
But they were full of youthful energy/enthusiasm and when they finished their set, said they were heading down two blocks to do another show at the Bug house with some other electronic bands.
Tempting as that sounded, I already had plans to walk down two blocks and finally bring my first Friday to a close.
I just hope I didn't miss the show of a lifetime.
Come on, the bug house?
Only in Jackson Ward and only on first Friday.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
That Was Then
According to one of the out-of-towners, we were "raging on a Wednesday night."
But we got things rolling with Popeye and Olive Oil.
The Anderson Gallery's happy hour this week featured classic cartoons along with the usual wine and beer.
We were no fools; we scored a spot on the banquette and settled in to watch the 1939 "Aladdin and his Wonderful Lamp," part of the fabulous Fleischer folio.
Because it was in Technicolor, we got to see just how green every can of spinach Popeye opened was. And don't even get me started on seeing Olive in harem pants.
Next came "Gopher Spinach" from 1954 and not nearly as interestingly animated.
It did feature a classic cartoon moment when Popeye was chasing the spinach-eating gopher with a lawn mower.
The gopher threw a barrel of nails into the mower's path and they spit out the back of the mower, nailing Popeye to the nearby barn wall with their force.
They'd saved the best for last: "Betty Boop: A Song a Day" was about Betty's animal hospital.
It was like a catalog of animals, each with an appropriate illness tag on its sickbed.
Herring, Condition: pickled.
Giraffe: Condition: pain in the neck.
You get the idea.
As cute as Betty looked in her nurse's uniform, it wasn't enough to stop the animals' pain and she called in Professor Grampy to sing and dance so everyone felt better.
The funniest part was we were told that that was the only Betty Boop film suitable for the family audience the Anderson was expecting tonight.
Seems that most Boop shorts feature her in a skimpy dress and usually wiggling seductively.
And while it was okay to show kids vampy, scantily-clad cartoon characters in 1936, we're a bit more circumspect in 2012.
You gotta give the Anderson Gallery credit for creativity; a happy hour of vintage cartoons is a terrific way to start a Wednesday.
Once that fun ended, we went to Xtra's Cafe in Carytown to get jacked up on some cheap champagne (a la Scissor Sisters) and eat dinner.
Naturally on an evening headed into the mid-seventies, the balcony was full, so we did bar time.
The Simonet Blanc de Blanc Brut was cold (if poured in wine glasses rather than flutes), the Nantucket Nexus salad (mesclun, cranberries, Gorgonzola, Granny Smith apples, cucumbers, pecans and bacon) full of complementary flavors and the music just good enough (XX, Bon Iver and extra points for Youth Group).
All around us were other bubbles drinkers laughing and talking more loudly as the night wore on.
We went with the house-made dessert of the day, Mexican chocolate cookies with Kahlua ice cream, especially good when the ice cream was spread on the crumbly cookies.
Properly sated, we headed out to music at, of all places, Bogart's.
Playing tonight was a Jacksonville duo called Folk is People. They're in the middle of an East Coast tour promoting their EP, headed to Boston tomorrow night.
I don't envy them that drive.
But I'd done my online research and I not only liked their sound, but their claim to deliver good looks and offensive banter.
Truth be told, I often aim for the same.
We took a front table, the better to hear them (the bar crowd wasn't as attentive as they could have been at times), and admire their good looks.
Banjo in hand, Stacey cleared up a few things immediately.
"We're not brother and sister and we don't do it," she deadpanned. "We're just in a band."
I'd have to say that that was more informative than offensive.
"Here's a song we started doing yesterday," she said before the lovely "Tell Me Love."
Both Stacey and Rick had strong voices and with their handful of songs, continued to impress.
After reminding us of our midweek raging tonight, they did the Tom Petty (a fellow Floridian) cover "Yer So Bad."
But not me, baby, I've got you to save me
Oh, yer so bad, best thing I ever had
In a world gone mad, yer so bad
Rick's vocal take on Petty was spot on, giving the phrasing the Petty nod but also making it his own.
The crowd ate it up and Rick acknowledged, "It's tricky with Petty. People just keep wanting more. Alright then, this song is not as good. It's called 'Gift Horse."
Depending on your Petty fandom, it was damn fine, though.
Rick stuck to guitar while Stacey played banjo, guitar (but not Rick's, she made clear), mandolin and mouth harp.
Considering the two have only been playing together for ten months, their set was satisfying and strong.
From "Becoming Unbecoming" to "Ships and Shades," we were treated to lots of stringed instruments, harmonies and well-written songs.
One, two, three
You said you loved me
But you just wanted the company
Oh, I wanted the company alright.
But I also wanted the distinct pleasure of hearing an out-of-town band woo me with their sound tonight.
And as good-looking as they were, I'd have gotten their CD even if they'd been ugly.
In a world gone mad, I'm a sucker for well-executed folk rock raging on a Wednesday night.
Well, that and offensive banter.
But we got things rolling with Popeye and Olive Oil.
The Anderson Gallery's happy hour this week featured classic cartoons along with the usual wine and beer.
We were no fools; we scored a spot on the banquette and settled in to watch the 1939 "Aladdin and his Wonderful Lamp," part of the fabulous Fleischer folio.
Because it was in Technicolor, we got to see just how green every can of spinach Popeye opened was. And don't even get me started on seeing Olive in harem pants.
Next came "Gopher Spinach" from 1954 and not nearly as interestingly animated.
It did feature a classic cartoon moment when Popeye was chasing the spinach-eating gopher with a lawn mower.
The gopher threw a barrel of nails into the mower's path and they spit out the back of the mower, nailing Popeye to the nearby barn wall with their force.
They'd saved the best for last: "Betty Boop: A Song a Day" was about Betty's animal hospital.
It was like a catalog of animals, each with an appropriate illness tag on its sickbed.
Herring, Condition: pickled.
Giraffe: Condition: pain in the neck.
You get the idea.
As cute as Betty looked in her nurse's uniform, it wasn't enough to stop the animals' pain and she called in Professor Grampy to sing and dance so everyone felt better.
The funniest part was we were told that that was the only Betty Boop film suitable for the family audience the Anderson was expecting tonight.
Seems that most Boop shorts feature her in a skimpy dress and usually wiggling seductively.
And while it was okay to show kids vampy, scantily-clad cartoon characters in 1936, we're a bit more circumspect in 2012.
You gotta give the Anderson Gallery credit for creativity; a happy hour of vintage cartoons is a terrific way to start a Wednesday.
Once that fun ended, we went to Xtra's Cafe in Carytown to get jacked up on some cheap champagne (a la Scissor Sisters) and eat dinner.
Naturally on an evening headed into the mid-seventies, the balcony was full, so we did bar time.
The Simonet Blanc de Blanc Brut was cold (if poured in wine glasses rather than flutes), the Nantucket Nexus salad (mesclun, cranberries, Gorgonzola, Granny Smith apples, cucumbers, pecans and bacon) full of complementary flavors and the music just good enough (XX, Bon Iver and extra points for Youth Group).
All around us were other bubbles drinkers laughing and talking more loudly as the night wore on.
We went with the house-made dessert of the day, Mexican chocolate cookies with Kahlua ice cream, especially good when the ice cream was spread on the crumbly cookies.
Properly sated, we headed out to music at, of all places, Bogart's.
Playing tonight was a Jacksonville duo called Folk is People. They're in the middle of an East Coast tour promoting their EP, headed to Boston tomorrow night.
I don't envy them that drive.
But I'd done my online research and I not only liked their sound, but their claim to deliver good looks and offensive banter.
Truth be told, I often aim for the same.
We took a front table, the better to hear them (the bar crowd wasn't as attentive as they could have been at times), and admire their good looks.
Banjo in hand, Stacey cleared up a few things immediately.
"We're not brother and sister and we don't do it," she deadpanned. "We're just in a band."
I'd have to say that that was more informative than offensive.
"Here's a song we started doing yesterday," she said before the lovely "Tell Me Love."
Both Stacey and Rick had strong voices and with their handful of songs, continued to impress.
After reminding us of our midweek raging tonight, they did the Tom Petty (a fellow Floridian) cover "Yer So Bad."
But not me, baby, I've got you to save me
Oh, yer so bad, best thing I ever had
In a world gone mad, yer so bad
Rick's vocal take on Petty was spot on, giving the phrasing the Petty nod but also making it his own.
The crowd ate it up and Rick acknowledged, "It's tricky with Petty. People just keep wanting more. Alright then, this song is not as good. It's called 'Gift Horse."
Depending on your Petty fandom, it was damn fine, though.
Rick stuck to guitar while Stacey played banjo, guitar (but not Rick's, she made clear), mandolin and mouth harp.
Considering the two have only been playing together for ten months, their set was satisfying and strong.
From "Becoming Unbecoming" to "Ships and Shades," we were treated to lots of stringed instruments, harmonies and well-written songs.
One, two, three
You said you loved me
But you just wanted the company
Oh, I wanted the company alright.
But I also wanted the distinct pleasure of hearing an out-of-town band woo me with their sound tonight.
And as good-looking as they were, I'd have gotten their CD even if they'd been ugly.
In a world gone mad, I'm a sucker for well-executed folk rock raging on a Wednesday night.
Well, that and offensive banter.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Yippie Yi Yo
Cowboys and Indians. Them'll get you started.
Belle Voix was the name of tonight's Happy Hour at VCU's Anderson Gallery and how belle it was!
It just happened to feature the Bird and Her Consort, otherwise known as Antonia and Jonathan Vasser doing a seductive mix of cowboy songs and French cafe tunes.
Could there be a lovelier way to start a Wednesday evening?
We arrived during the second song (I'd only missed one song, but what a song!), got seats and soon heard "Street of Laredo" in Antonia's beautiful classical voice.
When she finished singing it, she admitted,"Okay, I got through that song without crying."
It would have been a shame if she had cried (although the melancholy way she sang it warranted a tear or two) because of how adorable she looked.
A pale blue dress had a white apron detail on the front and a snappy red belt to pull it all together.
She looked like a songbird from the '40s.
Coincidentally, she later sang a lyric, "I wore my apron low" and "I wore my apron high" and I think we can all agree what that means.
They did the song "Ghost," which they'd also done at last year's Anderson event.
From a handful of cowboy tunes to "Plaisir d'Amour," a song I wouldn't have thought I'd recognize, even when Antonia mentioned Elvis.
Sure enough, the melody was instantly recognizable as the King's "I Can't Help Falling in Love with You."
Explaining the song's French lyrics about heartbreak, Antonia recommended, "It's not a good first date song."
Duly noted.
Also noted was Antonia's different expressions; she was wide-eyed and gosh-golly sweet looking for the cowboy material and coquettish and alluring for the French songs.
I also loved watching Jonathan accompany her on guitar since I usually see him playing his own material and singing.
Here he is just the Bird's talented and handsome guitarist. Not a bad consort if you can get one.
After happy hour came comedy at my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds.
A co-worker from another lifetime, Jeph Kelly, went first and read tales of fireman envy and tongue-in-cheek Oklahoma City pride.
The Checkout Girl, Jennifer Lemons, got points right off for doing Radiohead's "Creep" on ukulele before reading of spelling bee urination and masturbating uncles.
Kenny Wingle began with a jingle (and ended with a tingle) but did his stand-up with uncle-like humor.
Except I don't think uncle humor includes baby mama jokes and balls.
But his explanation of his Indian heritage ("Feathers, not dots") was hysterical.
That should have been it for the night, but comedian and former Richmonder Sara Schaefer, who's doing a big show at Gallery 5 tomorrow night, dropped by.
Her impromptu discourse on dildos, vibrators and Judy Tenuta left her uncomfortable and some of us laughing too loud.
She said she wanted to get that joke out of her system because her father was coming to the show tomorrow night with his new wife and she wasn't ready for her Dad to know certain things.
At this point, I'm sure whatever my dad doesn't know, he presumes.
A two-block walk put the other loud laugher and I at Bistro 27 for dinner.
The meal began swimmingly with 27's new small batch sangria, a wild cherry, almond and bitters mixture that had none of sangria's usual cloying sweetness.
Easily the best sangria I've ever had and the soaked cherries at the bottom were an unexpected bonus.
It was a simple supper of spot-on flavors: a Caprese with housemade Mozzarella, grilled eggplant with goat cheese stuffing and bacon-wrapped scallops over perfectly cooked lentils.
We had more sangria with a dessert of chocolate excess: hazelnut tart and chocolate mousse.
Never let it be said that I couldn't die happy after a satisfying evening like that.
And, please, bury me not on the lone prairie.
But could I have a pitcher of that sangria to go with me?
Belle Voix was the name of tonight's Happy Hour at VCU's Anderson Gallery and how belle it was!
It just happened to feature the Bird and Her Consort, otherwise known as Antonia and Jonathan Vasser doing a seductive mix of cowboy songs and French cafe tunes.
Could there be a lovelier way to start a Wednesday evening?
We arrived during the second song (I'd only missed one song, but what a song!), got seats and soon heard "Street of Laredo" in Antonia's beautiful classical voice.
When she finished singing it, she admitted,"Okay, I got through that song without crying."
It would have been a shame if she had cried (although the melancholy way she sang it warranted a tear or two) because of how adorable she looked.
A pale blue dress had a white apron detail on the front and a snappy red belt to pull it all together.
She looked like a songbird from the '40s.
Coincidentally, she later sang a lyric, "I wore my apron low" and "I wore my apron high" and I think we can all agree what that means.
They did the song "Ghost," which they'd also done at last year's Anderson event.
From a handful of cowboy tunes to "Plaisir d'Amour," a song I wouldn't have thought I'd recognize, even when Antonia mentioned Elvis.
Sure enough, the melody was instantly recognizable as the King's "I Can't Help Falling in Love with You."
Explaining the song's French lyrics about heartbreak, Antonia recommended, "It's not a good first date song."
Duly noted.
Also noted was Antonia's different expressions; she was wide-eyed and gosh-golly sweet looking for the cowboy material and coquettish and alluring for the French songs.
I also loved watching Jonathan accompany her on guitar since I usually see him playing his own material and singing.
Here he is just the Bird's talented and handsome guitarist. Not a bad consort if you can get one.
After happy hour came comedy at my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds.
A co-worker from another lifetime, Jeph Kelly, went first and read tales of fireman envy and tongue-in-cheek Oklahoma City pride.
The Checkout Girl, Jennifer Lemons, got points right off for doing Radiohead's "Creep" on ukulele before reading of spelling bee urination and masturbating uncles.
Kenny Wingle began with a jingle (and ended with a tingle) but did his stand-up with uncle-like humor.
Except I don't think uncle humor includes baby mama jokes and balls.
But his explanation of his Indian heritage ("Feathers, not dots") was hysterical.
That should have been it for the night, but comedian and former Richmonder Sara Schaefer, who's doing a big show at Gallery 5 tomorrow night, dropped by.
Her impromptu discourse on dildos, vibrators and Judy Tenuta left her uncomfortable and some of us laughing too loud.
She said she wanted to get that joke out of her system because her father was coming to the show tomorrow night with his new wife and she wasn't ready for her Dad to know certain things.
At this point, I'm sure whatever my dad doesn't know, he presumes.
A two-block walk put the other loud laugher and I at Bistro 27 for dinner.
The meal began swimmingly with 27's new small batch sangria, a wild cherry, almond and bitters mixture that had none of sangria's usual cloying sweetness.
Easily the best sangria I've ever had and the soaked cherries at the bottom were an unexpected bonus.
It was a simple supper of spot-on flavors: a Caprese with housemade Mozzarella, grilled eggplant with goat cheese stuffing and bacon-wrapped scallops over perfectly cooked lentils.
We had more sangria with a dessert of chocolate excess: hazelnut tart and chocolate mousse.
Never let it be said that I couldn't die happy after a satisfying evening like that.
And, please, bury me not on the lone prairie.
But could I have a pitcher of that sangria to go with me?
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