You think you know a place, and you realize you don't even how it was named.
Next month, it'll be a decade since I abandoned the staid Museum District for the wide open frontiers of Jackson Ward, almost immediately falling in love with the far more historic and quirky nature of a neighborhood "in transition," whatever that means.
Yet it took a visit to the Branch Museum of Architecture and Design today to see the new exhibit "Drawing on History: Infill Design Competition" with a favorite photographer to finally learn how my beloved 'hood got its name.
Short answer: a saloon!
No kidding, it was James Jackson's beer garden at Second and Leigh that Jackson Ward was named after, a fact that gives me no end of delight to discover. I was almost as tickled to read that it's also the least altered residential neighborhood in all of Richmond.
And if you really want me to brag, let's get as hyper-local as my own street. Clay Street specifically is considered to have one of the finest collections of architectural cast iron in the entire U.S.
Shucks, this old ironwork? Why do you think I had the bushes taken down and planted a complementary garden using it as a fanciful backdrop?
After a fabulous lunch, I suggested a visit to the Branch, knowing that, despite my friend's current Southside address, his years in Church Hill and J-Ward would make him curious about an exhibit showing the possibilities of infill building.
For icing on the cake, I told him I'd walked by the Branch yesterday only to discover that block of Davis Street closed because three enormous old trees had come down, completely altering the look of the block and didn't he want to see that?
Arriving to find the trees now removed, his attention went at once to one of the remaining cars that had born the brunt of a fallen tree and he made a beeline for it.
"Ooh, destruction!" he said with glee. Only a guy would want to inspect a car with its roof crushed to the console, full of shattered glass, branches and debris, with rain and broken glass in the cup holders.
Inside, discussing the new look of Davis Street, one of the staffers said his Mazda had also been crushed, but he also looked pretty happy at the prospect of a brand-new car.
Moving on to the gallery, we got an eyeful looking at the design submissions for the many empty lots in two neighborhoods that deserve attention: Union Hill and Jackson Ward.
It wasn't hard to see why the grand prize winner had been chosen. The three-story house design for Union Hill had it all: the same proportions as the surrounding houses and exactly the same feel. And unlike so many more modern house designs, it had eleven (eleven!) windows on the sides of the house and that counts as one window those that were actually three-part windows.
This is a really big deal to me (and should be to more people) because of the past 50 years of building houses with no thought to cross-ventilation, which is completely unlike the houses around it built in the 19th century, pre-A/C.
But the winning design also had an appropriate front porch and two levels of back porch, an essential design element for the neighborhood, even if the reason for back porches - for the "help" to do chores on out of sight of people on the street - speaks to our entitled past.
Let's never lose sight of the first rule of community-building, kids: good porches make good neighbors. That may be an old chestnut, but I find it impossible to get behind houses in 19th century neighborhoods that don't have front porches for sitting and visiting on.
What I could get behind was suggestions by architects for the proposed designs to use re-purposed materials from nearby dilapidated residential buildings in the construction of the new. Brilliant.
Not all the entries were houses and some of the commercial buildings we saw offered fresh ideas on how to integrate innovative spaces into older neighborhoods.
One three-story building had a ground level space for an herbarium, shop or market, with a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor, a rooftop garden and a three-level public greenhouse behind it. How cool an addition to Union Hill would that be?
Another design had an artists' loft that put artists in full view of passersby, with the goal being creating spaces for artists in gentrifying neighborhoods.
Leaving the exhibit, FotoBoy and I marveled at the variety of ways these architects and architectural students had envisioned houses and buildings that not only transformed vacant lots, but would also become part of the fabric of the area.
Lunch and an exhibition, a practically perfect way to wile away a hot July mid-day. Someone needed more, though, once again ogling the smooshed car. What, again?
An appetite for destruction is apparently written on the Y chromosome. Happily, his X is also strong.
Showing posts with label branch museum of architecture and design. Show all posts
Showing posts with label branch museum of architecture and design. Show all posts
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Friday, March 4, 2016
At Rainbow's End
Alcohol won't solve all your problems, but neither will milk. ~ sign outside Bellytimber
Culture won't make you more lovable, but it certainly doesn't hurt.
After nearly getting creamed by an excavator-like contraption speeding through a red light - the driver and I actually locked eyes when he realized his error - I took deep breaths all the way to the Branch Museum for a lecture.
Waiting for a friend to arrive and the talk to begin, I eavesdropped on a conversation about Richmond's neighborhoods between a newer arrival and a born-here (bow tie = dead giveaway).
The guy being asked mentioned how he lives on Monument Avenue and when they moved in, they met a woman two houses down who'd lived on that block for 91 years, making her a walking encyclopedia of information about the 'hood (assuming you can call Monument Avenue a 'hood).
I especially loved hearing her reminisces of playing croquet on the grass on the south side of Monument, while what he called "essentially a wagon trail" ran on the north side of the street. Needless to say, there was no median strip yet.
My friend arrived moments before curator Brian Grogan of the Historic American Buildings Survey began talking about the project's New Deal roots in 1937, intended to put out-of-work architects, draftsmen and photographers to work.
Just the thought of government caring about such things warms my heart.
Similarly, in 1968 the Historic American Engineering Record was started to document feats of engineering like the Memorial Bridge in D.C., which is the first image Brian showed, hardly surprising given the news I'd read just this morning in the Post.
That bridge is in such dire shape that unless it's completely overhauled (a traffic nightmare to even imagine), within five years. it'll be relegated to footbridge status only. Seeing Brogan's photo from the 1970s only served to reinforce what a gorgeous piece of engineering it was.
But here's the real surprise: that was originally a drawbridge. I'm a native Washingtonian who's used that bridge more than any other to get in and out of the city all my life and this was completely new information to me. Apparently the opening section was cantankerous from the start and eventually locked open, resulting in repeated repairs and sealing the draw span for good.
I am still agog at this piece of newly unearthed Washington history.
Once the lecture ended, we had less than 35 minutes to eat and make it to the theater for part two of the evening. The only thing we could figure that would fill the need for speed was to drive together and grab a Chinese snack along the way, so we stopped to slurp soup and gobble egg rolls and were out the door in 20 minutes.
We easily made the curtain at Firehouse Theater for Heritage Ensemble Theatre Company's production of "For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide/ When the Rainbow is Enuf," a play I'd been aware of for decades yet never seen.
Sometimes the holes in my cultural literacy are big enough to drive construction equipment through.
That said, my friend and I were blown away by the 1976 story of seven nameless women trying to find their place in a racist, sexist world and using each other as sounding boards for what's going on in their lives through a series of poems, dances and music.
With no assistance from you, I have loved you strongly and passionately for 8 months, 2 weeks and a day.
In some ways, the play felt very much of the '70s in how it articulated women's issues, but many of those issues - domestic violence, abortion, rape by men you know - resonated just as strongly forty years later.
I couldn't stand by and be colored and sorry at the same time. It's so redundant in the modern world.
It was an incredibly strong cast, each woman nailing a different character's strengths and weaknesses, with music and dancing throughout (is any song quite as feel good as "Dancing in the Streets"?), creating a sisterhood that they could all lean on when needed.
My love is too complicated/delicate/beautiful/Saturday night/magic - to have thrown back in my face.
But the scene that had the audience doubled over in laughter was about all the apologies men have made to these women, each one standing to imitate her man and his lame excuses for letting her down again. No matter the excuse, it was relatable whether personally or tangentially through stories women share.
The funniest part was that the few men in the audience weren't laughing nearly as hard as the women were.
As strongly as that poem had moved us, another about Beau Willie Brown brought many in the the audience to tears, including actress Margarette Joyner who told the story so powerfully the audience forgot it was artifice and reacted viscerally to the heartbreaking story.
All I can say is, Heritage is a young theater company, but if this production is any indication, they'll be a force to be reckoned with in the theater community.
The tight ensemble piece we saw tonight was nothing short of transformative, like listening to jazz pros and never quite being sure where the next note will take you but knowing you want to - no, need to - hear it.
For me, it was equal parts complicated, delicate, beautiful and magic. Maybe even a little Saturday night.
Sort of like like love and sisterhood.
Culture won't make you more lovable, but it certainly doesn't hurt.
After nearly getting creamed by an excavator-like contraption speeding through a red light - the driver and I actually locked eyes when he realized his error - I took deep breaths all the way to the Branch Museum for a lecture.
Waiting for a friend to arrive and the talk to begin, I eavesdropped on a conversation about Richmond's neighborhoods between a newer arrival and a born-here (bow tie = dead giveaway).
The guy being asked mentioned how he lives on Monument Avenue and when they moved in, they met a woman two houses down who'd lived on that block for 91 years, making her a walking encyclopedia of information about the 'hood (assuming you can call Monument Avenue a 'hood).
I especially loved hearing her reminisces of playing croquet on the grass on the south side of Monument, while what he called "essentially a wagon trail" ran on the north side of the street. Needless to say, there was no median strip yet.
My friend arrived moments before curator Brian Grogan of the Historic American Buildings Survey began talking about the project's New Deal roots in 1937, intended to put out-of-work architects, draftsmen and photographers to work.
Just the thought of government caring about such things warms my heart.
Similarly, in 1968 the Historic American Engineering Record was started to document feats of engineering like the Memorial Bridge in D.C., which is the first image Brian showed, hardly surprising given the news I'd read just this morning in the Post.
That bridge is in such dire shape that unless it's completely overhauled (a traffic nightmare to even imagine), within five years. it'll be relegated to footbridge status only. Seeing Brogan's photo from the 1970s only served to reinforce what a gorgeous piece of engineering it was.
But here's the real surprise: that was originally a drawbridge. I'm a native Washingtonian who's used that bridge more than any other to get in and out of the city all my life and this was completely new information to me. Apparently the opening section was cantankerous from the start and eventually locked open, resulting in repeated repairs and sealing the draw span for good.
I am still agog at this piece of newly unearthed Washington history.
Once the lecture ended, we had less than 35 minutes to eat and make it to the theater for part two of the evening. The only thing we could figure that would fill the need for speed was to drive together and grab a Chinese snack along the way, so we stopped to slurp soup and gobble egg rolls and were out the door in 20 minutes.
We easily made the curtain at Firehouse Theater for Heritage Ensemble Theatre Company's production of "For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide/ When the Rainbow is Enuf," a play I'd been aware of for decades yet never seen.
Sometimes the holes in my cultural literacy are big enough to drive construction equipment through.
That said, my friend and I were blown away by the 1976 story of seven nameless women trying to find their place in a racist, sexist world and using each other as sounding boards for what's going on in their lives through a series of poems, dances and music.
With no assistance from you, I have loved you strongly and passionately for 8 months, 2 weeks and a day.
In some ways, the play felt very much of the '70s in how it articulated women's issues, but many of those issues - domestic violence, abortion, rape by men you know - resonated just as strongly forty years later.
I couldn't stand by and be colored and sorry at the same time. It's so redundant in the modern world.
It was an incredibly strong cast, each woman nailing a different character's strengths and weaknesses, with music and dancing throughout (is any song quite as feel good as "Dancing in the Streets"?), creating a sisterhood that they could all lean on when needed.
My love is too complicated/delicate/beautiful/Saturday night/magic - to have thrown back in my face.
But the scene that had the audience doubled over in laughter was about all the apologies men have made to these women, each one standing to imitate her man and his lame excuses for letting her down again. No matter the excuse, it was relatable whether personally or tangentially through stories women share.
The funniest part was that the few men in the audience weren't laughing nearly as hard as the women were.
As strongly as that poem had moved us, another about Beau Willie Brown brought many in the the audience to tears, including actress Margarette Joyner who told the story so powerfully the audience forgot it was artifice and reacted viscerally to the heartbreaking story.
All I can say is, Heritage is a young theater company, but if this production is any indication, they'll be a force to be reckoned with in the theater community.
The tight ensemble piece we saw tonight was nothing short of transformative, like listening to jazz pros and never quite being sure where the next note will take you but knowing you want to - no, need to - hear it.
For me, it was equal parts complicated, delicate, beautiful and magic. Maybe even a little Saturday night.
Sort of like like love and sisterhood.
Friday, February 12, 2016
Oscillating Wildly
You know how you go away for a few days and then you come back and it feels like life is hurtling at you in repayment?
Yea, so that.
At Swift Creek Mill Theatre yesterday waiting to see "The Little Lion," a woman behind me asks her companion, "Shall I wake you when it's over?" The man gets indignant, replying, "I don't go to sleep until it starts!"
I think he was kidding because I never heard any obvious snoring and besides, how do you fall asleep when a revving motorbike is part of the 22-person cast? Or for that matter, when a tragic story of Lithuanian Jews being beaten, killed and herded into ghettos is unfolding in front of you?
Arriving a few minutes late for the latest Public Arts meeting, I found a seat at a table where I recognized two of the people - an architect and a dancer - and promptly introduced myself to the other two. One, like me, had already attended one of these meetings.
Five minutes into the presentation, we both realized that it was exactly the same as last time. Leaning in to whisper, I asked if we should leave and got a big smile and a nod, so we quietly exited while the rest of the room stayed.
What do you do with a stranger but go have a drink and talk for a couple of hours? Turns out we'd both assumed that tonight's event was going to be the next stage of public input, not a repeat. We consoled ourselves with our shared misconceptions.
How dumb could we be if we both thought the same thing? How unexpectedly enjoyable to spend time getting to know someone new when we thought we'd be diligently working toward the greater good?
Today was all about catching up on deadlines and setting up interviews for upcoming stories. Midway through the day, I got a non-work-related lunch invitation for next week and immediately sent off my enthusiastic acceptance.
My day was made with the response. "I'm not going to insult you by asking if you need a parking pass." Thank you for that.
I managed a 5 1/2 mile walk before returning to the grindstone and hurriedly showering and primping to go out. Despite temperatures of 28 that feel like 20, I rebelled against the past few days of sensible legwear and opted for magenta lace tights, well aware of what excellent conversation-starters they are.
First up was the Branch Museum of Architecture and Design's soiree, an introductory event for their new director Craig Reynolds, who also delivered a lecture on his pet subject, "Setting the Presidential Model: Thomas Jefferson and Architecture and Design."
Besides the fact that he couldn't have even been alive when the Smiths formed, his was a compelling talk about how important it was to TJ to establish an American artistic model for successive generations to follow.
In other words, don't leave it to the rabble to figure that out, leave them a blueprint.
A golden opportunity presented itself when West Point commissioned painter Thomas Sully (who greatly admired TJ's state capital design, but then who didn't?) to do a portrait of the 78-year old to hang with one of George Washington in their esteemed halls.
I was interested to hear that TJ had his own portrait collection, including the faces of Lafayette, Sir Isaac Newton, John Locke, Cortez, Columbus, Magellan, Ben Franklin and, natch, George. The Americans, he dubbed "worthies" and, yep, he included a portrait of himself.
He was a proponent of what he called "natural aristocracy," based on virtue and talent as opposed to traditional aristocracy based on wealth and birth. That's our boy, so American.
Ditto his choice of ensemble for the portrait, which involved a fur-lined coat (American rustic) over a three-piece black suit (I'm a simple man) and - this was key to TJ - shoes that laced not buckled. Buckles are unnecessary and showy, kind of like the English, whose architecture he deemed "the most wretched style I ever saw."
The colonial capital Williamsburg he called "tasteless and barbarous" and William and Mary's campus was no more than "rude and misshapen piles." Is it any wonder we love this man?
All in all, the young Dr. Reynolds' lecture was stellar, full of fascinating quotes and nerdy art history factoids that I hadn't heard before. He'll do just fine as director even if "This Charming Man" means nothing to him.
I call that an auspicious start to my evening.
At Ghostprint Gallery, I found a crowded room and widespread appreciation of my distinctive tights. One guy liked them so much he pulled over three friends, one by one, to admire them. I broke it to them gently that they were likely just leg men so their attention was about more than what was covering them.
I should know better than to open that kind of door, except that it resulted in a delightful exchange with a guy about having an EKG with a hairy chest and the problems inherent in that. Have first or get a faulty reading?
How better to learn such things than straight from the horse's mouth?
A flicking of the lights signaled the main event, "Totems," a live music and dance collaboration inspired by the colorful costumes created by artist Carol Meese, whose abstract paintings of the Outer Banks adorn the gallery's walls.
But for tonight, it was these incredible costumes and headdresses she'd created that were the focus. With original music by Regan Nunnally Sprenkle and a chorus of seven plus a drummer, we witnessed eight dancers choreographed by Isabel Layton come out individually and perform in the center of the room.
Carol had explained that the colorful, multi-textural outfits ("totems," as gallerist Gerladine Duskin had dubbed them) had been inspired partly by artifacts she'd seen in the VMFA's African collection and partly during a trip to Morocco.
That alone was compelling enough, but a closer look revealed many details exhibiting nods to American consumerism.
Silverware, kitchen utensils and even red and yellow plastic ketchup and mustard bottles hung from one dancer's hips. Anther's headdress tinkled with the sound of dozens of bottle caps jangling against each other. Shells, coins, animal figures and all kinds of other objects adorned the multi-layered costumes.
The dancing had a similar multi-culturalism, combining elements of African, Native American and Middle Eastern movement by the women, all veiled to hide their faces and with black gloves over their hands.
Despite the roomful of spectators, the performance unfolded organically with people on three sides of it, quiet and agog at the beauty of the trifecta of clothing, music and dance. As a friend put it, "I felt like I was in New York again!"
I recognized faces throughout the room as the kind of people who attend a lot of the more unusual goings-on in Richmond, but all of them agreed afterwards that this was an extraordinary marriage of performance and visual arts. Part of TJ's American artistic legacy, I'm thinking.
With apologies to Morrissey, heaven knows I'm happy to be back in the thick of things now.
Yea, so that.
At Swift Creek Mill Theatre yesterday waiting to see "The Little Lion," a woman behind me asks her companion, "Shall I wake you when it's over?" The man gets indignant, replying, "I don't go to sleep until it starts!"
I think he was kidding because I never heard any obvious snoring and besides, how do you fall asleep when a revving motorbike is part of the 22-person cast? Or for that matter, when a tragic story of Lithuanian Jews being beaten, killed and herded into ghettos is unfolding in front of you?
Arriving a few minutes late for the latest Public Arts meeting, I found a seat at a table where I recognized two of the people - an architect and a dancer - and promptly introduced myself to the other two. One, like me, had already attended one of these meetings.
Five minutes into the presentation, we both realized that it was exactly the same as last time. Leaning in to whisper, I asked if we should leave and got a big smile and a nod, so we quietly exited while the rest of the room stayed.
What do you do with a stranger but go have a drink and talk for a couple of hours? Turns out we'd both assumed that tonight's event was going to be the next stage of public input, not a repeat. We consoled ourselves with our shared misconceptions.
How dumb could we be if we both thought the same thing? How unexpectedly enjoyable to spend time getting to know someone new when we thought we'd be diligently working toward the greater good?
Today was all about catching up on deadlines and setting up interviews for upcoming stories. Midway through the day, I got a non-work-related lunch invitation for next week and immediately sent off my enthusiastic acceptance.
My day was made with the response. "I'm not going to insult you by asking if you need a parking pass." Thank you for that.
I managed a 5 1/2 mile walk before returning to the grindstone and hurriedly showering and primping to go out. Despite temperatures of 28 that feel like 20, I rebelled against the past few days of sensible legwear and opted for magenta lace tights, well aware of what excellent conversation-starters they are.
First up was the Branch Museum of Architecture and Design's soiree, an introductory event for their new director Craig Reynolds, who also delivered a lecture on his pet subject, "Setting the Presidential Model: Thomas Jefferson and Architecture and Design."
Besides the fact that he couldn't have even been alive when the Smiths formed, his was a compelling talk about how important it was to TJ to establish an American artistic model for successive generations to follow.
In other words, don't leave it to the rabble to figure that out, leave them a blueprint.
A golden opportunity presented itself when West Point commissioned painter Thomas Sully (who greatly admired TJ's state capital design, but then who didn't?) to do a portrait of the 78-year old to hang with one of George Washington in their esteemed halls.
I was interested to hear that TJ had his own portrait collection, including the faces of Lafayette, Sir Isaac Newton, John Locke, Cortez, Columbus, Magellan, Ben Franklin and, natch, George. The Americans, he dubbed "worthies" and, yep, he included a portrait of himself.
He was a proponent of what he called "natural aristocracy," based on virtue and talent as opposed to traditional aristocracy based on wealth and birth. That's our boy, so American.
Ditto his choice of ensemble for the portrait, which involved a fur-lined coat (American rustic) over a three-piece black suit (I'm a simple man) and - this was key to TJ - shoes that laced not buckled. Buckles are unnecessary and showy, kind of like the English, whose architecture he deemed "the most wretched style I ever saw."
The colonial capital Williamsburg he called "tasteless and barbarous" and William and Mary's campus was no more than "rude and misshapen piles." Is it any wonder we love this man?
All in all, the young Dr. Reynolds' lecture was stellar, full of fascinating quotes and nerdy art history factoids that I hadn't heard before. He'll do just fine as director even if "This Charming Man" means nothing to him.
I call that an auspicious start to my evening.
At Ghostprint Gallery, I found a crowded room and widespread appreciation of my distinctive tights. One guy liked them so much he pulled over three friends, one by one, to admire them. I broke it to them gently that they were likely just leg men so their attention was about more than what was covering them.
I should know better than to open that kind of door, except that it resulted in a delightful exchange with a guy about having an EKG with a hairy chest and the problems inherent in that. Have first or get a faulty reading?
How better to learn such things than straight from the horse's mouth?
A flicking of the lights signaled the main event, "Totems," a live music and dance collaboration inspired by the colorful costumes created by artist Carol Meese, whose abstract paintings of the Outer Banks adorn the gallery's walls.
But for tonight, it was these incredible costumes and headdresses she'd created that were the focus. With original music by Regan Nunnally Sprenkle and a chorus of seven plus a drummer, we witnessed eight dancers choreographed by Isabel Layton come out individually and perform in the center of the room.
Carol had explained that the colorful, multi-textural outfits ("totems," as gallerist Gerladine Duskin had dubbed them) had been inspired partly by artifacts she'd seen in the VMFA's African collection and partly during a trip to Morocco.
That alone was compelling enough, but a closer look revealed many details exhibiting nods to American consumerism.
Silverware, kitchen utensils and even red and yellow plastic ketchup and mustard bottles hung from one dancer's hips. Anther's headdress tinkled with the sound of dozens of bottle caps jangling against each other. Shells, coins, animal figures and all kinds of other objects adorned the multi-layered costumes.
The dancing had a similar multi-culturalism, combining elements of African, Native American and Middle Eastern movement by the women, all veiled to hide their faces and with black gloves over their hands.
Despite the roomful of spectators, the performance unfolded organically with people on three sides of it, quiet and agog at the beauty of the trifecta of clothing, music and dance. As a friend put it, "I felt like I was in New York again!"
I recognized faces throughout the room as the kind of people who attend a lot of the more unusual goings-on in Richmond, but all of them agreed afterwards that this was an extraordinary marriage of performance and visual arts. Part of TJ's American artistic legacy, I'm thinking.
With apologies to Morrissey, heaven knows I'm happy to be back in the thick of things now.
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