Doors Into Summer

I don't know if Art on Wheels did it with me in mind, but it's working out awfully well for me.

Last Tuesday they launched their summer project, "Find Art Doors," a group of 40 salvaged doors that were then painted by local artists and planted in the ground around town to be discovered.

So far, I've come across five, all by well-know and talented artists: Mickael Broth (the guy who did the looming wizard mural at the GRTC depot), Ed Trask (with his signature bird), Jackson Ward native Sir James Thornhill (right on Clay Street, so mere blocks from my house!), Noah Scalin (but of course there's a skull on it) and today's find, Chris Milk (in Oregon Hill, natch, and with his trademark bicycles).

Every time I come upon one, I'm surprised and delighted. I have no intention of looking at a map of where they all are because I want to feel like I stumble on them in a happy accident.

Because I set out to find none of them, I have done exactly what Art on Wheels wants: I'm discovering these works of art on old doors while enjoying my city. With 35 left, I've got some discovering to do, but also plenty of summer to do it in.

I came upon the one today as I was returning from my walk over to Belle Isle, a glorious day to do so given the 77 degree temperatures, low humidity and light breeze.

It was while I was sitting on a sunny rock there, my legs and feet submerged in the burbling water near a rapid, the back of my shorts getting rapidly soaked, that I hear a voice behind me.

"Can we take your picture and ask you a few questions?" a girl standing next to a guy with an actual camera (not cell phone) inquires. "It's for a project for school."

Sure thing.

"What did you have for breakfast?" she asks as the guy begins snapping. Oatmeal with fresh blueberries I tell her. "Mmm, that sounds delicious!" she enthuses. Given that it's high blueberry season, I assure her it was.

"Where do you live?" I tell her Jackson Ward and ask where she lives, Gesturing with her arm in a sweeping gesture, she says she lives everywhere. Not sure how to respond, I tell her she's lucky then.

"You look very happy," she states, which is not a question at all. Splashing my feet in the water, I ask her who wouldn't be happy sitting by the river on a day so gorgeous.

Smiling, she makes my day. "You're going to be my favorite picture."

She's going to be my favorite interviewer.

Fill Up the Flask, Son

Some nights are so Richmond, it's impossible not to be in love with this city.

Like on an exquisitely beautiful, fall-feeling evening under a deepening blue sky watching chimney swifts swoop overhead in the courtyard next to Quirk Gallery.

But, wait.

As if the weather, location and scenery weren't plenty to feed the soul, there's more.

The occasion for this gathering three blocks from my house was a Huckiddy puppet show.

If that doesn't sound like too much fun for a Saturday night, then you've obviously never been to one.

I've been to three so I know to count on puppet sibling rivalry, death and music, not necessarily in that order. Complete with beer and popcorn for sale.

What I hadn't expected was how many friends would be there.

My favorite J-Ward couple.  The bowling birthday boy from last Sunday. The fetching GLAP hosts, one's hair newly banged. A couple of WRIR DJs, both with gigs tonight.

For that matter, you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a musician I knew.

The entertainment began with one of my favorites, Dave Watkins, doing his incomparable sound layering with dulcitar and drum.

While he wowed the crowd looping his intricate melodies, I noticed that some people had brought their own fun.

One brought wine in a small bottle labeled 100% juice (not a lie), another had a silver flask she took nips from.

It was all very civilized.

Hard as it must be to follow Dave, Josh Small did a grand job by employing a cartoon theme (a nod to the puppets) for his song selections.

"My Favorite Dream" came from a WWII-era Mickey Mouse short and two songs were drawn from "Robin Hood," his personal Disney favorite.

At the end of one, "Love," he wound the song down by singing progressively softer, eventually calling out, "Analog fade-out!' to the amusement of the audio geeks in the audience.

Dave came back for a couple of songs and then it was show time.

Chris Hulbert and his sister Cat manned the puppets while a quartet of bass, cello, guitar and trumpet provided the musical accompaniment.

And in case you can't imagine it, listening to the aching strings of Josh's cello or the mournful wail of Bob's trumpet in a brick-walled courtyard where the sound has nowhere to go but skyward is a distinct Richmond pleasure.

As is usually the case, the puppet show began with Huckle complaining and his sister, F'funia, having none of it.

Huckle's first complaint was that he lived in the ghetto where all the people in his neighborhood were hot, 20-something college students, a line that reduced me and my J-Ward neighbors to near tears with its familiarity.

Except we would never call J-Ward a ghetto.

But F'funia never lets Huckle feel too sorry for himself, bringing him up short by reminding him about the time he shot her three times.

"I pulled myself up, son!" she told him to an explosion of laughter.

She soon discerns that Huckle's problem is that his heart is gone and maybe that's why he's sad and tired.

Songs abound and the band's contribution to the unfolding story is considerable.

The two bicker back and forth, about his nicknames for her (babe, chunky, fatty fat), about finding a pig or old lady heart to replace his and about how a "whatever" attitude prevents Huckle from seeing the humor in life.

With their big red lips, expressive hands and Huckle's earring (mirroring puppeteer Chris'), the puppets interact so naturally it's easy to forget there are two people behind the stage busy every second making that happen.

"That's funny. It's not super-hilarious, but it's funny," F'funia tells Huckle at one point.

Actually, a Huckiddy puppet show is super-hilarious pretty much start to finish.

Well, except for the heartbreaking moments, but those just make the whole show feel more real.

When you're sitting outdoors under the stars laughing at foul-mouthed puppets and listening to a quartet play into the cool night air, maybe a reality check is in order.

The beauty of being reminded of reality is just how lucky we are to be in Richmond where a sublime confluence like tonight happens surprisingly often.

Just another Saturday night in the ghetto, kids.

Artists and Monsters

Some people like a monster truck rally and some of us prefer a monster drawing rally (conveniently, there's beer at both).

As it happened, my kind of rally was happening at 1708 Gallery today, mere blocks from my house.

Sixty plus artists took up one hour shifts to create art while no-talents like me watched.

In the spirit of gallery support, each completed piece was then tacked to the wall, for sale at a mere $65.

And by the time I got there, a lot of pieces had the telltale red sticker. meaning they'd already been sold.

Smart local collectors, including some of the artists participating, were scooping up works by talents like Heide Trepanier, Jenna Chew, Amie Oliver and Kathryn Henry-Choisser.

I already own pieces by Bizhan Khodabandeh and Chris Milk Hulbert, not that I wasn't tempted by what they'd done today.

Envy set in when I saw several talented musicians sketching away. Apparently some people end up with both mad artistic and musical skills.

Ditto for the multiple talents of the beekeeper/fabric artist I recently wrote about for Belle, here, and the studio/gallery owners I'd seen just the other night at a lecture.

But envy gave way to awe because a big part of why I have adopted Richmond is because of how many talented people have also chosen to make their home here.

And there was an unusually high concentration of them at the rally today, both making art and walking around looking at what had been created.

Stealthily, I moved around them hoping no one could tell what limited talents I had.

Then it occurred to me: every artistic sort needs an audience of one kind or another.

I am your audience.

Audio Voyeurism

I love a good story; hearing someone else's secrets is a guilty pleasure.

Which is why I never miss a Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story night at Balliceaux.

Tonight's theme was music stories, so all the storytellers were musicians and each played a song after spilling their guts.

And by "spilling their guts," I mean all manner of things.

Herschel Stratego talked about girls he lusted after and how he didn't have the body type to be romantic; his song was about tall, handsome men who won the girls.

Best of all, he named names.

Chris Milk showed off his recent bike accident injuries before singing, specifically mentioning his bruised, ahem, private parts.

Lest he be doubted, he said he had cell phone pictures of the black and blue injured parts should anyone be interested. Um, no thanks.

Charlottesville's Browning Porter did an amazing rap to "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," forcing me to find the one literary geek I knew in the room and lock eyes.

That's not a pleasure a reader gets every day and I had to share it with someone.

Probably the most fascinating story came from Lydia Ooghe before she sang "Topsy," a song about a  dead elephant.

The saga involved Nicholas Tesla, an arrogant Thomas Edison, A/C and D/C current and an Asian elephant that killed three men after being fed a lit cigarette.

What I learned was that an electrocuted elephant causes a lot of smoke; I found the mental picture most unsettling.

It was a lively crowd that came to hear music stories tonight, so I got to hear about RVA Music Fest from a DJ, the new school year from a recently-shorn teacher's perspective and how popular tonight's topic was from an organizer.

You just can't imagine how satisfying it is to listen to the stories of strangers and friends in a public setting until you do it.

After story time hour(s), I left to meet a new friend at Lemaire to have my brain picked.

He's working on a project and needed input from someone he considers "in the know" since he's a recent transplant.

Let me assure you, I did not claim to be in the know.

Upon walking in, I heard my name called and not by he who had invited me.

It was some of the usual suspects: bartender and wife, restaurant owner, man-about-town. I hugged, I kissed, I said hello.

My new friend was enjoying a Sazerac, so I jumped in to join him and listen to the details of his project.

After the business portion of the meeting we moved on to more colorful topics like Le Tigre, catfish at Comfort and the pleasures of working for oneself.

As a Brooklyn transplant, he can't get over how gosh darn friendly folks are in these parts. Or how good Virginia smoked peanuts are.

In keeping with the evening's theme, I told him a radio story (he accused me of being part of a "Morning Zoo" team) and he told me a metal-working story (from what I've seen of him, it was hard to imagine him doing such).

We performed no music after our stories were finished, but we had no audience either.

In-the-knows know never to spill your guts on a full moon.

Back in the Saddle Again

Not every puppet show ends in death, but you can pretty much count on it with Huckiddy Puppets.

For my first night back, I couldn't have asked for a better way to jump back into things than with a show at Gallery 5. It was puppetry, it was music and it was three blocks from home.

A nice crowd was forming when I arrived and music was being DJ'd courtesy of Sara Gosett, which always guarantees stellar vintage pop. I won't even mention the adorable mod '60s dress she had on.

Among the gems she played were Nancy Sinatra, the Hollies and, my personal favorite, an Indonesian cover of "Dizzy."  Oh, yes she did.

Richmond's best flamenco guitarist Frankzig opened the show with three songs showcasing his flying fingers, evocative singing and rhythmic foot stomping. Even with not a drop of Spanish blood in me, I always love seeing him perform.

When the puppet show began, it was with a group of local talents for musical accompaniment. Ed Trask was on drums, Jessica Blanks on violin, Tom Brickman on bass and Chris Ramming on guitar.

The show, put on by the brother/sister team of Chris Milk Hulbert and Cat Spur Hulbert, was about, what else, a brother and sister.

Tonight's plot centered on the sister trying to find the brother, only to learn that he has run away to escape people.

But a Huckiddy puppet show is not your mother's puppet show. When she finds him hiding out, she demands to know where he's been.

"I bugged the f**k out," he admits.

"That's rude as shit," she admonishes him. "It sounds all hip, but it's really rude and hurtful." The puppet language may be updated, but the sibling sentiment is timeless.

And what mother would approve of a puppet of a male body part who keeps suggesting lewd things?

A long intermission followed the first act and then two members of Zac Hryciak and the Jungle Beat took the stage.

Zac, looking sharp in a Spinal Tap t-shirt, and Jessica, minus her violin, said they were going to play a bunch of new songs and then immediately qualified it by saying, "Oh, but we've actually played this one before."

It didn't matter. When you've got a voice as impressive as Zac's and backing vocals as pretty as Jessica's, it's all good, old or new.

The audience responded with great enthusiasm, making me wonder if some people might be hearing them for the first time.

After yet another intermission, Frankzig came back and the crowd welcomed him warmly, now knowing what to expect.

Finally, the feuding brother and sister's antics resumed.  Turns out that the reason Huckle, the brother, had escaped was because he was an agoraphobic hobo, a phrase which got used to great hilarity several times.

As things were winding down, sister F'funia explained family dynamics to her thick-headed brother.

"That's what families are about. You love each other until you can't stand it anymore. Then you go away.Then you come back and do it again."

That's wisdom out of the mouths of big-lipped puppets.

Despite sharing sibling wisdom, Huckle ends up dead after a loud bang because of fireworks. So all ends normally for a Huckiddy puppet show.

And for me, life returns to normal with an evening of music, humor, art and universal truths.

Absent ocean soundtrack aside, it's good to be back.

Silver Tongues Offer Fool's Gold

I was chatting online with a friend, telling him about the show I planned to see tonight and he responded, "Well, I do want to see a show at Balliceaux one of these days."

Color me surprised because he's a show-going guy, much the way I'm a show-going girl (in fact, it's how we met; you can only see someone at shows so many times before introducing yourself), and yet he'd never been to Balliceaux for music? It was news to me.

If you've read this blog for more than a week, it's pretty obvious that Balliceaux is a regular destination for me and with good reason. The food is creative, the acoustics are good and a variety of musical genres (as well as film and storytelling) are booked in the back room.

Now let's see, I've seen rhythm and blues, free and experimental jazz, neo-soul, Ethiopian-style grooves, rock, '60s Asian pop, brass bands, New Orleans parlor-style jazz and that's just what I can remember off the top of my head.

Tonight's show was being called "1001 Nights: A Musical Tribute to Lhasa de Sela," the world music singer who died of breast cancer just over a year ago at age 37. The evening's proceeds were going to the Virginia Breast Cancer Foundation in her memory.

The event had been organized by Evrim Dogu, one of those people I admire for his multiple major talents. Besides being a devoted de Sela fan, he's a talented musician and the baking genius behind Sub Rosa Bread (if you've ever been to the Byrd House Market, you know the crusty perfection of his loaves).

He'd been planning the event since her death last year. Twelve local musicians and one out-of-towner were interpreting de Sela's catalog one song at a time. There were songs in English, French, Spanish and Arabic, all languages de Sela had used on her albums and in concert.

Some performers I was familiar with, like the Bird and her Consort (Jonathan and Antonia Vassar), Laura Ann Singh (Quatro na Bossa) and Chris Milk (the artist/musician/puppeteer, whose painting of a guitar player, "Song," hangs in front of me as I type this).

Others were new to me, but not to the large crowd of friends and fans who'd come to hear this dream bill; the place was packed. And one musician was familiar to me, but not on the program; playing his always-superb trumpet was Paul Watson.

It was a night of truly beautiful music and after each song, you'd wonder how the next could possibly match it, but it always did. At one point a friend turned and tapped me on my leg, whispering, "It's so amazing!"

And she'd had no idea who Lhasa de Sela was when she'd walked into the room; I say that because I had to tell her. On the other hand, I had known and I was every bit as impressed. You can't hear a song like "Fool's Gold" and not feel the passion inherent in her songwriting.

It's just too bad that my friend didn't choose tonight to have divested himself of his Balliceaux virginity with this once-in-a-blue moon performance.

Now use your silver tongue once more
There's one thing I'd like to know
Did you ever believe the lies that you told?
Did you own the fool's gold that you gave me?

So You Think You Know Me? Okay, You Do.

What I don't know if my friends even realize is that it's not the gifts they give that I truly appreciate (although of course I do), it's what their gifts say to me about how they see me that is my favorite part.

A friend gave me two tickets to any production at Barksdale. Upon seeing the two, I made a joke about such optimism (like I'm going to be able to scare up a date for the theater?). "Well, you'd be just as happy seeing two plays by yourself anyway," she said. "So shut up." Nothing I can say to that argument.

From a long-time friend I got a gift certificate to Chop Suey. Since you get to choose the paperback cover that the gift certificate comes on, she'd specifically chosen Dickens' Hard Times, knowing I'd get a kick out of the reference.

After all the conversations we've had about my hard times of the past two years, it felt like an inside joke. Besides, she assured me that 2011 will be much better for me and I believe her. They don't call me Pollyanna for nothing.

As much as I love collecting local art, I couldn't have been more thrilled to receive a piece by a a little known Richmond calligrapher from a friend. I told him that for me, the true pleasure comes with deciding where to hang it. Maybe near the Adam Juresko? Or over the Chris Milk Hulbert? This may take an enjoyable while, deciding where its place of honor will be.

Then there was one of my favorite musicians and conversationalists, who gave me a digital holiday present, an end-of-the-year mix featuring some of his favorite music of 2010 and a brand new song of his. I wasn't surprised at Spoon or The Books (he knows I will always give him crap for going to see The Books without me), but Benoit Pioulard and Marni Stern? Be still my musical heart.

One of my very favorite people in the entire world gave me a book called Bad Girls: The Most Powerful, Shocking, Amazing, Thrilling and Dangerous Women of All Time. As a huge fan of non-fiction, I know it'll be right up my alley. Even better was the inscription:

To my favorite "bad girl" - Keep up the good work! Love you with all my heart!

That's the kind of Christmas gift that makes a girl feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Even a bad girl.