Let's call it an Art Tasting Menu that lasted a weekend.
Amuse bouche
"One Year: 1968, an American Odyssey" at the National Portrait Gallery
This delightful starter, a small, one-room exhibition, whetted our appetite for what was ahead by featuring a psychedelic anti-war poster, a photo of RFK sharing a crust of bread with Cesar Chavez after his hunger strike ended, plus Hendrix, the Dead and Joan Didion in bell-bottoms leaning nonchalantly against a Corvette. So much happened that year.
Bonus: Learning that Mr. Wright once had a crush on Peggy Fleming.
Soup course
Despite lines at both, the portraits of Barrack and Michelle Obama were must-sees. The magnificence of Michelle's skin tones in Amy Sherald's portrait were as striking as the meaning-laden fanciful flower background of Kehinde Wiley's image of her husband.
Downside: Most people seemed to be there for the selfie, with little time spent looking at the portraits.
First course
"Eye to I: Self Portraits from 1900 to Today" at the National Portrait Gallery
With 75 pieces, this was a meaty look at how American artists chose to portray themselves. Forget selfies, these were drawings, photographs and even a life-size bronze tomb sculpture of artists such as Elaine de Kooning, Edward Hopper and Diego Rivera. I have no doubt that a young Andy Warhol adored the way he looked in his staged photograph.
Bonus: A chance to see how someone sees him or herself may be the most revealing glimpse possible into their state of mind.
Second course
"Flickering Treasures: Rediscovering Baltimore's Forgotten Movie Theaters" at the National Building Museum
As much time as I spend at the Byrd Theater, how could I not be seduced by an exhibit about a city that, in its heyday, had 240 movie palaces? Vintage photographs of theaters such as the Apollo, the State and the Schanze - the latter a white theater in a black neighborhood, known for hosting Yiddish performers - accompanied photographer Amy Davis' images of the boarded up, renovated and demolished buildings today. As much an architectural exhibit as an oral history project, it also documented social segregation.
Bonus: Mr. Wright giving me the building's origins as the U.S. Pension Building, right down to the worn, sloped stairs built to be hosed down easily from any blood spilled by pensioners there on business.
Third course
"Gordon Parks: The New Tide, Early Work 1940-50" at the National Gallery of Art
Although Lady G and I had sort of seen the Parks exhibit at the end of November, we'd been so enthralled with "Corot: Women" that we hadn't allowed enough time to fully take in the 150 pieces in this exhibit. For the second time, I left the National Gallery marveling at how adept Parks was right out of the gate. The man had no learning curve when it came to photography. Talk about born ready.
Bonus: After a stop for bagels, we arrived 10 minutes before the museum opened at 11 to find a line forming. But once inside, the lack of crowds was startling. Had people been scared away by the government shutdown? Dunno, but it sure made for spacious gallery walking.
Dessert
"Japan Modern: Prints in the Age of Photography" at the Freer Sackler Galleries
After a stroll through the Enid Haupt Garden, we made our way downstairs to see the strikingly beautiful series of colored woodblock prints that looked nothing like woodblock prints. Most used ink and watercolor to transform the often heavy lines of a woodblock into something soft and colorful depicting the changing face - or remembered past - of late 19th to mid-20th century Japan. Like the shift from savory to sweet, the series of images was a welcome finale to a feast of art.
Bonus: The prints from the 1960s showed the influence of the cultural revolution taking place in the Western world, more abstract and definitely less traditional.
With so much art to dine on, meals had to be fitted in around gallery time, but we managed a four hour session at Cuba Libre's bar - killer black bean soup, crab guacamole with plantain chips, jardin salad and crab fritters - when we arrived in late afternoon, sipped through multiple glasses of a Portuguese white blend and left long after dark.
Even better was an extended late brunch at Jaleo where the hostess, unbidden, led us to the back-most table and shared that it was the best seat in the house. Next to a window with a view of bustling F Street and away from the masses, we'd landed in our own little private corner where our server confirmed that the crowds had dropped off precipitously in the past few days.
Every time I go to Jaleo, I discover a new favorite and today's was the flauta de tortilla de patatas, a long, crusty roll spread with chopped fresh tomato and a Spanish omelet with potatoes and onion as its centerpiece. Yum.
How did I not know that omelets belonged on sandwiches before now?
Anyone who thinks they don't like spinach needs to try Jaleo's version done with raisins, apples and pine nuts and get back to me on that. Dragon breath ensued after downing spicy garlic shrimp while ensuring that no one else was getting anywhere near us, but as long as you have two garlic breaths, the rest don't matter.
Of note this weekend was that there had been no dessert, but that was corrected this afternoon with chocolate custard rolled in chocolate cookie crumbs. It sat under a crown of the thinnest of bread slices, which had been caramelized, and near a scoop of brioche ice cream resting on more cookie crumbs. Divine and much appreciated.
In dessert, as in life, sometimes you do without until you find exactly what you need. Or want. Cookie crumbs? They're just a bonus.
Showing posts with label jaleo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label jaleo. Show all posts
Sunday, December 30, 2018
Thursday, November 29, 2018
Black and White
For the third time this week, I was up by 8 a.m.
I'm not thrilled about that, but Lady G was picking me up at 9:12 (her suggestion), which actually turned out to be 9:38, but who's keeping track? A last minute plan hatched to put us in Washington in time for two exhibits and lunch meant we needed to be on the road early-ish.
The things I do for art.
An hour and 45 minutes later (it's best if I don't look at the speedometer when G's driving), we were pulling into a prime parking space in a sunny spot on Constitution Avenue, feeling pretty smug about our luck.
I'd barely uttered the words "I'm so happy to be here" to the world at large before discovering that the parking payment station was malfunctioning, an inconvenience that sapped the next 20 minutes between downloading the parking app and speaking to a customer service representative who asked G everything from her gender to her mother's maiden name.
More than once, she muttered, "I'm not comfortable giving these people all this information."
Had I been there alone, I'd have been out of luck since a phone is apparently a requirement now to park. Don't get me started.
Walking the half block to the museum, we were soon stopped by two lost-looking women who sized us up and asked, "Excuse me, you're from here, aren't you? Where's the Museum of Natural History?" You never saw two natives beam like G and I did from being identified correctly and sent them on their way.
Once inside the National Gallery of Art, our heavy coats left behind at the coat check, we made the requisite first stop, causing G to observe, "Wow, of all the bathrooms I've been to here, I've never been in this one."
Some women never forget their loos.
The primary reason for the trip was to see "Corot: Women," a show neither of us could resist since the artist is known for landscapes, not figure painting. Seems he'd take occasional breaks from lucrative landscape painting gigs to paint models dressed up in prop clothes in his studio, notable because he didn't idealize them.
And why would he? He didn't idealize landscapes.
What was extraordinary about his paintings of women was how he set out to capture the mood of his models more than their garb or as a way of telling a story. Whether introspective, brooding, aloof or sad, the models' full-on gaze back at the artist flouted contemporary expectations of what femininity was.
These women had opinions and feelings and weren't afraid to show them even when they were being captured for posterity. Our kind of women.
"Melancholy," a figure of a woman with her cheek resting in her hand, her left sleeve having fallen off her shoulder, set the tone for the rest of the show. Corot had meticulously captured the woman's face in great detail - everyone in town had to have known who she was - but her body and voluminous white gown were depicted in such loose brushwork that the painting almost looked unfinished.
And here's where I had a teachable moment by reading the signage. Apparently Albrecht Durer had done an engraving of a woman in the same pose back in the 16th century and ever since, pensive cheek in hand poses were shorthand for melancholy.
This was news to me.
Just as fascinating was how Corot made a point to keep various props and furnishings in his studio, including an easel with a Corot landscape on it. Most of the paintings had interiors showing Corot paintings hanging on the walls behind the figures. Three of the paintings depicted the same woman in his studio, one hand on a Corot landscape, the other holding a mandolin.
It was Corot paints Corot paints Corot, a hall of mirrors effect that undoubtedly fed the artist's ego.
Then there was "Woman in a Yellow Sleeve," notable because the signage explained the painting's provenance: "Accepted in lieu of inheritance tax by HM Government from the estate of Lucian Freud and allocated to the National Gallery of London." All I could think was, wow, that must have been a helluva lot of money Sigmund's grandson owed the Queen.
"Lady in Blue" was distinctively different than the exhibition's other paintings because rather than a model in prop costumes, it showed a lovely young woman in an expensive and deeply ruffled blue dress, one plump arm crooked to draw the eye to her face. Because the painting showed her bare-armed without her dress jacket (shocking!), it had an intimate and erotic charge to it.
It also showed the clear influence of Manet in the black-tinged blue gown. Nobody has as much black undertones in their colors as Manet.
Just as good were his nudes, which he'd taken up solely to demonstrate his abilities beyond landscapes, because he depicted real women, the kind who weren't idealized like marble statues with smooth, flawless skin. Who has that kind of skin anyway?
What scandalized 19th century viewers was that these were real, recognizable women who were actually nude while a male artist had observed and painted her.
Why, it was a downright affront to decency and social decorum.
Turning to look at another wall of Corot's figures, G gasped and asked rhetorically, "What is this man doing in here?" She was referring to "St. Sebastian," essentially a male nude with a swaddle of cloth over his twigs and berries. A stranger walked up and exclaimed, "It's a man! What's that about? This is the third time I've seen this show and I never noticed him before!"
Hold the phone. How in the world do you see a compact exhibition - there were only 45 paintings, for crying out loud - of women three times and miss the sole male nude?
Granted, I may have silently judged, but I voiced not a word.
Naturally a confident, successful painter such as Corot wanted to show off his mastery of the male nude, although G and I could make a case for the canvas not belonging at this particular show.
And just in case I ever get asked to pose nude, I've decided I will mimic the reclining nude pose of Corot's "Marietta" for best effect.
By the time we finished soaking in the beauty, our heads were full of images of women captured by the artist in whatever their mood of the day had been. Corot, it seems, gave no instructions to his models, but allowed them to move around and settle in whatever way they chose, even if it was with a dismissive or condescending gaze.
Because sometimes, that's how a girl feels and she can't mask it.
From there, we made our way to see "Gordon Parks: The New Tide, Early Works," a large (150 strong) show of the first decade of Parks' photography career. Some of the works were familiar to me from seeing the VMFA's "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott" show back in 2016. The photograph of gang leader Red Jackson doing the "slow drag" with his girlfriend - some people might call it grinding - I recognized immediately.
But there was so much more to learn about Parks at this exhibition.
Like how he'd moved his young family to Chicago to start a career in portrait photography and how he'd worked at the Southside Community Art Center. How his close friendship with Langston Hughes produced images of Hughes smiling, something I'd never seen before.
Easily one of my favorites was "Self Portrait 1941," a stunning image of his face and shoulders next to his large-format camera, the light and shadow on both producing exquisite tones of black and gray. Many of the photographs had been taken in SW Washington, mere blocks from where we stood. "Negro Woman in Her Bedroom" showed her looking into the kind of round dresser mirror my own grandmother had had, with a large picture of FDR on the wall next to it.
Who didn't believe in FDR back in those days?
Even in his first decade of capturing American life, you could already see Parks' commitment to documenting the inequities of black and white life. "Young Boy Standing in the Doorway" showed a boy on crutches from behind, one of his legs amputated after a streetcar cut the leg off while he was playing in the street. It was Park's commentary about white children having playgrounds to go to while black children had nothing beyond the streets for recreation.
"Drugstore Cowboys, Alberta" showed five young men in dungarees, caps and jackets, staring back at him with looks of cockiness, uncertainty and disdain, in front of a "Drink Coca Cola" sign. All of them look street-wise and ready for their close-ups.
Meanwhile, "Panhandler on 7th Street, NW" was a reminder that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Also that we needed to head up Seventh Street ourselves or risk passing out from starvation.
Jaleo was covered in scaffolding, but the signs said they were open during construction and that's all we cared about. Given that owner Jose Andres was just the other day nominated for the Nobel Peace prize, G and I thought it only fitting to pay our respects by eating his food.
That, and the food's always fabulous.
By arriving so late in the afternoon, the lunch rush had quieted down and many tables were unoccupied, making it nice for a change not to have to raise our voices to converse. After so much art, all we wanted to do was sink back into the banquette and give in to the four course lunch menu.
G and I are so easy sometimes.
For me, diving in meant gazpacho with cherry tomatoes that inexplicably tasted like August. How does Jose do it? Next came endive with goat cheese, orange sections and almonds, a collection of bright and light flavors, then garlic slices and shrimp in chile oil, all of which I washed down with Cava Sangria.
G, meanwhile, began with roasted onions with bleu cheese, a practically perfect sweet and salty balance, before moving on to chicken fritters, which essentially tasted like chicken pot pie inside the lightest crunchy shell imaginable. She was drinking red Sangria to accompany her Daniel Patrick Moynihan pork sausage over white beans, a dish she freely admitted choosing because of its nod to the long time Democratic senator.
Although we'd intentionally ordered different dishes for each course so as to have as many things as possible to taste, when it came time for dessert, neither of us was ordering ice cream on a chilly day. Instead, we each devoured a flan with vanilla-flecked whipped cream and oranges, a heavenly finish to a stellar lunch.
All I can say is, it's a good thing Jaleo isn't in Richmond or I'd be having four course lunches every chance I got.
We'd taken so long lingering over lunch that I-395 was already starting to back up by the time we got on it, but since G and I never lack for conversational topics - old loves, new loves, crazy exes and hard-of-hearing friends - we didn't care. Still high on art, we tried to look like three people while in the HOV lanes and marveled at the beauty of the late November sky through her filthy windshield.
We tried cleaning it with Windex on I-95, but that turned out to be a bad idea in moving traffic.
Barely crawling along in the left lane near Stafford, I happened to glance over and saw two young deer standing just barely on the other side of the guard rail in the median, inches from us and thousands of moving cars.
One looked right at me, like one of Corot's models, as if to say, yea, I'm here, so what?
"Well, that was magical," G observed of our wildlife moment as the sun began to set. Parking issues aside, she could have been referring to the entire day.
My plan is to celebrate by sleeping way past 8 a.m. tomorrow. And if not, you can expect to see my cheek resting in my hand, melancholy style.
And, let's face it, no one wants to see me melancholy again. Once was plenty.
I'm not thrilled about that, but Lady G was picking me up at 9:12 (her suggestion), which actually turned out to be 9:38, but who's keeping track? A last minute plan hatched to put us in Washington in time for two exhibits and lunch meant we needed to be on the road early-ish.
The things I do for art.
An hour and 45 minutes later (it's best if I don't look at the speedometer when G's driving), we were pulling into a prime parking space in a sunny spot on Constitution Avenue, feeling pretty smug about our luck.
I'd barely uttered the words "I'm so happy to be here" to the world at large before discovering that the parking payment station was malfunctioning, an inconvenience that sapped the next 20 minutes between downloading the parking app and speaking to a customer service representative who asked G everything from her gender to her mother's maiden name.
More than once, she muttered, "I'm not comfortable giving these people all this information."
Had I been there alone, I'd have been out of luck since a phone is apparently a requirement now to park. Don't get me started.
Walking the half block to the museum, we were soon stopped by two lost-looking women who sized us up and asked, "Excuse me, you're from here, aren't you? Where's the Museum of Natural History?" You never saw two natives beam like G and I did from being identified correctly and sent them on their way.
Once inside the National Gallery of Art, our heavy coats left behind at the coat check, we made the requisite first stop, causing G to observe, "Wow, of all the bathrooms I've been to here, I've never been in this one."
Some women never forget their loos.
The primary reason for the trip was to see "Corot: Women," a show neither of us could resist since the artist is known for landscapes, not figure painting. Seems he'd take occasional breaks from lucrative landscape painting gigs to paint models dressed up in prop clothes in his studio, notable because he didn't idealize them.
And why would he? He didn't idealize landscapes.
What was extraordinary about his paintings of women was how he set out to capture the mood of his models more than their garb or as a way of telling a story. Whether introspective, brooding, aloof or sad, the models' full-on gaze back at the artist flouted contemporary expectations of what femininity was.
These women had opinions and feelings and weren't afraid to show them even when they were being captured for posterity. Our kind of women.
"Melancholy," a figure of a woman with her cheek resting in her hand, her left sleeve having fallen off her shoulder, set the tone for the rest of the show. Corot had meticulously captured the woman's face in great detail - everyone in town had to have known who she was - but her body and voluminous white gown were depicted in such loose brushwork that the painting almost looked unfinished.
And here's where I had a teachable moment by reading the signage. Apparently Albrecht Durer had done an engraving of a woman in the same pose back in the 16th century and ever since, pensive cheek in hand poses were shorthand for melancholy.
This was news to me.
Just as fascinating was how Corot made a point to keep various props and furnishings in his studio, including an easel with a Corot landscape on it. Most of the paintings had interiors showing Corot paintings hanging on the walls behind the figures. Three of the paintings depicted the same woman in his studio, one hand on a Corot landscape, the other holding a mandolin.
It was Corot paints Corot paints Corot, a hall of mirrors effect that undoubtedly fed the artist's ego.
Then there was "Woman in a Yellow Sleeve," notable because the signage explained the painting's provenance: "Accepted in lieu of inheritance tax by HM Government from the estate of Lucian Freud and allocated to the National Gallery of London." All I could think was, wow, that must have been a helluva lot of money Sigmund's grandson owed the Queen.
"Lady in Blue" was distinctively different than the exhibition's other paintings because rather than a model in prop costumes, it showed a lovely young woman in an expensive and deeply ruffled blue dress, one plump arm crooked to draw the eye to her face. Because the painting showed her bare-armed without her dress jacket (shocking!), it had an intimate and erotic charge to it.
It also showed the clear influence of Manet in the black-tinged blue gown. Nobody has as much black undertones in their colors as Manet.
Just as good were his nudes, which he'd taken up solely to demonstrate his abilities beyond landscapes, because he depicted real women, the kind who weren't idealized like marble statues with smooth, flawless skin. Who has that kind of skin anyway?
What scandalized 19th century viewers was that these were real, recognizable women who were actually nude while a male artist had observed and painted her.
Why, it was a downright affront to decency and social decorum.
Turning to look at another wall of Corot's figures, G gasped and asked rhetorically, "What is this man doing in here?" She was referring to "St. Sebastian," essentially a male nude with a swaddle of cloth over his twigs and berries. A stranger walked up and exclaimed, "It's a man! What's that about? This is the third time I've seen this show and I never noticed him before!"
Hold the phone. How in the world do you see a compact exhibition - there were only 45 paintings, for crying out loud - of women three times and miss the sole male nude?
Granted, I may have silently judged, but I voiced not a word.
Naturally a confident, successful painter such as Corot wanted to show off his mastery of the male nude, although G and I could make a case for the canvas not belonging at this particular show.
And just in case I ever get asked to pose nude, I've decided I will mimic the reclining nude pose of Corot's "Marietta" for best effect.
By the time we finished soaking in the beauty, our heads were full of images of women captured by the artist in whatever their mood of the day had been. Corot, it seems, gave no instructions to his models, but allowed them to move around and settle in whatever way they chose, even if it was with a dismissive or condescending gaze.
Because sometimes, that's how a girl feels and she can't mask it.
From there, we made our way to see "Gordon Parks: The New Tide, Early Works," a large (150 strong) show of the first decade of Parks' photography career. Some of the works were familiar to me from seeing the VMFA's "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott" show back in 2016. The photograph of gang leader Red Jackson doing the "slow drag" with his girlfriend - some people might call it grinding - I recognized immediately.
But there was so much more to learn about Parks at this exhibition.
Like how he'd moved his young family to Chicago to start a career in portrait photography and how he'd worked at the Southside Community Art Center. How his close friendship with Langston Hughes produced images of Hughes smiling, something I'd never seen before.
Easily one of my favorites was "Self Portrait 1941," a stunning image of his face and shoulders next to his large-format camera, the light and shadow on both producing exquisite tones of black and gray. Many of the photographs had been taken in SW Washington, mere blocks from where we stood. "Negro Woman in Her Bedroom" showed her looking into the kind of round dresser mirror my own grandmother had had, with a large picture of FDR on the wall next to it.
Who didn't believe in FDR back in those days?
Even in his first decade of capturing American life, you could already see Parks' commitment to documenting the inequities of black and white life. "Young Boy Standing in the Doorway" showed a boy on crutches from behind, one of his legs amputated after a streetcar cut the leg off while he was playing in the street. It was Park's commentary about white children having playgrounds to go to while black children had nothing beyond the streets for recreation.
"Drugstore Cowboys, Alberta" showed five young men in dungarees, caps and jackets, staring back at him with looks of cockiness, uncertainty and disdain, in front of a "Drink Coca Cola" sign. All of them look street-wise and ready for their close-ups.
Meanwhile, "Panhandler on 7th Street, NW" was a reminder that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Also that we needed to head up Seventh Street ourselves or risk passing out from starvation.
Jaleo was covered in scaffolding, but the signs said they were open during construction and that's all we cared about. Given that owner Jose Andres was just the other day nominated for the Nobel Peace prize, G and I thought it only fitting to pay our respects by eating his food.
That, and the food's always fabulous.
By arriving so late in the afternoon, the lunch rush had quieted down and many tables were unoccupied, making it nice for a change not to have to raise our voices to converse. After so much art, all we wanted to do was sink back into the banquette and give in to the four course lunch menu.
G and I are so easy sometimes.
For me, diving in meant gazpacho with cherry tomatoes that inexplicably tasted like August. How does Jose do it? Next came endive with goat cheese, orange sections and almonds, a collection of bright and light flavors, then garlic slices and shrimp in chile oil, all of which I washed down with Cava Sangria.
G, meanwhile, began with roasted onions with bleu cheese, a practically perfect sweet and salty balance, before moving on to chicken fritters, which essentially tasted like chicken pot pie inside the lightest crunchy shell imaginable. She was drinking red Sangria to accompany her Daniel Patrick Moynihan pork sausage over white beans, a dish she freely admitted choosing because of its nod to the long time Democratic senator.
Although we'd intentionally ordered different dishes for each course so as to have as many things as possible to taste, when it came time for dessert, neither of us was ordering ice cream on a chilly day. Instead, we each devoured a flan with vanilla-flecked whipped cream and oranges, a heavenly finish to a stellar lunch.
All I can say is, it's a good thing Jaleo isn't in Richmond or I'd be having four course lunches every chance I got.
We'd taken so long lingering over lunch that I-395 was already starting to back up by the time we got on it, but since G and I never lack for conversational topics - old loves, new loves, crazy exes and hard-of-hearing friends - we didn't care. Still high on art, we tried to look like three people while in the HOV lanes and marveled at the beauty of the late November sky through her filthy windshield.
We tried cleaning it with Windex on I-95, but that turned out to be a bad idea in moving traffic.
Barely crawling along in the left lane near Stafford, I happened to glance over and saw two young deer standing just barely on the other side of the guard rail in the median, inches from us and thousands of moving cars.
One looked right at me, like one of Corot's models, as if to say, yea, I'm here, so what?
"Well, that was magical," G observed of our wildlife moment as the sun began to set. Parking issues aside, she could have been referring to the entire day.
My plan is to celebrate by sleeping way past 8 a.m. tomorrow. And if not, you can expect to see my cheek resting in my hand, melancholy style.
And, let's face it, no one wants to see me melancholy again. Once was plenty.
Monday, May 16, 2011
BD Kickoff: Jaleo and Fleet Foxes
My birthday, which arrives next Monday, has over the years become a pastiche of traditions that make me happy.
I spend a good week celebrating, preferably with as many of my friends as possible, in as many possible ways as we can think of.
And there is always a birthday show, often out of town, involving a band I'm eager to see, even if it requires a splurge.
This year's celebration kicked off today with a solo road trip to Washington for a few of my favorite things: art, food and music.
1. The Art Part
Ever since I'd read the Post's article on "Out-Vermeering Vermeer," I'd been dying to see the Gabriel Metsu show at the National Gallery.
This Dutch master, with whom I had no familiarity, was a gifted visual storyteller with a knack for color and brushstrokes and I spent a good part of my afternoon admiring works I'd never even seen in books.
Skilled at paintings of market scenes, his depictions of sellers and buyers were informative and charming. "A Baker Blowing His Horn" had one of the most elaborate loaves of bread I've ever seen.
"A Vegetable Market in Amsterdam" showed all kinds of drama: a vendor arguing with a customer, a man hitting on a maid, a dog staring down a rooster.
Have I missed all that at the Byrd House Market?
But my favorite Metsus were the many which depicted a man insinuating himself into a woman's world. "Woman Tuning her Cittern Approached by Man," "The Intruder" showed a man bursting into a lady's bedchamber with two woman showing surprise, "A Hunter Visiting a Woman at her Toilet," ( I overheard a man tell his wife, ""That doesn't mean a toilet, it means she's doing her make-up." Seriously) and "A Man Visiting a Woman Washing Her Hands."
That's a lot of men where they shouldn't have been.
My favorite title was "Woman Composing Music with an Inquisitive Man."
And as he leaned over her chair, the man smiled, clearly showing intent of I can't say what.
Couldn't he see she had music to compose?
I also took in "The Gothic Spirit of John Taylor Arms," a printmaking exhibit of a twentieth-century architect- turned- printmaker who embraced all things Gothic at a time when others were embracing modernity.
His prints of Venice (with every building mirrored perfectly in the canals) and France were breathtaking and while there were a few of New York City, he gave up on Gotham because he "did not love the buildings and couldn't etch what he didn't love."
Now that's a devoted printmaker.
2. The Dinner Part
I left my car parked in front of the NGA and walked up to Jaleo just in time to beat the rain.
A native Washingtonian who lived in the neighborhood sat down next to me and provided company for the next few hours.
She's a regular at Jaleo, so I listened to her recommendations and then ordered what I wanted.
Jaleo does happy hour every day except Saturday, so I enjoyed the Campos de Luz white wine because of its appealing price tag and easy drinkability.
I was high on art anyway by that point.
First I did the endives with goat cheese, oranges and slivered almonds.
My new friend described them as "the perfect first course...or last."
With their clean, crisp flavors, I tended to agree.
Next I had my first sea urchin, mixed with diced peppers, tomatoes and cucumbers and served over ice.
The cilantro-laced oil gave a richness to the urchin I hadn't expected.
Carlos was our bartender and he knew my seatmate well, but it was my glass that received the bonus pour when he got near the end of a bottle.
I asked if it was because I'd driven up from Richmond.
"It's so that you'll come back," he said.
Spicy chorizo wrapped in paper-thin slices of crispy potato arrived and there were six good-sized pieces of sausage, more than I expected. my new friend, concerned about the spiciness, offered up Pepto-Bismol should I need it.
Not likely with my iron gut.
Carlos insisted I try the shrimp sauteed in garlic, butter and guindilla pepper because of its classic nature.
Good, but too rich by that point in the meal.
He also suggested the dark chocolate mousse with cocoa spongecake and hazelnut ice cream and I managed to find room for that, but then I had all that extra wine to finish it with.
Before I left, my friend gave me her number and insisted I return for a night out to celebrate my birthday, even offering a discounted hotel room to entice me further.
"We could have so much fun," she laughed.
3. The Music Part
My choice for birthday band this year was Fleet Foxes because I needed to hear Robin Pecknold's voice live before I die.
Lyrically and harmony-wise, they really have no folk peer at the moment.
The show was at D.A.R. Constitution Hall, always such a civilized place to see a show because it's a seated venue and they require shows be over by 11:00.
Because I hadn't bought my ticket the day they went on sale, I was in the upper tier in Row L.
It was high, but it was on the side of the stage so I had a good view.
Within minutes of sitting down, a girl came over and asked, "Are you alone?"
Seems he wanted to trade one of her mismatched tickets so she could sit nearer her friend, also in the upper tier.
"It's in the orchestra, third row. I don't think your view will be obstructed."
From Row C? No, I guess not.
I graciously exchanged my nosebleed ticket for her third row.
I honestly don't know how these things happen to me.
Seattle's Cave Singers opened the show with beautiful harmonies (well, you'd better if you're opening for harmony virtuosos FF), guitar, drums, washboard, tambourine and harmonica.
The only fly in the ointment was all the talkers during their set.
Not so for Fleet Foxes; the audience was positively worshipful except for shouting out between songs.
I honestly don't understand how people can think bands want to hear things like "We love you" and "You're perfect!" every night.
At least be creative with your shoutouts, kids.
The best I heard was, "Play what you want!" to which Pecknold replied, "Thank you, sir."
Pecknold was not a big chatter between songs, but it didn't matter given how tight and beautiful the band sounded throughout.
Lots of guitars, drums, mandolin, upright bass, keyboard, tambourine, two flutes and even a bass clarinet made for every complementary sound required.
As a result, much tuning went on and it became a running joke.
"No one understands the meta spectacle thing we're trying to do with the tuning thing," they joked. "So be amazed."
This crowd was more than happy to listen to these guys tune.
In between bands, I struck up a music conversation with the two twenty-somethings next to me in Row C, only to learn that most of the music they listen to is old.
CSNY, Dylan, that sort of thing.
I made my usual case for new music, but they consider their generation a failure at creativity.
Fleet Foxes is one of a very few current bands they tolerate.
Imagine my surprise, when I asked where the one guy lived (the monosyllabic one having returned to looking at his phone) and he said, "Richmond, Grace between Strawberry and Allison."
You mean a block I walk every day of my life?
Small fricking world, isn't it?
I drive two hours up soul-sucking 95 to sit next to someone who lives less than a mile from me.
It is to laugh.
And the music was to savor.
The haunting lyrics, the multi-part harmonies, the evocation of a sound that will never go out of style all made for the best kind of birthday show.
As any FF fan in the audience could predict, the band did the title track from their new album "Helplessness Blues" as the final encore.
The crowd could no longer contain itself and rose to its feet to listen to the ode to becoming part of something bigger than yourself.
All I can say is, it's a hell of a start to my birthday week celebration.
Keep it coming.
I spend a good week celebrating, preferably with as many of my friends as possible, in as many possible ways as we can think of.
And there is always a birthday show, often out of town, involving a band I'm eager to see, even if it requires a splurge.
This year's celebration kicked off today with a solo road trip to Washington for a few of my favorite things: art, food and music.
1. The Art Part
Ever since I'd read the Post's article on "Out-Vermeering Vermeer," I'd been dying to see the Gabriel Metsu show at the National Gallery.
This Dutch master, with whom I had no familiarity, was a gifted visual storyteller with a knack for color and brushstrokes and I spent a good part of my afternoon admiring works I'd never even seen in books.
Skilled at paintings of market scenes, his depictions of sellers and buyers were informative and charming. "A Baker Blowing His Horn" had one of the most elaborate loaves of bread I've ever seen.
"A Vegetable Market in Amsterdam" showed all kinds of drama: a vendor arguing with a customer, a man hitting on a maid, a dog staring down a rooster.
Have I missed all that at the Byrd House Market?
But my favorite Metsus were the many which depicted a man insinuating himself into a woman's world. "Woman Tuning her Cittern Approached by Man," "The Intruder" showed a man bursting into a lady's bedchamber with two woman showing surprise, "A Hunter Visiting a Woman at her Toilet," ( I overheard a man tell his wife, ""That doesn't mean a toilet, it means she's doing her make-up." Seriously) and "A Man Visiting a Woman Washing Her Hands."
That's a lot of men where they shouldn't have been.
My favorite title was "Woman Composing Music with an Inquisitive Man."
And as he leaned over her chair, the man smiled, clearly showing intent of I can't say what.
Couldn't he see she had music to compose?
I also took in "The Gothic Spirit of John Taylor Arms," a printmaking exhibit of a twentieth-century architect- turned- printmaker who embraced all things Gothic at a time when others were embracing modernity.
His prints of Venice (with every building mirrored perfectly in the canals) and France were breathtaking and while there were a few of New York City, he gave up on Gotham because he "did not love the buildings and couldn't etch what he didn't love."
Now that's a devoted printmaker.
2. The Dinner Part
I left my car parked in front of the NGA and walked up to Jaleo just in time to beat the rain.
A native Washingtonian who lived in the neighborhood sat down next to me and provided company for the next few hours.
She's a regular at Jaleo, so I listened to her recommendations and then ordered what I wanted.
Jaleo does happy hour every day except Saturday, so I enjoyed the Campos de Luz white wine because of its appealing price tag and easy drinkability.
I was high on art anyway by that point.
First I did the endives with goat cheese, oranges and slivered almonds.
My new friend described them as "the perfect first course...or last."
With their clean, crisp flavors, I tended to agree.
Next I had my first sea urchin, mixed with diced peppers, tomatoes and cucumbers and served over ice.
The cilantro-laced oil gave a richness to the urchin I hadn't expected.
Carlos was our bartender and he knew my seatmate well, but it was my glass that received the bonus pour when he got near the end of a bottle.
I asked if it was because I'd driven up from Richmond.
"It's so that you'll come back," he said.
Spicy chorizo wrapped in paper-thin slices of crispy potato arrived and there were six good-sized pieces of sausage, more than I expected. my new friend, concerned about the spiciness, offered up Pepto-Bismol should I need it.
Not likely with my iron gut.
Carlos insisted I try the shrimp sauteed in garlic, butter and guindilla pepper because of its classic nature.
Good, but too rich by that point in the meal.
He also suggested the dark chocolate mousse with cocoa spongecake and hazelnut ice cream and I managed to find room for that, but then I had all that extra wine to finish it with.
Before I left, my friend gave me her number and insisted I return for a night out to celebrate my birthday, even offering a discounted hotel room to entice me further.
"We could have so much fun," she laughed.
3. The Music Part
My choice for birthday band this year was Fleet Foxes because I needed to hear Robin Pecknold's voice live before I die.
Lyrically and harmony-wise, they really have no folk peer at the moment.
The show was at D.A.R. Constitution Hall, always such a civilized place to see a show because it's a seated venue and they require shows be over by 11:00.
Because I hadn't bought my ticket the day they went on sale, I was in the upper tier in Row L.
It was high, but it was on the side of the stage so I had a good view.
Within minutes of sitting down, a girl came over and asked, "Are you alone?"
Seems he wanted to trade one of her mismatched tickets so she could sit nearer her friend, also in the upper tier.
"It's in the orchestra, third row. I don't think your view will be obstructed."
From Row C? No, I guess not.
I graciously exchanged my nosebleed ticket for her third row.
I honestly don't know how these things happen to me.
Seattle's Cave Singers opened the show with beautiful harmonies (well, you'd better if you're opening for harmony virtuosos FF), guitar, drums, washboard, tambourine and harmonica.
The only fly in the ointment was all the talkers during their set.
Not so for Fleet Foxes; the audience was positively worshipful except for shouting out between songs.
I honestly don't understand how people can think bands want to hear things like "We love you" and "You're perfect!" every night.
At least be creative with your shoutouts, kids.
The best I heard was, "Play what you want!" to which Pecknold replied, "Thank you, sir."
Pecknold was not a big chatter between songs, but it didn't matter given how tight and beautiful the band sounded throughout.
Lots of guitars, drums, mandolin, upright bass, keyboard, tambourine, two flutes and even a bass clarinet made for every complementary sound required.
As a result, much tuning went on and it became a running joke.
"No one understands the meta spectacle thing we're trying to do with the tuning thing," they joked. "So be amazed."
This crowd was more than happy to listen to these guys tune.
In between bands, I struck up a music conversation with the two twenty-somethings next to me in Row C, only to learn that most of the music they listen to is old.
CSNY, Dylan, that sort of thing.
I made my usual case for new music, but they consider their generation a failure at creativity.
Fleet Foxes is one of a very few current bands they tolerate.
Imagine my surprise, when I asked where the one guy lived (the monosyllabic one having returned to looking at his phone) and he said, "Richmond, Grace between Strawberry and Allison."
You mean a block I walk every day of my life?
Small fricking world, isn't it?
I drive two hours up soul-sucking 95 to sit next to someone who lives less than a mile from me.
It is to laugh.
And the music was to savor.
The haunting lyrics, the multi-part harmonies, the evocation of a sound that will never go out of style all made for the best kind of birthday show.
As any FF fan in the audience could predict, the band did the title track from their new album "Helplessness Blues" as the final encore.
The crowd could no longer contain itself and rose to its feet to listen to the ode to becoming part of something bigger than yourself.
All I can say is, it's a hell of a start to my birthday week celebration.
Keep it coming.
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