Ramble On

For an art geek, there's nothing quite like a curator's tour.

Which is why this art geek was at the VMFA for curator of modern and contemporary art John Ravenal's insight into the latest exhibition in the 21st century gallery, "Fusion."

It was kind of bittersweet, too, because he's leaving the VMFA next week to become director of the deCordova Sculpture Park and Museum in Massachusetts. Our loss is their gain, but his presence will be sorely missed here after 16 years.

Leading us through the galleries showing off works he'd acquired by black artists as well as artists from Latin America, Mexico and the Caribbean, his delight in them was evident. Only a passionate curator can rave about the materiality of a painting or the apocalyptic nature of a landscape and make it sound so thrilling.

Several especially strong pieces I recognized from recent special exhibits, like Trenton Doyle Hancock's autobiographical "The Former and the Ladder or Ascension and a Cinchin'," with its winking references. Or Sonya Clark's "Black Hair Flag," which he called succinct and very loaded with the symbols she combines in it - the Confederate and U.S. flags and black hair braids.

What became clear as we moved through the galleries was how thoughtfully assembled the pieces in the exhibit were, sometimes because of a silent dialog between them and other times a reactionary one. He spoke about each piece as lovingly as a father, eventually admitting that he could no more choose a favorite. than a parent could a favorite child.

When he spoke about the challenges of attracting people to the contemporary gallery when they'd come for something more traditional, say Faberge eggs or Impressionism, he said he hoped that seeing something contemporary might speak to the visitor.

As someone who has no problem with art speaking to her, I still felt fortunate to have the talented Mr. Ravenal speaking for and about the art, sharing why it originally spoke to him and how it matters in the greater context.

At the start of the walk and talk, he'd preemptively apologized for his tendency to ramble. For this art lover, listening to a brilliant curator ramble about what he loves about a gallery full of art is almost as good as it gets.

Goodbye, Mr. Ravenal. You will be remembered for your unerring eye in leaving a legacy of contemporary art that matters. That, and being the best possible art tour guide.

Something to think about in case Massachusetts doesn't work out...

Answer Me, Rescue Me

A day that runs the gamut from art to balcony is a memorable one. Romantic, even.

When I woke up this morning, I found an e-mail from a painter friend reminding me that he owed me a painting and had one ready for me.

Modestly, he referred to it as a good "summary."

Even better, he let me know as soon as he got home from work and I walked the block and a half to his house to procure my newest acquisition, "South Beach."

He described it as "South Beach, Miami. Caught in the rain, 4am walks on the beach, not a care in the world. Mojitos. Grace. 1606. sushi samba. Lincoln Rd. Art. A great time. Airline hostesses giving free wine. a surreal list of events. Timeless.....that painting has a lot if meaning to me."

I teetered home with this large format (3' x 4') "painted diary" of a fondly recalled part of his life and hung it on one of my 1876 walls, where it looks magnificent and joins an apartment full of other friends' artwork.

The energy it adds to the room is palpable.

When I left to meet a friend to go out tonight, it was only after one last, long glance at "South Beach" before I departed.

I am so fortunate to have such talented friends.

The one picking me up in front of my house is a terribly talented conversationalist, who never fails to stimulate my intellect while making me laugh hysterically.

From a very local artist to six more of the same I went.

We drove directly to the VMFA to hear a panel discussion with six local artists, "Virginia Artists Live."

All six artists have work hanging in the VMFA (much of which I'd blogged about after a recent trip through the 21st Century gallery) and worked in various disciplines: photography, sculpture, painting, ceramics, drawing and printmaking.

Modern and Contemporary Art curator John Ravenal got things rolling humorously, saying, "We're calling this program "Virginia Artists Live" because here they are."

After each introduced himself and spoke a little about their work, Ravenal asked what was good about working in Richmond.

Former New Yorker and painter Richard Roth said, "I was interested to find such an intellectual community in a place like Richmond."

Relative newcomer Ben Durham said, "It's a great satellite of D.C. and NYC, providing great opportunities you can't find in New York. Here, you have spare time because money goes further here for people to put time into studio practice."

Ceramicist Michelle Erickson explained that living in Virginia had been integral to her learning about centuries-old ceramic processes that had informed her work.

Behind me, I heard an old guy gently snoring.

Trying a different tack, Ravenal asked photographer Gordon Stettinius about how RVA was difficult for an artist.

"I'm gonna go all Jiminy Cricket on you," Gordon laughed. "I have a gallery and I love how the community has congealed around the gallery There are lots of people to bump up against and learn from."

Grinning and emboldened, he went on to suggest that the museum needed to hold a biennial like some other museums do. "It would be a way for artists to have their work seen and probably swatted down."

Speaking in his delightfully South African-accented voice, collector and printmaker Siemon Allen took it down to basics. "In D.C. I could go to a news agent and they'd have the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, the Chicago papers. When I came to Richmond, I couldn't find those newspapers here."

Sculptor Elizabeth King was more blunt. "What an odd political city this is. It's odd how many people I don't talk to. It's strange and surreal."

Nervous titters all around as she referenced hot-button topics and certain audience members got uncomfortable.

Asked about advice for young people, Roth told them to have high ambitions and low overhead.

That's always been my motto.

Durham freely admitted, "I have no idea how I could function in New York. My studio on southside is a very happy place."

I understand his sentiment; my apartment/office in Jackson Ward is also a very happy place (with, did I mention, a fabulous new painting?).

Stettinius said, "I don't tell people they have to leave to succeed but I do advocate for people to come here because it's a very fertile scene."

There was a short period for audience questions, but they mostly were of the love-fest variety, one praising Stettinius' photography series of himself dressed as various characters, another noting King's resemblance to the museum's bust of her mother.

Ravenal is notorious for keeping his talks to an hour or so ("I like to leave you wanting more") so he quickly wrapped things up and turned us out into the still-lit night.

My fellow art lover and I made a bee-line for Dinamo where a server kindly made space for us at the end of the bar near a man and his Dad trying to finish a hefty and rich looking lasagna.

In a place as Italian as Dinamo, there was nowhere to go but with a bottle of Masciarelli Montepulciano, so we unashamedly did.

Meanwhile, the men next to us threw up the white flag on the pasta and ordered espressos and the chocolate espresso torte all the way, as in with berries and whipped cream.

We looked on enviously, but knew enough to eat in the order an Italian mother would approve of.

That meant starting with the tortellini in brodo, which we'd had on our last visit and couldn't bear not to have again.

It's not just the pasta, it's not just the filling, it's not just the flavorful broth, it's the whole package.

Over a discussion of mixed signals and delayed gratification, we tore into a white pizza with artichoke hearts, so good and so generously portioned.

"Garlic!" my friend enthused, but then nobody was going to be kissing us tonight, so why not?

When the lasagna bolognese arrived, it was the size of a baby's head and so hot the sauce was still bubbling.

"You got the last one," our sever said with satisfaction.

We let it cool just long enough not to burn our tongues and then pulled big, gooey bites off of the platter to cool momentarily.

Mmm, meat and cheese, just what hungry women want after an evening of intellectual stimulation.

Despite working down all of the wine, we both ended up with Chinese take-out boxes of pizza and lasagna, not a bad thing come lunch time tomorrow.

Friend looked at me when our server inquired about dessert.

Although the last time we'd been in we'd gotten the torte naked, the two gents who'd been enjoying theirs earlier had insisted that "all the way" was the only acceptable option for this dessert.

Our arms easily twisted once our server concurred, we were soon facing a mountain of chocolate and cream while Friend also sipped an espresso.

"Wasn't that a great meal?" she asked rhetorically as I slid into a food coma.

I would say so, even if I feel like I'm about to explode as we make our way out to a deserted Cary Street.

When she drops me off, I am surprised to see how early it still is, so I decide to enjoy the summer solstice eve outside on the balcony.

I light a few candles, put on Bryan Ferry's "Taxi" and relax back into a deep and comfy chair to digest.

The air deliciously cool, the candlelight soft and low and Ferry's crooning exquisite, it is everything a summer night should be.

Starting with "I Put a Spell on You," meandering through "Answer Me" and ending with "Because You're Mine," it's an album for romantics.

And after this day, this amazing new painting I was gifted with, this stimulating talk by local artists who all clearly see the wonder of this city much the way I do, this fabulous meal eaten in the shadow of an enormous, shiny espresso machine with a good friend, and this music-filled hour under a not quite full moon, I am feeling all kinds of romantic.

Surely I must be under a spell.