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.
Showing posts with label photography. Show all posts
Showing posts with label photography. Show all posts
Thursday, July 16, 2015
Saturday, January 5, 2013
To George, With Love
You're never really prepared for it, no matter when it happens.
Even so, when I got the word that an ex had died, it rocked my world.
Yes, he was decidedly older, but still too young to be gone.
Today a memorial was held for him at the VMFA, where he worked for a quarter of a century in the publications department.
He was an excellent writer and editor, with a true gift for putting words together and excising the unnecessary ones.
But his contribution to the museum went so much deeper than the catalogs and annual reports and other things he wrote for them.
He had a passion for photography, both the taking and collecting of photographs and, back in the early '70s, he approached the museum's director, suggesting that it was time to start collecting photographs for the collection.
Mind you, most museums at this time were still disdainful of photography as a fine art.
But he was persuasive enough to eke out a small allotted budget and assiduously began collecting important pieces.
And when I say important, I mean the big names, names like Steichen, Cartier-Bresson, Man Ray, Weegee.
The man had an uncanny ability to foresee which artists would eventually be considered the major forces.
But he also acquired the work of local photographers because, after all, we are a state museum.
All the while, he was amassing his own collection, a passion he relished and one made even easier with the advent of the Internet.
After he left the museum, we worked together for years at a local publishing company before our relationship took root.
I hired him as an editor because of his witty repartee during the interview and the fact that he lived on Floyd Avenue, also my home street.
Our shared love of Floyd Avenue bored many a co-worker, but I appreciated someone who got my devotion to the quirky street that was the red-headed cousin to mighty Grove and Hanover.
But I was attracted to him because of a shared love of art, books, music and conversation.
When we first started dating, he compared his life before to being with me as "the shock of the new."
What he had to explain to me was that the phrase was a book title.
Robert Hughes' "The Shock of the New" looked at the development of art post-Impressionism but written in a witty and insightful way that made it accessible even to non-art geeks.
Despite already being just that, I immediately went out, bought and read all 425 pages as quickly as possible.
His music roots obviously went back much further than mine, including a memory of seeing Dave Brubeck when he was in college.
Even so, I wasn't the least bit surprised to check out his CD collection in 2000 and find grunge, namely Pearl Jam's first two albums from the early '90s.
Or the low rock of Morphine.
And our conversations ranged from his long-ago days as a college athlete to shows he'd curated to how he'd earned his nickname at the VMFA, "the loose cannon."
He was an enthusiastic gardener who'd go out back and pull radishes from the ground, serving them to me simply washed and next to a bowl of sea salt.
An avid baker, he'd bake me a loaf of bread of varying kinds every Sunday during the cold months and bring it over in a brown paper bag.
He must have tried ten variations on rye because it was a favorite of mine.
Appalled at my ancient and dull bread knife, he promptly bought me a good one, which I still use today.
He joined me on my daily walks, complaining sometimes about my faster pace, accusing me of "putting the after-burners on," but keeping up anyway.
A hand-thrown green bowl he gave me for my birthday still sits on a pedestal in my hallway, the daily recipient of my keys and gloves.
And while the relationship eventually ended, my respect and admiration for him did not.
It was clear that many, many people felt the same when I saw the huge crowd that came out to the memorial at the museum today.
They had to bring in extra chairs the crowd grew so large.
And yet, if you'd asked him who would come to his service, he'd have self-effacingly expected his long-time drinking/fishing/art buddies and his kids.
And they were there, sure, but so were scads of other people.
One of the best tributes came from curator Sarah Eckhardt, who showed a variety of the superb photographs he had presciently acquired all those decades ago.
Which brings me to what should be the best part about the loss of a man who changed Richmond's art scene for the better.
Now that the renovated VMFA has a dedicated photography gallery, I would like to suggest to the powers-that-be that it be named the George Albert Cruger Gallery.
It only makes sense and I can't imagine a more fitting tribute for a man who followed his passion for photography his entire life.
VMFA, are you listening?
Even so, when I got the word that an ex had died, it rocked my world.
Yes, he was decidedly older, but still too young to be gone.
Today a memorial was held for him at the VMFA, where he worked for a quarter of a century in the publications department.
He was an excellent writer and editor, with a true gift for putting words together and excising the unnecessary ones.
But his contribution to the museum went so much deeper than the catalogs and annual reports and other things he wrote for them.
He had a passion for photography, both the taking and collecting of photographs and, back in the early '70s, he approached the museum's director, suggesting that it was time to start collecting photographs for the collection.
Mind you, most museums at this time were still disdainful of photography as a fine art.
But he was persuasive enough to eke out a small allotted budget and assiduously began collecting important pieces.
And when I say important, I mean the big names, names like Steichen, Cartier-Bresson, Man Ray, Weegee.
The man had an uncanny ability to foresee which artists would eventually be considered the major forces.
But he also acquired the work of local photographers because, after all, we are a state museum.
All the while, he was amassing his own collection, a passion he relished and one made even easier with the advent of the Internet.
After he left the museum, we worked together for years at a local publishing company before our relationship took root.
I hired him as an editor because of his witty repartee during the interview and the fact that he lived on Floyd Avenue, also my home street.
Our shared love of Floyd Avenue bored many a co-worker, but I appreciated someone who got my devotion to the quirky street that was the red-headed cousin to mighty Grove and Hanover.
But I was attracted to him because of a shared love of art, books, music and conversation.
When we first started dating, he compared his life before to being with me as "the shock of the new."
What he had to explain to me was that the phrase was a book title.
Robert Hughes' "The Shock of the New" looked at the development of art post-Impressionism but written in a witty and insightful way that made it accessible even to non-art geeks.
Despite already being just that, I immediately went out, bought and read all 425 pages as quickly as possible.
His music roots obviously went back much further than mine, including a memory of seeing Dave Brubeck when he was in college.
Even so, I wasn't the least bit surprised to check out his CD collection in 2000 and find grunge, namely Pearl Jam's first two albums from the early '90s.
Or the low rock of Morphine.
And our conversations ranged from his long-ago days as a college athlete to shows he'd curated to how he'd earned his nickname at the VMFA, "the loose cannon."
He was an enthusiastic gardener who'd go out back and pull radishes from the ground, serving them to me simply washed and next to a bowl of sea salt.
An avid baker, he'd bake me a loaf of bread of varying kinds every Sunday during the cold months and bring it over in a brown paper bag.
He must have tried ten variations on rye because it was a favorite of mine.
Appalled at my ancient and dull bread knife, he promptly bought me a good one, which I still use today.
He joined me on my daily walks, complaining sometimes about my faster pace, accusing me of "putting the after-burners on," but keeping up anyway.
A hand-thrown green bowl he gave me for my birthday still sits on a pedestal in my hallway, the daily recipient of my keys and gloves.
And while the relationship eventually ended, my respect and admiration for him did not.
It was clear that many, many people felt the same when I saw the huge crowd that came out to the memorial at the museum today.
They had to bring in extra chairs the crowd grew so large.
And yet, if you'd asked him who would come to his service, he'd have self-effacingly expected his long-time drinking/fishing/art buddies and his kids.
And they were there, sure, but so were scads of other people.
One of the best tributes came from curator Sarah Eckhardt, who showed a variety of the superb photographs he had presciently acquired all those decades ago.
Which brings me to what should be the best part about the loss of a man who changed Richmond's art scene for the better.
Now that the renovated VMFA has a dedicated photography gallery, I would like to suggest to the powers-that-be that it be named the George Albert Cruger Gallery.
It only makes sense and I can't imagine a more fitting tribute for a man who followed his passion for photography his entire life.
VMFA, are you listening?
Friday, January 7, 2011
Breaking the Mold at Breakfast
You have to wonder if you're getting a little predictable when you walk into a restaurant (say, 821 Cafe) at 9:30 and the server looks at you and says, "You're not getting nachos for breakfast, are you?"
No, smartypants, I'm not. It has to be 10:45 or later in order for me to feel justified in ordering nachos (and calling it brunch) without grossing people out.
My photographer friend had invited me to breakfast and arrived with an impressively big camera (the guy at the next stool noting that, "Boy, have you got a big lens," surely something every guy wants to hear). It took him a few moments to take in the splendor of the new 821; it was his first visit since the move and renovation.
"I don't know if I like it," he said uneasily. "It looks so...clean. And bright." That's sort of the beauty of it: the old tables, chairs and stools, but all in a pristine new room. And with the same mostly punk music always playing, although we did hear some vintage Tears for Fears and the Fixx this morning.
Friend got eggs and the pancakes, a stack nearly as impressively big as his camera and I put together a Breakfast Platter (any four sides), consisting of bacon, fresh fruit, an everything bagel and sausage patties. Not a black bean in sight.
Not your typical breakfast of champions, but plenty good enough to dim the memory of the nachos I wasn't having.
Besides, I don't want them to think they have me pegged.
No, smartypants, I'm not. It has to be 10:45 or later in order for me to feel justified in ordering nachos (and calling it brunch) without grossing people out.
My photographer friend had invited me to breakfast and arrived with an impressively big camera (the guy at the next stool noting that, "Boy, have you got a big lens," surely something every guy wants to hear). It took him a few moments to take in the splendor of the new 821; it was his first visit since the move and renovation.
"I don't know if I like it," he said uneasily. "It looks so...clean. And bright." That's sort of the beauty of it: the old tables, chairs and stools, but all in a pristine new room. And with the same mostly punk music always playing, although we did hear some vintage Tears for Fears and the Fixx this morning.
Friend got eggs and the pancakes, a stack nearly as impressively big as his camera and I put together a Breakfast Platter (any four sides), consisting of bacon, fresh fruit, an everything bagel and sausage patties. Not a black bean in sight.
Not your typical breakfast of champions, but plenty good enough to dim the memory of the nachos I wasn't having.
Besides, I don't want them to think they have me pegged.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Whose Legs Are Those Anyhow?
I understand that we don't see ourselves as others do.
Intellectually, I get that a two-dimensional image in a mirror bears limited resemblance to a three-dimensional image in space. And yet my reaction when I saw the results of my recent profile shoot with my very talented photographer friend, Thomas was, do I know those legs?
I am especially familiar with this syndrome because of all the years I worked as an audio and video producer. Inevitably, people would react with horror when they first heard/saw their voice/self recorded; part of my job was to reassure them.
So I should have known better.
I looked at the photo he sent me with limited recognition. Oh, sure, the Berlin tights are mine; who else would wear them?
But those calves? I had no idea. And that vague hint of athleticism which I know for a fact doesn't exist in real life?
Not really there.
Seems I need an entire mental adjustment about what I'm walking around on. That said, I do think it's a great picture
I'll just have to deal with my acceptance issues.
Intellectually, I get that a two-dimensional image in a mirror bears limited resemblance to a three-dimensional image in space. And yet my reaction when I saw the results of my recent profile shoot with my very talented photographer friend, Thomas was, do I know those legs?
I am especially familiar with this syndrome because of all the years I worked as an audio and video producer. Inevitably, people would react with horror when they first heard/saw their voice/self recorded; part of my job was to reassure them.
So I should have known better.
I looked at the photo he sent me with limited recognition. Oh, sure, the Berlin tights are mine; who else would wear them?
But those calves? I had no idea. And that vague hint of athleticism which I know for a fact doesn't exist in real life?
Not really there.
Seems I need an entire mental adjustment about what I'm walking around on. That said, I do think it's a great picture
I'll just have to deal with my acceptance issues.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Shooting Below the Belt
A few weeks ago, a blogging friend wrote and told me straight up that I needed a new profile picture and who better to take it than him?
When he's not teaching English to the masses, he is quite the talented photographer, so naturally I took him up on his generous offer.
He already had a concept in mind, one of his strengths being art direction, so we made arrangements to meet at the library and discreetly shoot.
It didn't really matter how big of a hot mess I looked, because the plan was to shoot low, and by that I mean my lower extremities.
Accordingly, I rummaged through my better than average tights collection to find just the thing for my new profile pic and decided on the Berlin tights.
They're funky, they're attention-getters and they're not something a person sees every day in RVA.
How do I know this?
I left the apartment to go to the library and as I crossed my own street, a guy on a bike said hello, followed by, "I LIKE your tights!...A lot!"
Arriving at the library two guys just leaving turned a full 180 degrees as I passed them on my way towards the door.
I couldn't resist turning around and flat out asking them, "It's the tights you're looking at, isn't it?"
One mutely nodded and the other just gave me a goofy grin.
After shooting, we went to Tarrant's for fried food, a requirement of our get-togethers; we quite happily shared fries and fish tacos, dishing all the while.
We were in that limbo time before the dinner rush begins, affording us an opportunity to bounce off the staff.
Our server explained to us why Rhode Island, her home state, is called the Ocean State.
Ron folded napkins like a pro and quoted lines from the movie "Arthur" to our amusement.
We both made a pilgrimage to the other dining room to admire the new carpeting and inhale its new rug smell.
As we were leaving, my friend asked Ron the Napkin-Folder why he hadn't commented on my great tights.
"I didn't want to say something filthy," he claimed.
Or maybe he's just waiting for the picture.
When he's not teaching English to the masses, he is quite the talented photographer, so naturally I took him up on his generous offer.
He already had a concept in mind, one of his strengths being art direction, so we made arrangements to meet at the library and discreetly shoot.
It didn't really matter how big of a hot mess I looked, because the plan was to shoot low, and by that I mean my lower extremities.
Accordingly, I rummaged through my better than average tights collection to find just the thing for my new profile pic and decided on the Berlin tights.
They're funky, they're attention-getters and they're not something a person sees every day in RVA.
How do I know this?
I left the apartment to go to the library and as I crossed my own street, a guy on a bike said hello, followed by, "I LIKE your tights!...A lot!"
Arriving at the library two guys just leaving turned a full 180 degrees as I passed them on my way towards the door.
I couldn't resist turning around and flat out asking them, "It's the tights you're looking at, isn't it?"
One mutely nodded and the other just gave me a goofy grin.
After shooting, we went to Tarrant's for fried food, a requirement of our get-togethers; we quite happily shared fries and fish tacos, dishing all the while.
We were in that limbo time before the dinner rush begins, affording us an opportunity to bounce off the staff.
Our server explained to us why Rhode Island, her home state, is called the Ocean State.
Ron folded napkins like a pro and quoted lines from the movie "Arthur" to our amusement.
We both made a pilgrimage to the other dining room to admire the new carpeting and inhale its new rug smell.
As we were leaving, my friend asked Ron the Napkin-Folder why he hadn't commented on my great tights.
"I didn't want to say something filthy," he claimed.
Or maybe he's just waiting for the picture.
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