If there was one thing I wasn't going to do tonight, it was go to the Elbys.
I'd made it known back when the 2016 announcement was made that this year's event was a no-go for me. My objections were twofold: primarily the sameness of the nominees (besides best new restaurant, who cares about the same old, same old?) and secondarily, the theme: Elbys en Blanc.
As the owner of a vintage shop put it succinctly, "I am not dressing this ass and these hips in white."
Nor was I. Sure, I'd attended the past four Elbys, but I was over it.
Happily for me, this opened me up to all kinds of Sunday night fun that did not involve restaurant worship.
With a light rain falling, I walked over to Quirk Hotel to hear actress/poet Amber Tamblyn read from her latest book of poetry, "Dark Sparkler." It was common knowledge that the only reason she was reading in Richmond was because her husband, comedian David Cross, is performing at CenterStage tonight.
Whatever the reason, I got myself to Quirk Gallery where arrivals were being told we could score a drink at Maple & Pine's bar and bring it into the reading.
At the bar, I ran into a dapperly dressed gentleman in a white linen suit who - wouldn't you know - informed me that he only looked that way because he was going to the Elbys because Maple & Pine was nominated for best new restaurant.
After we'd both gotten our drinks - my Ms. Genevieve of Aperol, elderflower liqueur and Prosecco was prettier than his julep, I thought - we adjourned to the gallery and took seats to chat.
I wanted nothing more than the scoop on the upcoming rooftop deck (got it), although we dipped into the subject of Amber, whom he also knew from "House" and "Two and a Half Men," while all I knew was her father, Russ Tamblyn, the outstanding dancer I'd first seen in "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" and later in "West Side Story."
Amber arrived, beer in hand, to applause, said, "I love doing readings where there's a bar attached," and dove right into the reading of poetry about the lives and deaths of young actresses.
The first, "Actress" read like a casting call with specific qualifications - "small bust preferred, not taller than 5'5", good teeth, lean but not gaunt, no brown eyes" - and finished with the clincher: "Not a speaking part."
All of her poems examined not just the women's lives and deaths but the commodification of women in Hollywood ("I suppose you're detecting a theme"). "I want to go down on your cliche," she writes in "Jane Doe, along with, "And wrestle the Ayn Rand impersonator for her flask," noting in an aside, "I did that once."
How can you not want to hear from a woman who wrestled an Ayn Rand impersonator for anything? Who writes, "I will never have the knees of Bardot?"
Midway through the reading, a white-suited man, clad exactly like the one next to me, walked past the window down Broad Street, undoubtedly on his way to the Elbys.
Wordplay was a constant - serial kisser and serial cereal eater - as in her list of fake actress names such as Ivory Sopra and Iwanna Oscar.
Toward the end, she surprised us with a love poem which included my favorite line of the evening, "Someone who needs the way you kiss, the way you graze on a lip." Lovely.
During the Q & A, someone teased her about drinking a Heineken instead of one of our local craft brews and then asked about the poem, "Marilyn Monroe," which is titled, but has no words. As Amber flipped through the book to find the poem, the woman said, "Page 27."
Amber beamed. "You know we're definitely making out after this." I liked her quick wit.
It wasn't just that I'd finished my cocktail, I was sorry when the reading ended because it had been too long since I'd had poetry read to me. But I was on to another adventure so I wished my seatmate an Elbys win and left for Strange Matter.
Because last month was the 50th anniversary, Movie Club Richmond was showing the 1966 Bond spoof, "Our Man Flint," and I hoped to eat before the action started. My Blastoff, a BLT with avocado on rye, and mountain of fries was history by the time the lights went down.
I'm happy to say it was everything I adore about a '60s movie: overly saturated colors (Cinemascope, no doubt), a girl with a blond bouffant and a giant daisy in her hair, go-go dancers, computers the size of a gymnasium with zillions of punch cards and, of course, sexism galore ("How often woman's animal nature triumphs!").
The recurring joke is that Flint's secret code is based on a mathematical progression, 40-26-36. He also excels at everything he does - judo, fencing, cooking, saving lives, saving the world. He even teaches ballet classes...to the Russians, no less.
It was a Cold War classic with everything from anti-American eagles who only attack Americans ("It's diabolical!") to bad acronyms (ZOWIE) and a red hotline phone to the commander-in-chief (who sounded a lot like LBJ).
There was so much to laugh out loud about.
Flint plays both sides of the fence, taking the time to de-program women who have been brainwashed by the bad guys to be nothing but "pleasure units," but also with a staff of four pretty women to shave him, choose his clothes, manage his finances and dance with him when they all go to the club together.
Sounds pretty pleasurable to me, sort of like tonight's choice of movie.
Conveniently for me, there was a synth-pop show following the screening, so I could have parked once and partied twice, except I'd walked over. As a friend and I discussed between sets, synthpop is hard to find in Richmond, a shame for those of us devoted to the genre.
First up was Dazeases, the one-woman project that I'd come to see. Singer London came onstage in a cream sweater and plaid skirt to do her soundcheck and then removed the skirt to do a set so mind-blowing no one could have been prepared for it.
With a big voice, incredibly personal and emotional lyrics and a way of dancing/prowling the stage that ensured no one took their eyes off her, she hit play on an unseen laptop and music she'd recorded accompanied her as she sang in the dark room with only a few spotlights on her.
It was mesmerizing.
From "Possession" to "S'mores on the Hellfire," where she sang, "I will keep you warm when no one else will," her big voice made every song sound as if her life depended on it.
And yet, it was all very dancey and the small crowd obliged, moving constantly, although maybe not as sinuously or emotively as she did. So young, so raw and yet obviously so much potential.
Given that she was singing to her own prerecorded tracks, it could have come off like karaoke, but it didn't. Between the low lights and how completely she sold herself and her music, it was like watching the birth of something that's only going to get better.
Next came Raleigh's Band and the Beat, a husband and wife duo layering her vocals over lush synths and drum machines for a dreamgaze sound that would have been at home in '80s clubs (and my heart).
I especially enjoyed how he would get things going and start dancing enthusiastically in place as she sang before going back to knob-turning. If they weren't having a good time, they were giving a terrific approximation of it onstage.
Mine was better than a good time and best of all, didn't involve wearing white. The funny part is, I got home to a message from a friend: "Elbys weren't the same without you."
Oh, I bet they were.
Showing posts with label quirk gallery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label quirk gallery. Show all posts
Monday, February 22, 2016
Saturday, October 25, 2014
Haven't a Clue
I'm not above soliciting strangers, especially when it comes to warmth.
Today was one of those days that got away from me and when I looked up at the clock when the writing portion of the afternoon was accomplished, it was already well past 6.
Just enough time to powder my nose, grab a chair and head on over to Quirk Gallery for a movie in the courtyard, joining a dozen people already lined up in front of the brick wall to see the 1985 screwball comedy/farce/whodunit "Clue."
Admittedly, I'd been a fan of the game, always opting for Miss Scarlet as my character, but had I even seen the movie when it came out? I have no idea.
But if I hadn't, I was clearly in the minority. I ran into the friend who had suggested they show "Clue" and he confided they he could say every word along with the actors. Two of the women in the row in front of me shared that they quote lines from it all the time. A friend I saw afterwards told me that she and her husband shared a love of this movie. One trio popped a bottle of champagne to begin the celebration of "Clue."
It was obviously far bigger than I knew, at least to a certain generation.
While the guy from Backstage got the audio/visual set up outdoors, we listened to a terrific playlist that began with Irma Thomas and moved on to Fontella Bass and Chad & Jeremy. When the A/V guy cut off "A Summer Song," a guy near me complained loudly, "Hey! I love that song!"
By the time the movie began, the crowd had tripled with some brave souls sitting on blankets on the parking lot, a place far too cold for me. As it was, I was the idiot (who gets cold if it's below 70 degrees) who hadn't brought a blanket, unlike almost every female there.
I caught a break when the woman in front of me went to go get food and I offered to "watch" her blanket, wrapping its residual warmth around my legs and praying her food took a long time to prepare. When she returned, I tried to give it back (really I did) but she insisted she had a spare so I should feel free to continue using it.
Don't mind if I do. Without it, my teeth would have been chattering.
The film wasn't long and clearly I don't have the youthful fond memories of it that most of tonight's attendees did, but all I kept thinking about was how it seemed to replace comedy with corny and intrigue with plot holes.
And that doesn't even begin to address that it was an '80s version of a story supposedly set in the '50s, making for murky waters when this audience member tried to sort through incongruous elements and costumes.
But I didn't go for fine filmmaking, I went for camp and got it, sometimes via dialog - "Husbands should be like Kleenex: soft, strong and disposable" - and other times with cliches such as when Miss Scarlet's car breaks down and she leans fetchingly over the hood, raising a shapely leg just as a car rounds the bend.
Voila, roadside assistance! And while I've never been so blatant as all that, I have been known to stand beside my disabled car on the roadside in hopes of availing myself of the kindness of strangers. Fact is, I've had many a tire changed using this method.
Considering the comedic talent in the film -Martin Mull, Christopher Lloyd, Michael McKean - the funniest bit in the whole movie was Madeleine Kahn's improvised reaction when her character Mrs. White is accused of killing the maid (because her husband had been schtupping her).
"Flames, flames on the side of my face!" was so odd, so unexpected that it could only have come out of her lips without the benefit of a script. Hilarious.
The movie had three endings, all of which began to wear thin, at least to me, as the cast raced around from room to room recreating all the murders. Even they looked a little bored with it all.
So while I didn't see a particularly noteworthy film, what's not to enjoy about watching a movie screened on a brick wall while cozily nestled under a blanket with the sounds of the city coming in and out of earshot?
Whether it's the voices of a nearby Saturday night party on Grace Street, an ambulance siren racing up Broad Street or an airplane in the night sky, it's all part of the experience.
Like the girls in front of me reciting the occasional line along with the characters. "Frankly, Scarlet, I don't give a damn."
Me, neither. Some evenings it's enough just to sit back and enjoy something different.
Today was one of those days that got away from me and when I looked up at the clock when the writing portion of the afternoon was accomplished, it was already well past 6.
Just enough time to powder my nose, grab a chair and head on over to Quirk Gallery for a movie in the courtyard, joining a dozen people already lined up in front of the brick wall to see the 1985 screwball comedy/farce/whodunit "Clue."
Admittedly, I'd been a fan of the game, always opting for Miss Scarlet as my character, but had I even seen the movie when it came out? I have no idea.
But if I hadn't, I was clearly in the minority. I ran into the friend who had suggested they show "Clue" and he confided they he could say every word along with the actors. Two of the women in the row in front of me shared that they quote lines from it all the time. A friend I saw afterwards told me that she and her husband shared a love of this movie. One trio popped a bottle of champagne to begin the celebration of "Clue."
It was obviously far bigger than I knew, at least to a certain generation.
While the guy from Backstage got the audio/visual set up outdoors, we listened to a terrific playlist that began with Irma Thomas and moved on to Fontella Bass and Chad & Jeremy. When the A/V guy cut off "A Summer Song," a guy near me complained loudly, "Hey! I love that song!"
By the time the movie began, the crowd had tripled with some brave souls sitting on blankets on the parking lot, a place far too cold for me. As it was, I was the idiot (who gets cold if it's below 70 degrees) who hadn't brought a blanket, unlike almost every female there.
I caught a break when the woman in front of me went to go get food and I offered to "watch" her blanket, wrapping its residual warmth around my legs and praying her food took a long time to prepare. When she returned, I tried to give it back (really I did) but she insisted she had a spare so I should feel free to continue using it.
Don't mind if I do. Without it, my teeth would have been chattering.
The film wasn't long and clearly I don't have the youthful fond memories of it that most of tonight's attendees did, but all I kept thinking about was how it seemed to replace comedy with corny and intrigue with plot holes.
And that doesn't even begin to address that it was an '80s version of a story supposedly set in the '50s, making for murky waters when this audience member tried to sort through incongruous elements and costumes.
But I didn't go for fine filmmaking, I went for camp and got it, sometimes via dialog - "Husbands should be like Kleenex: soft, strong and disposable" - and other times with cliches such as when Miss Scarlet's car breaks down and she leans fetchingly over the hood, raising a shapely leg just as a car rounds the bend.
Voila, roadside assistance! And while I've never been so blatant as all that, I have been known to stand beside my disabled car on the roadside in hopes of availing myself of the kindness of strangers. Fact is, I've had many a tire changed using this method.
Considering the comedic talent in the film -Martin Mull, Christopher Lloyd, Michael McKean - the funniest bit in the whole movie was Madeleine Kahn's improvised reaction when her character Mrs. White is accused of killing the maid (because her husband had been schtupping her).
"Flames, flames on the side of my face!" was so odd, so unexpected that it could only have come out of her lips without the benefit of a script. Hilarious.
The movie had three endings, all of which began to wear thin, at least to me, as the cast raced around from room to room recreating all the murders. Even they looked a little bored with it all.
So while I didn't see a particularly noteworthy film, what's not to enjoy about watching a movie screened on a brick wall while cozily nestled under a blanket with the sounds of the city coming in and out of earshot?
Whether it's the voices of a nearby Saturday night party on Grace Street, an ambulance siren racing up Broad Street or an airplane in the night sky, it's all part of the experience.
Like the girls in front of me reciting the occasional line along with the characters. "Frankly, Scarlet, I don't give a damn."
Me, neither. Some evenings it's enough just to sit back and enjoy something different.
Friday, October 3, 2014
Up for an Undertaking
When you live in Jackson Ward, the world is your oyster and it's all within four blocks.
Behind Nick's Deli, I see a friend conducting a photo shoot of good-looking Richmond guys (read: bearded) for Ledbury Shirts in the exquisite early evening light.
I'm on my way to 1708 Gallery for the opening of "Exquisite Corpse," an exhibition based on the Surrealist parlor game where each person draws a part of the whole without seeing the other contributions first.
Some of the pieces are fluid and seamless, a marvel since no one knew what the other was doing, while some are disjointed and abrupt but come together only because they're part of a greater whole. Every single one is fascinating in some way, often many ways.
It doesn't take long for me to recognize artists' names and styles: Heide Trepanier, Kevin Orlosky, Diego Sanchez, Michael Lease, Noah Scalin, Sally Bowring all catch my eye.
I am most intrigued by seeing several by Travis Robertson because I purchased one of his pieces back in 2008 and I've never met him to tell him how much I still love seeing that piece every day.
The 27 pieces in the show demonstrate such creativity. One has a sound component, another has a collaged section. Some are black and white while others glow with fields of color. Sequins and fake jewels are part of some.
Admiring one, a woman approaches me and I learn she's one of the artists who has done a section on one of the pieces. As we admire it, she asks if I'm an artist. When I explain I merely write, she insists I am an artist, too.
On the back wall, an artist has begun an enormous exquisite corpse piece, to be covered up and continued tomorrow night during the artwalk. The scale is huge and the orientation horizontal rather than vertical, but it's fascinating to watch as animals and details emerge from his brush.
When I go to leave, I run into a gallerist I know and he tells me he recently spotted me on my walk near Second Street. After driving around for an hour, he was on the downtown expressway when he caught sight of me overhead, crossing 195 on an overpass.
"She's still walking!" he recalled thinking. And mighty easy to spot in those bright pink shorts, I might add.
My next stop was Quirk Gallery for Brad Birchett's show, "Return," a collection of mostly monochromatic shades of gray, black and white with occasional lines of color - pink, coral -and images receding in and out of the painterly surface, occasionally etched into the paint, with sound recordings he'd made playing in the back of the gallery.
Making my way around, I ran into my favorite Quirk staffer (and very talented set designer) and asked what he'd been up to.
"I'm doing a lot of work on hotel stuff," he said, referring to the upcoming Quirk boutique hotel that's coming to the neighborhood. "There'll be a rooftop bar there for you."
Don't I know it. You can be sure I plan to be a habitue of that rooftop bar three blocks from my house.
Walking out, I ran into the man about town, telling him it's always nice to see him. "Nice to be seen by you," he acknowledged, doffing his hat and bowing as I swept out the door.
I was pleasantly surprised to find ADA Gallery open (turns out it's the first time they're participating in the Thursday preview night) for a new sculpture show, "Heroic Measures," by VCU alum Shannon Wright.
The larger piece was called "Folly" and was modeled on the Coliseum in Rome, assuming it had been built by the Parks and Rec Department out of bike rack parts. Almost circular, with rows on top of rows of arches, it looked both monumental yet gently mocking of public art. I'd love to see it find a home in Richmond.
When I got to Ghostprint Gallery, I found a lively crowd for Josh George's new show, "Attroupement," including the well organized gardener drinking a beer and giving me a hard time as soon as I arrived.
I've watched Josh's progress as a painter over his past four shows since he came to Richmond and I continue to be impressed by the development of his talent and vision in wonderfully vibrant and colorful works exuding the passion and energy of life.
The room was full of familiar faces and I kept stopping to chat as I ran into a poet, a tattoo artist and a former writer as I worked my way around the room.
Standing back to admire "Kissy Bat," a large scale work of a lovely woman with long hair and full lips in front of strips of floral wallpaper and a flock of bats, a man approached me and said, "I was told that you posed for this painting."
Someone was lying to him and I corrected him, but a writer friend standing nearby leaned over and said, "He obviously has money. You should have said it was you." Right.
The Corbieres series in the back, a group of small landscape pieces done after Josh's trip to France, were stunningly evocative of the French countryside with the look of work painted a century ago.
By contrast, there were several large works of urban streetscapes with skyscrapers reaching heavenward that were firmly grounded in the here and now. "Up for an Undertaking" was my favorite, with rows of buildings on either side of the streets receding into the unknown, luring a visitor to spend time exploring.
Josh's love of wine and sense of humor came to the fore in "Devil says, 'Roast it in the oven!' Angel says, 'Deep fry it!" A couple sits with wine on the table in front of them as the man prepares to cut up a bird for dinner.
My vote for most charming goes to "The Things Needed," a mixed media piece of a girl on a bike with a basket full of flowers, wine and a baguette. I didn't spot it, but presumably there was cheese in there, too.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and the gardener was there to say goodnight, kissing me on the cheek but complaining when I did the same to him. "Don't leave lipstick on my cheek! I'll get in trouble when I get home!" Where's the trust, my friend?
My last stop was at Gallery 5 for "An evening among whores: a spoken word event," whatever that meant. It was being curated by the inimitable Herschel Stratego, so anything was possible.
Already the poet had made it over from Ghostprint before me and not long after, I saw the arts activist who's given up drinking (looking newly slim and fit), heard my name called by the not so classic movie lover I'd met at the weekly B movie series over the summer, chatted with the author who lived in my apartment before I did, and been joined by the sound techie who'd just returned from two weeks touring south of the border.
That got us off on a tangent about traveling alone and we compared adventures; I'd done four days alone in Italy and he'd done time in Mexico City and we agreed that there's a unique dynamic to being alone in a country where you don't know the language and you have no companion to fall back on for navigation and companionship.
Next thing we knew, Herschel was taking the stage to tell us the saga of his friendship with the recently deceased Dave Brockie of GWAR.
He wanted to begin with the story of how he'd made out with Dave, eager to share it "for bragging purposes only." Actually, they'd only kissed once (and even then, it was a fish lips kind of a kiss, not a good French kiss) and only because they'd challenged a woman to kiss one of them if they kissed each other.
They did, she didn't, at least not in front of the one who lost (Herschel).
But that was far from the end of his storytelling, as he went on share that they'd both peed together in the same toilet ("Although Dave Brockie peed a little longer"), that he wasn't going to get sentimental and that he recalled Dave singing along to "Only the Good Die Young" at a Superbowl party.
While I claim to go on and on, Herschel has me beat by a mile.
When he finally ceded the stage, it was for comedy from Dave Marie-Garland who said things such as, "What's the difference between a guy with a ponytail and a girl with a flat top? Nothing, they're both human beings."
He got the most laughs saying he'd had a dream where he had sex with a girl but when he asked if she'd loved him, she said no. "I woke up crying because sex without love is just sad. Am I right, guys?"
Yea, pretty funny stuff.
Musician and DJ Shannon Cleary did a rumination on aging, pets and parenthood with its roots in him having turned 30 last year.
He recalled being in speech class and being asked to speak on procreation, the problem being at that point he had no idea what the word meant. "My friends tried to show me with hand gestures, pelvic thrusts and "cab hands," he deadpanned as only Shannon can do.
Reading from her phone, Angie Huckstep shared a poem called "Remember That You Like to Read" (with the line "Finish that book like you know you want to") and "Spit Spot" ("Like Mary Poppins says," she explained. "You know, get your shit together!") about being in the shower with someone.
One of the best parts of the evening was the music played between performers, like Liz Phair's "Rock Me" before Melanie Rasnic came up.
Oh, baby, you're young but that's okay
What's give or take nine years anyway?
You think I'm a genius, think I'm cool
I'm starting to think that young guys rule
With a comedienne's timing and a past meant for mocking, she told of making the Shockoe Bottom walk of shame the morning after in heels (no small accomplishment) before explaining how a whore is formed. "By the way, my Mom is not a whore, so apparently it skips a generation."
She lamented being raised a Jehovah's Witness, trying to convert people on their porches by the time she was eight and denying her "all the things that made childhood bearable."
After that, Herschel returned to the stage long enough to tell us, "By the way, I have had sex before," tell some more off-color stories and announce, "This is my blue set."
Author Andrew Blossom took the stage to a song by Groucho Marx in honor of Groucho's birthday today (Andrew also works at Video Fan) and introduced his story, "In the Not Too Distant Future" about a guy named Joel who is middle aged, divorced and loses his job. He finds salvation in endless TV watching and a space show with a character named Joel.
Hey, when you're middle aged, you find your redemption anywhere you can.
Musician and poet Ryan Kent closed out the evening, loudly reading his poetry from an e-tablet, poems with titles such as "Nobody's Bitch" and lines like, "Ashtrays as truthful as your bank account" from "Long in the Tooth."
Top honors go to this line: "She was someone I left my fingerprints on, like cement and murder."
Naturally, Herschel had to come back up to close out the evening with more Dave Brockie stories, stopping just short of sharing sexual peccadilloes and reminiscing about when Dave had suggested he open for GWAR.
To prove his worth, Herschel had sung Dave a song and he wanted to sing it for us tonight.
"I forgot to being my instrument but I don't know the chords anyway, so I'll just sing it." It turned out to be Randy Newman's song about Karl Marx, "The World Isn't Fair."
Truthfully, Herschel's a capella rendition was just about perfect, an absurdist ending to a wild ride of a night.
My walk home was only four blocks...with no shame (or heels) involved.
Behind Nick's Deli, I see a friend conducting a photo shoot of good-looking Richmond guys (read: bearded) for Ledbury Shirts in the exquisite early evening light.
I'm on my way to 1708 Gallery for the opening of "Exquisite Corpse," an exhibition based on the Surrealist parlor game where each person draws a part of the whole without seeing the other contributions first.
Some of the pieces are fluid and seamless, a marvel since no one knew what the other was doing, while some are disjointed and abrupt but come together only because they're part of a greater whole. Every single one is fascinating in some way, often many ways.
It doesn't take long for me to recognize artists' names and styles: Heide Trepanier, Kevin Orlosky, Diego Sanchez, Michael Lease, Noah Scalin, Sally Bowring all catch my eye.
I am most intrigued by seeing several by Travis Robertson because I purchased one of his pieces back in 2008 and I've never met him to tell him how much I still love seeing that piece every day.
The 27 pieces in the show demonstrate such creativity. One has a sound component, another has a collaged section. Some are black and white while others glow with fields of color. Sequins and fake jewels are part of some.
Admiring one, a woman approaches me and I learn she's one of the artists who has done a section on one of the pieces. As we admire it, she asks if I'm an artist. When I explain I merely write, she insists I am an artist, too.
On the back wall, an artist has begun an enormous exquisite corpse piece, to be covered up and continued tomorrow night during the artwalk. The scale is huge and the orientation horizontal rather than vertical, but it's fascinating to watch as animals and details emerge from his brush.
When I go to leave, I run into a gallerist I know and he tells me he recently spotted me on my walk near Second Street. After driving around for an hour, he was on the downtown expressway when he caught sight of me overhead, crossing 195 on an overpass.
"She's still walking!" he recalled thinking. And mighty easy to spot in those bright pink shorts, I might add.
My next stop was Quirk Gallery for Brad Birchett's show, "Return," a collection of mostly monochromatic shades of gray, black and white with occasional lines of color - pink, coral -and images receding in and out of the painterly surface, occasionally etched into the paint, with sound recordings he'd made playing in the back of the gallery.
Making my way around, I ran into my favorite Quirk staffer (and very talented set designer) and asked what he'd been up to.
"I'm doing a lot of work on hotel stuff," he said, referring to the upcoming Quirk boutique hotel that's coming to the neighborhood. "There'll be a rooftop bar there for you."
Don't I know it. You can be sure I plan to be a habitue of that rooftop bar three blocks from my house.
Walking out, I ran into the man about town, telling him it's always nice to see him. "Nice to be seen by you," he acknowledged, doffing his hat and bowing as I swept out the door.
I was pleasantly surprised to find ADA Gallery open (turns out it's the first time they're participating in the Thursday preview night) for a new sculpture show, "Heroic Measures," by VCU alum Shannon Wright.
The larger piece was called "Folly" and was modeled on the Coliseum in Rome, assuming it had been built by the Parks and Rec Department out of bike rack parts. Almost circular, with rows on top of rows of arches, it looked both monumental yet gently mocking of public art. I'd love to see it find a home in Richmond.
When I got to Ghostprint Gallery, I found a lively crowd for Josh George's new show, "Attroupement," including the well organized gardener drinking a beer and giving me a hard time as soon as I arrived.
I've watched Josh's progress as a painter over his past four shows since he came to Richmond and I continue to be impressed by the development of his talent and vision in wonderfully vibrant and colorful works exuding the passion and energy of life.
The room was full of familiar faces and I kept stopping to chat as I ran into a poet, a tattoo artist and a former writer as I worked my way around the room.
Standing back to admire "Kissy Bat," a large scale work of a lovely woman with long hair and full lips in front of strips of floral wallpaper and a flock of bats, a man approached me and said, "I was told that you posed for this painting."
Someone was lying to him and I corrected him, but a writer friend standing nearby leaned over and said, "He obviously has money. You should have said it was you." Right.
The Corbieres series in the back, a group of small landscape pieces done after Josh's trip to France, were stunningly evocative of the French countryside with the look of work painted a century ago.
By contrast, there were several large works of urban streetscapes with skyscrapers reaching heavenward that were firmly grounded in the here and now. "Up for an Undertaking" was my favorite, with rows of buildings on either side of the streets receding into the unknown, luring a visitor to spend time exploring.
Josh's love of wine and sense of humor came to the fore in "Devil says, 'Roast it in the oven!' Angel says, 'Deep fry it!" A couple sits with wine on the table in front of them as the man prepares to cut up a bird for dinner.
My vote for most charming goes to "The Things Needed," a mixed media piece of a girl on a bike with a basket full of flowers, wine and a baguette. I didn't spot it, but presumably there was cheese in there, too.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and the gardener was there to say goodnight, kissing me on the cheek but complaining when I did the same to him. "Don't leave lipstick on my cheek! I'll get in trouble when I get home!" Where's the trust, my friend?
My last stop was at Gallery 5 for "An evening among whores: a spoken word event," whatever that meant. It was being curated by the inimitable Herschel Stratego, so anything was possible.
Already the poet had made it over from Ghostprint before me and not long after, I saw the arts activist who's given up drinking (looking newly slim and fit), heard my name called by the not so classic movie lover I'd met at the weekly B movie series over the summer, chatted with the author who lived in my apartment before I did, and been joined by the sound techie who'd just returned from two weeks touring south of the border.
That got us off on a tangent about traveling alone and we compared adventures; I'd done four days alone in Italy and he'd done time in Mexico City and we agreed that there's a unique dynamic to being alone in a country where you don't know the language and you have no companion to fall back on for navigation and companionship.
Next thing we knew, Herschel was taking the stage to tell us the saga of his friendship with the recently deceased Dave Brockie of GWAR.
He wanted to begin with the story of how he'd made out with Dave, eager to share it "for bragging purposes only." Actually, they'd only kissed once (and even then, it was a fish lips kind of a kiss, not a good French kiss) and only because they'd challenged a woman to kiss one of them if they kissed each other.
They did, she didn't, at least not in front of the one who lost (Herschel).
But that was far from the end of his storytelling, as he went on share that they'd both peed together in the same toilet ("Although Dave Brockie peed a little longer"), that he wasn't going to get sentimental and that he recalled Dave singing along to "Only the Good Die Young" at a Superbowl party.
While I claim to go on and on, Herschel has me beat by a mile.
When he finally ceded the stage, it was for comedy from Dave Marie-Garland who said things such as, "What's the difference between a guy with a ponytail and a girl with a flat top? Nothing, they're both human beings."
He got the most laughs saying he'd had a dream where he had sex with a girl but when he asked if she'd loved him, she said no. "I woke up crying because sex without love is just sad. Am I right, guys?"
Yea, pretty funny stuff.
Musician and DJ Shannon Cleary did a rumination on aging, pets and parenthood with its roots in him having turned 30 last year.
He recalled being in speech class and being asked to speak on procreation, the problem being at that point he had no idea what the word meant. "My friends tried to show me with hand gestures, pelvic thrusts and "cab hands," he deadpanned as only Shannon can do.
Reading from her phone, Angie Huckstep shared a poem called "Remember That You Like to Read" (with the line "Finish that book like you know you want to") and "Spit Spot" ("Like Mary Poppins says," she explained. "You know, get your shit together!") about being in the shower with someone.
One of the best parts of the evening was the music played between performers, like Liz Phair's "Rock Me" before Melanie Rasnic came up.
Oh, baby, you're young but that's okay
What's give or take nine years anyway?
You think I'm a genius, think I'm cool
I'm starting to think that young guys rule
With a comedienne's timing and a past meant for mocking, she told of making the Shockoe Bottom walk of shame the morning after in heels (no small accomplishment) before explaining how a whore is formed. "By the way, my Mom is not a whore, so apparently it skips a generation."
She lamented being raised a Jehovah's Witness, trying to convert people on their porches by the time she was eight and denying her "all the things that made childhood bearable."
After that, Herschel returned to the stage long enough to tell us, "By the way, I have had sex before," tell some more off-color stories and announce, "This is my blue set."
Author Andrew Blossom took the stage to a song by Groucho Marx in honor of Groucho's birthday today (Andrew also works at Video Fan) and introduced his story, "In the Not Too Distant Future" about a guy named Joel who is middle aged, divorced and loses his job. He finds salvation in endless TV watching and a space show with a character named Joel.
Hey, when you're middle aged, you find your redemption anywhere you can.
Musician and poet Ryan Kent closed out the evening, loudly reading his poetry from an e-tablet, poems with titles such as "Nobody's Bitch" and lines like, "Ashtrays as truthful as your bank account" from "Long in the Tooth."
Top honors go to this line: "She was someone I left my fingerprints on, like cement and murder."
Naturally, Herschel had to come back up to close out the evening with more Dave Brockie stories, stopping just short of sharing sexual peccadilloes and reminiscing about when Dave had suggested he open for GWAR.
To prove his worth, Herschel had sung Dave a song and he wanted to sing it for us tonight.
"I forgot to being my instrument but I don't know the chords anyway, so I'll just sing it." It turned out to be Randy Newman's song about Karl Marx, "The World Isn't Fair."
Truthfully, Herschel's a capella rendition was just about perfect, an absurdist ending to a wild ride of a night.
My walk home was only four blocks...with no shame (or heels) involved.
Monday, June 23, 2014
With High Hopes and Brush in Hand
I go looking for an arty hotel and stumble on an artist.
After reading this morning about plans for Quirk Gallery to open a boutique hotel in the Arts District, I naturally decided to incorporate seeing the building into my morning walk.
An arts-infused hotel with rooftop bar and deck mere blocks from home? Oh, yes, I wanted to see where that'll be.
And here's my hope. Given that Quirk is "extending its brand," one of those dreadful marketing-speak terms, I am wishing, hoping and praying (to the extent that a heathen prays) that all the art in the hotel comes from Richmond, or at the very least, Virginia artists.
I can't imagine anything cooler than a hotel in the Arts District that actually shows and supports local artists, can you?
Maybe each individual room could be hung with all one artist's work, you know, an Ed Trask room, a Josh George room, a Chris Milk room, an Adam Juresko room.
And in the lobby and public areas, an ever-changing gallery of local artists' work for sale. Stay for the weekend and take home a piece of Richmond!
Bottom line, I'm excited for a hotel in the neighborhood and hope they manage to get it open before the big bike race next year. It would be terrific to have a bunch of tourists staying in the neighborhood.
I kept on down Broad Street and I was almost ready to cut around to Marshall when, in front of City hall, I saw an artist with an easel set up.
Immediately, I knew I'd stumbled on one of the Plein Air Richmond artists, so I walked up to him and asked if he was part of that.
Looking surprised as hell that I knew about the one week extravaganza of artists painting outside all around the city, he smiled and introduced himself as Russell Jewell as I looked at his sketch.
It was a view of Broad Street looking east, with the magnificent Old City Hall dominating the skyline and the bustle of cars and a pedestrian and dog cutting through the foreground on a diagonal.
Asking how long the sketch had taken him, he said around 45 minutes and I couldn't help but point out that he had a beautiful morning - 77 degrees - to be out on the street.
His plan was to spend the next couple of hours painting over the sketch while my plan was to drive to the northern neck to spend the afternoon with an oyster gardener, so we parted ways with me wishing I could walk back by in a few hours to see his finished painting.
Ah, well, it was enough to catch him in the act of outdoor creation, a tradition that came to full flower in the mid 19th century, producing some of the most light-filled works ever done, but one too infrequently seen, even in the Arts District.
Wouldn't it be lovely if the courtyard of the new Quirk Hotel became a haven for artists to paint en plein air?
A girl from the 'hood can hope, can't she?
After reading this morning about plans for Quirk Gallery to open a boutique hotel in the Arts District, I naturally decided to incorporate seeing the building into my morning walk.
An arts-infused hotel with rooftop bar and deck mere blocks from home? Oh, yes, I wanted to see where that'll be.
And here's my hope. Given that Quirk is "extending its brand," one of those dreadful marketing-speak terms, I am wishing, hoping and praying (to the extent that a heathen prays) that all the art in the hotel comes from Richmond, or at the very least, Virginia artists.
I can't imagine anything cooler than a hotel in the Arts District that actually shows and supports local artists, can you?
Maybe each individual room could be hung with all one artist's work, you know, an Ed Trask room, a Josh George room, a Chris Milk room, an Adam Juresko room.
And in the lobby and public areas, an ever-changing gallery of local artists' work for sale. Stay for the weekend and take home a piece of Richmond!
Bottom line, I'm excited for a hotel in the neighborhood and hope they manage to get it open before the big bike race next year. It would be terrific to have a bunch of tourists staying in the neighborhood.
I kept on down Broad Street and I was almost ready to cut around to Marshall when, in front of City hall, I saw an artist with an easel set up.
Immediately, I knew I'd stumbled on one of the Plein Air Richmond artists, so I walked up to him and asked if he was part of that.
Looking surprised as hell that I knew about the one week extravaganza of artists painting outside all around the city, he smiled and introduced himself as Russell Jewell as I looked at his sketch.
It was a view of Broad Street looking east, with the magnificent Old City Hall dominating the skyline and the bustle of cars and a pedestrian and dog cutting through the foreground on a diagonal.
Asking how long the sketch had taken him, he said around 45 minutes and I couldn't help but point out that he had a beautiful morning - 77 degrees - to be out on the street.
His plan was to spend the next couple of hours painting over the sketch while my plan was to drive to the northern neck to spend the afternoon with an oyster gardener, so we parted ways with me wishing I could walk back by in a few hours to see his finished painting.
Ah, well, it was enough to catch him in the act of outdoor creation, a tradition that came to full flower in the mid 19th century, producing some of the most light-filled works ever done, but one too infrequently seen, even in the Arts District.
Wouldn't it be lovely if the courtyard of the new Quirk Hotel became a haven for artists to paint en plein air?
A girl from the 'hood can hope, can't she?
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Supporting the Sisterhood
My night was 50% art, 50% film and 50% food. 150% right up my alley.
Starting at Candela Gallery for the opening of "Louis Draper: A Retrospective," I found dozens of other lovers of mid-century African-American photography snacking on salmon cakes and looking at exquisite black and white pictures.
A street photographer for the most part, Richmond-born Draper had an unerring eye for an interesting shot and walking the galleries, I found myself drawn in by faces of everyday people, whether on the streets of Harlem or working in the fields.
I ran into an old friend there, one I almost always see at openings and inquired about her itinerary for the evening; for the gallery portion, it sounded much like mine but we were to detour after that because she was going to La Parisienne for dancing and I was going for something a little rougher.
"That's gonna be fun," she said when she heard my plans. I was counting on it.
But first I went to Quirk Gallery to see Andras Bality's "Scenes from Virginia," a show of scenes, many of which I recognized- Goshen Pass, Hollywood Rapids, Huguenot Bridge complete with construction crane- done in a way that was part Cezanne and part Monet.
"Virginia Beach Pier in Fog" was a large-scale study in taupes and grays, evocative of a damp day at the beach.
Even closer to home, "Belle Isle Bathers" evoked Seurat's "Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte," except with the bathers far less clothed and proper-looking.
The large composition included 20 people, one dog and one guitarist, a pretty fair approximation of an afternoon on Belle Isle with the exception of insufficient canine representation.
I particularly liked "Spare Room for Artist," a depiction of a small room with three windows, a bed and a phone on a nightstand - all the essentials an artistic soul could need when staying over.
The refined part of my evening over, I made my way to Lovebomb, a collective artists' space in Manchester run by three talented women, one of whom is Lily Lamberta, she who puts on the annual Halloween parade with her massive puppets every year.
Tonight the filmmakers of "CLAW," a documentary about female arm wrestling, were going to show us why their film won the People's Choice award at the Virginia Film Festival.
Walking in next to a woman I know from music shows, she sounded relieved, saying, "I almost forgot about this tonight. I would've hated to miss a movie about female empowerment."
I hadn't thought of it that way until she mentioned it.
Lovebomb was ready for the crowd, with candles lit for atmosphere, mulled cider for sipping and a crowd of people curious about something described as "50% theater, 50% sport, 50% fundraiser. 150% awesome."
Heide, one of Lovebomb's founders and an arm wrestler herself introduced the evening in a gold lame bodysuit that was particularly, ahem, snug in certain places. Her wrestling name was Camela Toe, if that tells you anything.
Filmmakers Billy Hunt and Brian Wimer had done a great job (and used up nearly five years of their lives) following the ladies' arm wrestling phenomena that began in, of all places, Charlottesville.
We saw the woman who'd conceived of it all after her husband had died unexpectedly and she was looking for an outlet for her grief and healing process.
She found that she could lose herself in a character by arm wrestling and it turned out a lot of women felt the same way.
As one woman put it, "I love having a reason to put on a rubber nurse's uniform and have it not be totally self-serving."
Don't we all?
So, sure there were impressive costumes, but they didn't hold a candle to the names these women took for wrestling. Copafeelia. Punky Bruiser. Pain Fonda. Tragedy Ann.
As one wrestler was adjusting her costume, she said, "I wanna make sure I don't have a camel toe," bringing a shriek of "what?' from Camela Toe at the back of Lovebomb.
The film detailed the development of arm wrestling first in Charlottesville and then the subsequent leagues that began forming all over the country in Chicago, Washington, D.C., New Orleans, Austin, Durham.
The women involved did it for all different kinds of reasons - something diametrically opposed to their day job, a desire to be onstage, a love of dancing and/or burlesque, personal strength- but most of them mentioned how empowering it was to do.
And, of course, all the money raised by betting on wrestlers and bribing the refs went to a woman-based charity at every match, another reason many women were involved.
So the film was going along in a rough trade but feel-good kind of way when all of a sudden we were watching a match and a wrestler's arm broke badly as she was wrestling.
The room got silent as we realized what had just happened.
Then it happened again at another match and this time we even heard the pop as her arm snapped and sagged at the shoulder.
Meetings ensued among CLAW (collective of lady arm wrestlers) members in several cities as they tried to decide what to do about this unexpected and heartbreaking issue. Many didn't want to go on wrestling knowing that they could do that to someone or have it happen to them.
They compromised by shortening the period of the match, but the effect of two broken arms sobered them as well as the room of movie watchers.
The film finished with a championship match that included a round of rock, paper, scissors, but far be it for me to ruin the surprise of who won But even with shorter match times, I couldn't have been the only one nervous about the possibility of another on-screen break.
By the time we started applauding, I'm guessing everyone in the room understood why the movie had been such an audience favorite.
We'd laughed, we'd cried, we'd been engrossed. Now I was starving.
I stopped by Dinamo on the way home, finding a butt in every seat, but a friendly server persuaded me to wait a few minutes for a seat.
Which I did because I was craving crostini with chicken liver and Montepulciano, but honestly, I felt guilty taking up a two-top when people arriving after me were standing around waiting for a table.
Not so guilty that I was willing to forgo dessert, a simple chocolate tort with whipped cream, but enough not to dally over it, either.
Fortunately by that point, I'd had my 150% of self-serving entertainment.
Sorry my friend, tonight CLAW beat dancing hands down.
Starting at Candela Gallery for the opening of "Louis Draper: A Retrospective," I found dozens of other lovers of mid-century African-American photography snacking on salmon cakes and looking at exquisite black and white pictures.
A street photographer for the most part, Richmond-born Draper had an unerring eye for an interesting shot and walking the galleries, I found myself drawn in by faces of everyday people, whether on the streets of Harlem or working in the fields.
I ran into an old friend there, one I almost always see at openings and inquired about her itinerary for the evening; for the gallery portion, it sounded much like mine but we were to detour after that because she was going to La Parisienne for dancing and I was going for something a little rougher.
"That's gonna be fun," she said when she heard my plans. I was counting on it.
But first I went to Quirk Gallery to see Andras Bality's "Scenes from Virginia," a show of scenes, many of which I recognized- Goshen Pass, Hollywood Rapids, Huguenot Bridge complete with construction crane- done in a way that was part Cezanne and part Monet.
"Virginia Beach Pier in Fog" was a large-scale study in taupes and grays, evocative of a damp day at the beach.
Even closer to home, "Belle Isle Bathers" evoked Seurat's "Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte," except with the bathers far less clothed and proper-looking.
The large composition included 20 people, one dog and one guitarist, a pretty fair approximation of an afternoon on Belle Isle with the exception of insufficient canine representation.
I particularly liked "Spare Room for Artist," a depiction of a small room with three windows, a bed and a phone on a nightstand - all the essentials an artistic soul could need when staying over.
The refined part of my evening over, I made my way to Lovebomb, a collective artists' space in Manchester run by three talented women, one of whom is Lily Lamberta, she who puts on the annual Halloween parade with her massive puppets every year.
Tonight the filmmakers of "CLAW," a documentary about female arm wrestling, were going to show us why their film won the People's Choice award at the Virginia Film Festival.
Walking in next to a woman I know from music shows, she sounded relieved, saying, "I almost forgot about this tonight. I would've hated to miss a movie about female empowerment."
I hadn't thought of it that way until she mentioned it.
Lovebomb was ready for the crowd, with candles lit for atmosphere, mulled cider for sipping and a crowd of people curious about something described as "50% theater, 50% sport, 50% fundraiser. 150% awesome."
Heide, one of Lovebomb's founders and an arm wrestler herself introduced the evening in a gold lame bodysuit that was particularly, ahem, snug in certain places. Her wrestling name was Camela Toe, if that tells you anything.
Filmmakers Billy Hunt and Brian Wimer had done a great job (and used up nearly five years of their lives) following the ladies' arm wrestling phenomena that began in, of all places, Charlottesville.
We saw the woman who'd conceived of it all after her husband had died unexpectedly and she was looking for an outlet for her grief and healing process.
She found that she could lose herself in a character by arm wrestling and it turned out a lot of women felt the same way.
As one woman put it, "I love having a reason to put on a rubber nurse's uniform and have it not be totally self-serving."
Don't we all?
So, sure there were impressive costumes, but they didn't hold a candle to the names these women took for wrestling. Copafeelia. Punky Bruiser. Pain Fonda. Tragedy Ann.
As one wrestler was adjusting her costume, she said, "I wanna make sure I don't have a camel toe," bringing a shriek of "what?' from Camela Toe at the back of Lovebomb.
The film detailed the development of arm wrestling first in Charlottesville and then the subsequent leagues that began forming all over the country in Chicago, Washington, D.C., New Orleans, Austin, Durham.
The women involved did it for all different kinds of reasons - something diametrically opposed to their day job, a desire to be onstage, a love of dancing and/or burlesque, personal strength- but most of them mentioned how empowering it was to do.
And, of course, all the money raised by betting on wrestlers and bribing the refs went to a woman-based charity at every match, another reason many women were involved.
So the film was going along in a rough trade but feel-good kind of way when all of a sudden we were watching a match and a wrestler's arm broke badly as she was wrestling.
The room got silent as we realized what had just happened.
Then it happened again at another match and this time we even heard the pop as her arm snapped and sagged at the shoulder.
Meetings ensued among CLAW (collective of lady arm wrestlers) members in several cities as they tried to decide what to do about this unexpected and heartbreaking issue. Many didn't want to go on wrestling knowing that they could do that to someone or have it happen to them.
They compromised by shortening the period of the match, but the effect of two broken arms sobered them as well as the room of movie watchers.
The film finished with a championship match that included a round of rock, paper, scissors, but far be it for me to ruin the surprise of who won But even with shorter match times, I couldn't have been the only one nervous about the possibility of another on-screen break.
By the time we started applauding, I'm guessing everyone in the room understood why the movie had been such an audience favorite.
We'd laughed, we'd cried, we'd been engrossed. Now I was starving.
I stopped by Dinamo on the way home, finding a butt in every seat, but a friendly server persuaded me to wait a few minutes for a seat.
Which I did because I was craving crostini with chicken liver and Montepulciano, but honestly, I felt guilty taking up a two-top when people arriving after me were standing around waiting for a table.
Not so guilty that I was willing to forgo dessert, a simple chocolate tort with whipped cream, but enough not to dally over it, either.
Fortunately by that point, I'd had my 150% of self-serving entertainment.
Sorry my friend, tonight CLAW beat dancing hands down.
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Broadly Speaking
Turns out it was a good night to take the sore legs for a walk and have a sweet tart.
I invited a friend to join me for the first Fridays artwalk, which was considerably less packed than usual because so many people were apparently down at the grand illumination.
I feel certain the lit-up reindeer will be there next time I head downtown.
We strolled the few blocks to Gallery 5 to see "Hard Copies," a group show by a bunch of up and coming young artists.
Ian Gamble's sculpture, made of tree trunks and lumber, were especially compelling, contrasting areas where his chain saw had removed rhythmic sections with intact masses of wood making for organic creations of an entirely new sort.
We wandered down Broad to Steady Sounds to see Richard Busch's photography show, "1960 Rock Stars," and get a blast from the past.
The black and white photos were a peek into another era, a time when Ike Turner had cheesy bangs and Mick Jagger was so unbelievably young he was still smiling onstage.
Compositionally, the Jimi Hendrix photo was outstanding, with the guitarist surrounded by mannequins and a girl, all at an odd angle.
Striking in another way was one of "Jerry Garcia and Groupie" set under an arch and with the fan on a lower step as if in deference to her idol.
I overheard a girl ask her mother to buy one of the Rolling Stone photos for her because it would look great over her bed.
"Seriously, Mom, it would!" she whined.
Friend and I were busily discussing which photo we'd buy if we could when a white-haired man walked up and asked what had us so deep in conversation.
It was Richard Busch, who with a few well-placed questions, shared some of the back stories to the photographs.
The one of Roger Daltry gazing nonchalantly at the camera with a groupie at his side at a bar had a fascinating post script.
A few years back, the woman in the picture had contacted him to tell him her name and that she was the girl in the photo.
Oddly enough, she didn't want to buy a copy of it, though.
Maybe it's just me, but if a picture of me and a rock god from the past were to show up in a photography show, I'd want to own that picture.
Busch told us that the picture of Garcia and girl had been shot at the Cloisters in NYC after an afternoon of the three of them walking around the medieval-style building.
Garcia had paused under an archway with the girl nearby smiling in apparent delight at her good fortune and Busch had snapped the picture.
Pure luck, not posed.
When we left there, we crossed over to Black Iris so I could schedule my appointment to pick up a "sound suitcase" for the new show, "Low Frequency Travel Agency," which allows you to take a valise to six locations, push a button and hear soundscapes written for that particular place.
I love the idea of being sent to random places in the city to hear music created for specifically that spot and on Wednesday, I'll be spending my afternoon experiencing just that.
Then it was on to Quirk Gallery to see Susannah Raine-Haddad's whimsical new animal paintings.
It was my friend's first time in Quirk and she was tickled with their shop, looking at all kinds of gift items before finally choosing a smart-assed card to buy.
Let's just say it had to do with nude male asses and pressed ham.
While I was standing next to an impeccably-groomed much older woman, she unexpectedly turned to me and said, pointing, "Scented clothespins. I just know you need three jars."
I didn't really but loved that she'd made a joke to a stranger.
At the register, the smell of paperwhites blooming in a pot was exquisite, prompting a conversation between us and counter guy Adam about whether or not their heady fragrance was too much.
Not for me, which probably says something about me.
After she paid for her card, Adam told us that Tuesday night was "guys' night," with a DJ, drinks from Saison and hot shaves from RVA City Barber to entice guys to come in to shop.
"You should come, too" he suggested, making me wonder if I'd be able to get a hot shave for my legs. "I bet they would," he said with assurance.
Tempting as it might be to test that out, chances are I won't.
We walked down to Bistro 27 thinking it might be time for a drink, but they were far too busy to need our business, so we crossed back over Broad.
All of a sudden, I heard my name called and there was half of my favorite Jackson Ward couple, just coming from their monthly pre-artwalk cocktail party at their flat.
Looking around for his lovely wife, I saw she was busy dancing with the guy in front of the DJ at Turnstyle.
She came over to hug me, saying, "Jim spotted your legs all the way across the street and said 'there's Karen's legs!' He knew them from across Broad."
It's good to be recognized, right?
Comfort was just as crowded as 27 had been, so Friend and I hoofed it back to my place to collect our cars and head to Carytown, where we decided on Amour for a nosh and a glass.
It turned out to be an interesting glass, too, Le Chapeau Cuvee Napoleon pinot noir, an unlikely product of France made with Corsican grapes.
Corsica, as in the island off Italy where the future emperor Napoleon was born into a wine-making family.
Despite being at a bar table, we made friends with the people at the bar, a gardener sitting alone and then a stylish couple I've seen there before, all friendly and eager to chat with us.
My friend had never had Amour's onion soup but recalled me raving about it and did the same after a few tastes.
I'd had soup for lunch, so I went with the Alsatian onion tart, a happy marriage of onion, cheese and Smithfield bacon (carry me back to ole Virginny), followed by escargots in garlic butter, with plenty of bread for sopping all that butter.
We finished up with apple cider sorbet, which brought about the funniest line of the evening.
Normally sorbet comes three flavors to a serving, but Friend and I, happily replete at this point, wanted just one scoop to share.
Our waiter obligingly brought us one scoop and the stylish man at the bar looked over at our mini-dessert to be spli between two and cracked, "That's just sad."
It may have been petite portion-wise, but it was exactly what we'd wanted and the autumnal take on dessert was the perfect balance of sweet and tart.
Come to think of it, that's kind of how I'd like to be described myself...and maybe remembered for perfectly shaved legs and the faint scent of paperwhites and Smithfield bacon.
I invited a friend to join me for the first Fridays artwalk, which was considerably less packed than usual because so many people were apparently down at the grand illumination.
I feel certain the lit-up reindeer will be there next time I head downtown.
We strolled the few blocks to Gallery 5 to see "Hard Copies," a group show by a bunch of up and coming young artists.
Ian Gamble's sculpture, made of tree trunks and lumber, were especially compelling, contrasting areas where his chain saw had removed rhythmic sections with intact masses of wood making for organic creations of an entirely new sort.
We wandered down Broad to Steady Sounds to see Richard Busch's photography show, "1960 Rock Stars," and get a blast from the past.
The black and white photos were a peek into another era, a time when Ike Turner had cheesy bangs and Mick Jagger was so unbelievably young he was still smiling onstage.
Compositionally, the Jimi Hendrix photo was outstanding, with the guitarist surrounded by mannequins and a girl, all at an odd angle.
Striking in another way was one of "Jerry Garcia and Groupie" set under an arch and with the fan on a lower step as if in deference to her idol.
I overheard a girl ask her mother to buy one of the Rolling Stone photos for her because it would look great over her bed.
"Seriously, Mom, it would!" she whined.
Friend and I were busily discussing which photo we'd buy if we could when a white-haired man walked up and asked what had us so deep in conversation.
It was Richard Busch, who with a few well-placed questions, shared some of the back stories to the photographs.
The one of Roger Daltry gazing nonchalantly at the camera with a groupie at his side at a bar had a fascinating post script.
A few years back, the woman in the picture had contacted him to tell him her name and that she was the girl in the photo.
Oddly enough, she didn't want to buy a copy of it, though.
Maybe it's just me, but if a picture of me and a rock god from the past were to show up in a photography show, I'd want to own that picture.
Busch told us that the picture of Garcia and girl had been shot at the Cloisters in NYC after an afternoon of the three of them walking around the medieval-style building.
Garcia had paused under an archway with the girl nearby smiling in apparent delight at her good fortune and Busch had snapped the picture.
Pure luck, not posed.
When we left there, we crossed over to Black Iris so I could schedule my appointment to pick up a "sound suitcase" for the new show, "Low Frequency Travel Agency," which allows you to take a valise to six locations, push a button and hear soundscapes written for that particular place.
I love the idea of being sent to random places in the city to hear music created for specifically that spot and on Wednesday, I'll be spending my afternoon experiencing just that.
Then it was on to Quirk Gallery to see Susannah Raine-Haddad's whimsical new animal paintings.
It was my friend's first time in Quirk and she was tickled with their shop, looking at all kinds of gift items before finally choosing a smart-assed card to buy.
Let's just say it had to do with nude male asses and pressed ham.
While I was standing next to an impeccably-groomed much older woman, she unexpectedly turned to me and said, pointing, "Scented clothespins. I just know you need three jars."
I didn't really but loved that she'd made a joke to a stranger.
At the register, the smell of paperwhites blooming in a pot was exquisite, prompting a conversation between us and counter guy Adam about whether or not their heady fragrance was too much.
Not for me, which probably says something about me.
After she paid for her card, Adam told us that Tuesday night was "guys' night," with a DJ, drinks from Saison and hot shaves from RVA City Barber to entice guys to come in to shop.
"You should come, too" he suggested, making me wonder if I'd be able to get a hot shave for my legs. "I bet they would," he said with assurance.
Tempting as it might be to test that out, chances are I won't.
We walked down to Bistro 27 thinking it might be time for a drink, but they were far too busy to need our business, so we crossed back over Broad.
All of a sudden, I heard my name called and there was half of my favorite Jackson Ward couple, just coming from their monthly pre-artwalk cocktail party at their flat.
Looking around for his lovely wife, I saw she was busy dancing with the guy in front of the DJ at Turnstyle.
She came over to hug me, saying, "Jim spotted your legs all the way across the street and said 'there's Karen's legs!' He knew them from across Broad."
It's good to be recognized, right?
Comfort was just as crowded as 27 had been, so Friend and I hoofed it back to my place to collect our cars and head to Carytown, where we decided on Amour for a nosh and a glass.
It turned out to be an interesting glass, too, Le Chapeau Cuvee Napoleon pinot noir, an unlikely product of France made with Corsican grapes.
Corsica, as in the island off Italy where the future emperor Napoleon was born into a wine-making family.
Despite being at a bar table, we made friends with the people at the bar, a gardener sitting alone and then a stylish couple I've seen there before, all friendly and eager to chat with us.
My friend had never had Amour's onion soup but recalled me raving about it and did the same after a few tastes.
I'd had soup for lunch, so I went with the Alsatian onion tart, a happy marriage of onion, cheese and Smithfield bacon (carry me back to ole Virginny), followed by escargots in garlic butter, with plenty of bread for sopping all that butter.
We finished up with apple cider sorbet, which brought about the funniest line of the evening.
Normally sorbet comes three flavors to a serving, but Friend and I, happily replete at this point, wanted just one scoop to share.
Our waiter obligingly brought us one scoop and the stylish man at the bar looked over at our mini-dessert to be spli between two and cracked, "That's just sad."
It may have been petite portion-wise, but it was exactly what we'd wanted and the autumnal take on dessert was the perfect balance of sweet and tart.
Come to think of it, that's kind of how I'd like to be described myself...and maybe remembered for perfectly shaved legs and the faint scent of paperwhites and Smithfield bacon.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
I Hear You're Looking for Someone to Love
"Is that porn?" was the question of the night.
Yes, it was, showing on a brick wall midway down Jefferson Street for all the world to see.
So it was that the First Fridays artwalk took a turn into the bare-breasted tonight.
I rounded up a willing girlfriend and we set out for some gallery hopping, beginning at Quirk.
Nelly Kate had the shop show, with a collection of small, framed drawings on one wall and an exquisite large-format painting/collage piece on the other.
I don't want to brag, but I already own a Nelly Kate piece.
My friend wanted to see the "Sparkle Plenty 8" show in the back and full of artsy jewelry the likes of which I'll never wear.
From there we went to Candela Gallery to see Linda Connor's photography show featuring photographs taken in such far-flung locations as Cambodia, India, Tibet and Egypt and capturing sacred and religious imagery as well as natural features like rocky landscapes.
I'd interviewed Connor earlier today and an hour into our talk, she'd looked at me and asked, "Are you an artist?"
When I asked her why she'd asked, she'd given me a wonderful compliment. "Because you get it." Hell, I admit it, I let her generous words go straight to my head.
Kind words aside, my friend agreed with me that her black and white photographs are a must-see.
Next up was Gallery 5 for Screens 'n Suds, a poster exhibit, one of my favorite kinds of works on paper.
Walking up Jefferson, my eye was immediately caught by the bouncing breasts high above my head on the side of a building.
My friend kept walking, but I kept looking, fascinated with some serious '70s sex action on the bricks.
Truth be told, I have seen very little porn in my life so I was curious.
Already playing when we got to Gallery 5 were Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat, so after looking at posters, we took in the rest of their set.
A musician friend came up to say hello and gestured to the crowd around us. "I love seeing their faces as they experience this band for the first time."
Seriously, they were rapt, no surprise given Junglebeat's lush sound and killer harmonies.
<
With a heads-up from the same friend not to miss the next band, a duo from Lynchburg, we set out to see some art during the breakdown and set-up period.
We got as far as the porn again before running into rocker Prabir.
General chit-chat ensued between the three of us while I watched the soft-core action of "The Pig Keeper's Daughter" over his shoulder.
After Prabir got over the shock of me not having a cell phone, something he should have known since we've known each other for five years now, I turned the topic to ways he could help my friend.
Back in 2009 when I was nursing a broken heart, Prabir had laid out a step-by-step plan for getting over my heartache, here.
Now that my friend was in that same sad position, I wanted him to advise her and once again, he suggested list-making, drinking and sex with strangers.
Since I hadn't tried out his plan, all I could do was nod and urge her to give it a shot. While I watched porn on the wall.
There may have been a suggestion about smoking weed and listening to Jefferson Airplane, but don't quote me on that.
Before she'd grasped the scope of what lies ahead for her, I heard music starting at Gallery 5, so our little trio made tracks for it.
As people walked around us, inevitably they turned back and asked, "Is that porn?" as if we were the experts, or maybe responsible for it.
Whether pleased or perplexed, they were smiling as they inquired.
Walking in to hear the Late Virginia Summers, I knew immediately that this was my sound.
Part shoegaze and all post-rock, they were creating the kind of textured soundscapes that needed no lyrics and qualify for what a musician friend describes as "night music."
Nathan was an amazing drummer, high energy, hitting hard and constantly doing five things at once. Joe's guitar playing was incredibly fast with hints of post-punk goodness.
After a couple of their songs, Nathan said, "This next one may or may not be a Matthew Sweet song."
By that, he meant it was an original song built around a riff from "Girlfriend," as recognizable a guitar line as any from the '90s.
Pure heaven.
They closed with a kick-ass song with a title that got the attention of all three of us: "Please Stop Loving Me."
Actually, the full title was "(I'm Not All of Those Things) Please Stop Loving Me."
Friend thought it was a hell of statement to tell someone to stop loving you. Prabir thought that telling someone don't stop loving me is even more of a nervy statement.
Personally, I prefer not to give instructions and hope to hear what I want to hear.
Afterwards, Nathan played tease, saying, "We only know one more song and we're not going to play it so you'll have us back."
We should only be so lucky to have them back for more mind-blowing post-rock.
By then my friend had to get going so I walked her back to my house where she'd parked and said goodnight so I could return to G5 for the crowd-pleasing, ever-energetic and grunge-y Hoax Hunters followed by Glass Twin, the band risen from the ashes of one of my long-time favorites, Marionette.
Technically, shows are supposed to end at G5 by midnight, but due to Glass Twin's sound problems causing a late start, they played on past the stroke of twelve, neighbors be damned.
They played so long that by the time I left, the porn wall had gone dark. Now I'll never know what happened to the pig keeper's daughter.
Although I have a sneaking suspicion it's a lot like #8 on Prabir's master list.
Yes, it was, showing on a brick wall midway down Jefferson Street for all the world to see.
So it was that the First Fridays artwalk took a turn into the bare-breasted tonight.
I rounded up a willing girlfriend and we set out for some gallery hopping, beginning at Quirk.
Nelly Kate had the shop show, with a collection of small, framed drawings on one wall and an exquisite large-format painting/collage piece on the other.
I don't want to brag, but I already own a Nelly Kate piece.
My friend wanted to see the "Sparkle Plenty 8" show in the back and full of artsy jewelry the likes of which I'll never wear.
From there we went to Candela Gallery to see Linda Connor's photography show featuring photographs taken in such far-flung locations as Cambodia, India, Tibet and Egypt and capturing sacred and religious imagery as well as natural features like rocky landscapes.
I'd interviewed Connor earlier today and an hour into our talk, she'd looked at me and asked, "Are you an artist?"
When I asked her why she'd asked, she'd given me a wonderful compliment. "Because you get it." Hell, I admit it, I let her generous words go straight to my head.
Kind words aside, my friend agreed with me that her black and white photographs are a must-see.
Next up was Gallery 5 for Screens 'n Suds, a poster exhibit, one of my favorite kinds of works on paper.
Walking up Jefferson, my eye was immediately caught by the bouncing breasts high above my head on the side of a building.
My friend kept walking, but I kept looking, fascinated with some serious '70s sex action on the bricks.
Truth be told, I have seen very little porn in my life so I was curious.
Already playing when we got to Gallery 5 were Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat, so after looking at posters, we took in the rest of their set.
A musician friend came up to say hello and gestured to the crowd around us. "I love seeing their faces as they experience this band for the first time."
Seriously, they were rapt, no surprise given Junglebeat's lush sound and killer harmonies.
<
With a heads-up from the same friend not to miss the next band, a duo from Lynchburg, we set out to see some art during the breakdown and set-up period.
We got as far as the porn again before running into rocker Prabir.
General chit-chat ensued between the three of us while I watched the soft-core action of "The Pig Keeper's Daughter" over his shoulder.
After Prabir got over the shock of me not having a cell phone, something he should have known since we've known each other for five years now, I turned the topic to ways he could help my friend.
Back in 2009 when I was nursing a broken heart, Prabir had laid out a step-by-step plan for getting over my heartache, here.
Now that my friend was in that same sad position, I wanted him to advise her and once again, he suggested list-making, drinking and sex with strangers.
Since I hadn't tried out his plan, all I could do was nod and urge her to give it a shot. While I watched porn on the wall.
There may have been a suggestion about smoking weed and listening to Jefferson Airplane, but don't quote me on that.
Before she'd grasped the scope of what lies ahead for her, I heard music starting at Gallery 5, so our little trio made tracks for it.
As people walked around us, inevitably they turned back and asked, "Is that porn?" as if we were the experts, or maybe responsible for it.
Whether pleased or perplexed, they were smiling as they inquired.
Walking in to hear the Late Virginia Summers, I knew immediately that this was my sound.
Part shoegaze and all post-rock, they were creating the kind of textured soundscapes that needed no lyrics and qualify for what a musician friend describes as "night music."
Nathan was an amazing drummer, high energy, hitting hard and constantly doing five things at once. Joe's guitar playing was incredibly fast with hints of post-punk goodness.
After a couple of their songs, Nathan said, "This next one may or may not be a Matthew Sweet song."
By that, he meant it was an original song built around a riff from "Girlfriend," as recognizable a guitar line as any from the '90s.
Pure heaven.
They closed with a kick-ass song with a title that got the attention of all three of us: "Please Stop Loving Me."
Actually, the full title was "(I'm Not All of Those Things) Please Stop Loving Me."
Friend thought it was a hell of statement to tell someone to stop loving you. Prabir thought that telling someone don't stop loving me is even more of a nervy statement.
Personally, I prefer not to give instructions and hope to hear what I want to hear.
Afterwards, Nathan played tease, saying, "We only know one more song and we're not going to play it so you'll have us back."
We should only be so lucky to have them back for more mind-blowing post-rock.
By then my friend had to get going so I walked her back to my house where she'd parked and said goodnight so I could return to G5 for the crowd-pleasing, ever-energetic and grunge-y Hoax Hunters followed by Glass Twin, the band risen from the ashes of one of my long-time favorites, Marionette.
Technically, shows are supposed to end at G5 by midnight, but due to Glass Twin's sound problems causing a late start, they played on past the stroke of twelve, neighbors be damned.
They played so long that by the time I left, the porn wall had gone dark. Now I'll never know what happened to the pig keeper's daughter.
Although I have a sneaking suspicion it's a lot like #8 on Prabir's master list.
Saturday, September 14, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Night Creeping on Apace
As Swedish pop master Jens Lekman put it, "It's a young Friday night."
Or at least it was when I arrived at the VMFA for Capitol Opera Richmond's evening of "Famous Arias and Duets."
The fairly recent company is the fifth in the group of all volunteer opera companies begun in state capitols and targeting community involvement.
Given my inability to carry a tune in a bucket (according to my paternal grandmother), my involvement is attending and applause.
Seated in the atrium, our hostess said it would be a program of "art songs and selections from H.M.S. Pinafore," which Cap Op (yes, I am already abbreviating it) would be performing March 8th and 9th at Henrico Theater.
"We're going to play for you for the next hour, or two if you want to sit here that long," she informed us.
Stephanie came out in a long, green dress and sang "The Hours Creep on Apace" from H.M.S. Pinafore.
Favorite line: "Oh, god of love and god of reason, say
Which of you twain shall my poor heart obey?
Isn't that the eternal question?
Next up was Jason, dressed far more casually, and doing another H.M.S. song before he and Stephanie did a duet.
Meanwhile, the seats in the atrium were all but full, with many couples sharing a bottle of wine while they listened to opera.
It was certainly an imbibing crowd.
From the two staircases and landings leading upstairs, people paused to watch and listen from above, some lingering for only a minute and others taking up residence for the duration.
Me, I was perfectly happy in a chair not far from the guy with the bad toupee and the old hippie chick with the floor-length skirt and poncho.
Michael took the stage and announced he'd be doing "an oddball collection of songs" by Schumann and Debussy.
"I don't know how many people here are Debussy fans," he said as I watched knowing nods from a healthy number of heads.
His voice was stellar.
Fran came up to do what she called "Mozart art songs," promising a translation before each.
"The Violet" was a song of a flower trampled by a foot (an all-too frequent tragedy), two she called "Mozart being funny," one about contentment and the other beginning with, "Men are always looking for a woman to nibble."
And is there anything really wrong with that?
"The Parting Song" was as sad as you'd expect from the title.
As I was watching this parade of opera singing, it occurred to me that I'd seen very different music on this stage before.
For the museum's opening, it was one of my favorite local bands, Marionette, with guitarist Adam playing in a suit and barefoot, wailing on his guitar.
Shortly thereafter, it was Alejandro Escovedo, he of the first wave punk scene before moving on to a harder roots rock sound and playing to a packed house for the return to the Jumpin' in July series.
In other words, very different than what I was hearing tonight.
And yet I was glad I'd come. Perhaps not as deeply as the people with their eyes closed during the singing, but enjoying it nonetheless.
After opera, you almost have to move on to art because anything else would feel insubstantial.
Conveniently, it was First Friday and while many galleries had held over their December shows, some had new work.
1708 Gallery had Eric McMaster's "The Obstruction of Action," a fascinating look at what happens when our authentic self is altered by the rules and conditions placed upon us.
A scaled down hockey rink dominated the show and I wasted no time in walking inside it beside a kid in his socks sliding across the plastic ice.
Most interesting to me was that a hockey game of six on six plus a referee had played in that tiny rink and McMaster had filmed it.
It was playing on a nearby wall.
By far the most poignant piece was "The Obstruction of Action by the Absence of Other," a film of a couples skater doing a couples routine without his partner.
The artist had intended to film each of the couple skating alone and show them side by side but before he could, the woman had had a career-ending injury.
So watching the man skate the routine he'd created with his partner alone became incredibly moving to see.
It wasn't what the artist had intended, giving it more weight for its tragic element.
And 1708 was hopping with VMFA people, Anderson gallery types, and probably people looking for something different this artwalk.
Over at Quirk Gallery was Michael Birch-Pierce's "Honesty in Artifice," a show about looking further than the superficial to see into the wearer's mind.
It was clear that he had a degree in fashion design based on the elaborate articles of clothing he made and photographed on people.
There were also small scale works on the wall, complete with magnifying glasses for closer inspection.
Finishing with one of the magnifiers, the guy next to me raised an eyebrow and inquired, "Trade?" and we swapped places to look at each other's tiny objects and compare notes.
In the shop was Ben Hill's series of cut-up photographs of Richmond - Maymont, trestle tracks, the skyline- divided up into neat little segments that gave a geometry to familiar subjects.
We certainly are a handsome little city, aren't we?
By the time I got home, it was time to call up Holmes and find a suitable place to meet up with him and his main squeeze.
A person's got to eat to live, especially in my case. It's what I call earning a living.
Only then did this Friday night move from youth into middle age, with plenty of bubbles and laughter to ease into it.
Let's just say the god of reason was not needed.
Or at least it was when I arrived at the VMFA for Capitol Opera Richmond's evening of "Famous Arias and Duets."
The fairly recent company is the fifth in the group of all volunteer opera companies begun in state capitols and targeting community involvement.
Given my inability to carry a tune in a bucket (according to my paternal grandmother), my involvement is attending and applause.
Seated in the atrium, our hostess said it would be a program of "art songs and selections from H.M.S. Pinafore," which Cap Op (yes, I am already abbreviating it) would be performing March 8th and 9th at Henrico Theater.
"We're going to play for you for the next hour, or two if you want to sit here that long," she informed us.
Stephanie came out in a long, green dress and sang "The Hours Creep on Apace" from H.M.S. Pinafore.
Favorite line: "Oh, god of love and god of reason, say
Which of you twain shall my poor heart obey?
Isn't that the eternal question?
Next up was Jason, dressed far more casually, and doing another H.M.S. song before he and Stephanie did a duet.
Meanwhile, the seats in the atrium were all but full, with many couples sharing a bottle of wine while they listened to opera.
It was certainly an imbibing crowd.
From the two staircases and landings leading upstairs, people paused to watch and listen from above, some lingering for only a minute and others taking up residence for the duration.
Me, I was perfectly happy in a chair not far from the guy with the bad toupee and the old hippie chick with the floor-length skirt and poncho.
Michael took the stage and announced he'd be doing "an oddball collection of songs" by Schumann and Debussy.
"I don't know how many people here are Debussy fans," he said as I watched knowing nods from a healthy number of heads.
His voice was stellar.
Fran came up to do what she called "Mozart art songs," promising a translation before each.
"The Violet" was a song of a flower trampled by a foot (an all-too frequent tragedy), two she called "Mozart being funny," one about contentment and the other beginning with, "Men are always looking for a woman to nibble."
And is there anything really wrong with that?
"The Parting Song" was as sad as you'd expect from the title.
As I was watching this parade of opera singing, it occurred to me that I'd seen very different music on this stage before.
For the museum's opening, it was one of my favorite local bands, Marionette, with guitarist Adam playing in a suit and barefoot, wailing on his guitar.
Shortly thereafter, it was Alejandro Escovedo, he of the first wave punk scene before moving on to a harder roots rock sound and playing to a packed house for the return to the Jumpin' in July series.
In other words, very different than what I was hearing tonight.
And yet I was glad I'd come. Perhaps not as deeply as the people with their eyes closed during the singing, but enjoying it nonetheless.
After opera, you almost have to move on to art because anything else would feel insubstantial.
Conveniently, it was First Friday and while many galleries had held over their December shows, some had new work.
1708 Gallery had Eric McMaster's "The Obstruction of Action," a fascinating look at what happens when our authentic self is altered by the rules and conditions placed upon us.
A scaled down hockey rink dominated the show and I wasted no time in walking inside it beside a kid in his socks sliding across the plastic ice.
Most interesting to me was that a hockey game of six on six plus a referee had played in that tiny rink and McMaster had filmed it.
It was playing on a nearby wall.
By far the most poignant piece was "The Obstruction of Action by the Absence of Other," a film of a couples skater doing a couples routine without his partner.
The artist had intended to film each of the couple skating alone and show them side by side but before he could, the woman had had a career-ending injury.
So watching the man skate the routine he'd created with his partner alone became incredibly moving to see.
It wasn't what the artist had intended, giving it more weight for its tragic element.
And 1708 was hopping with VMFA people, Anderson gallery types, and probably people looking for something different this artwalk.
Over at Quirk Gallery was Michael Birch-Pierce's "Honesty in Artifice," a show about looking further than the superficial to see into the wearer's mind.
It was clear that he had a degree in fashion design based on the elaborate articles of clothing he made and photographed on people.
There were also small scale works on the wall, complete with magnifying glasses for closer inspection.
Finishing with one of the magnifiers, the guy next to me raised an eyebrow and inquired, "Trade?" and we swapped places to look at each other's tiny objects and compare notes.
In the shop was Ben Hill's series of cut-up photographs of Richmond - Maymont, trestle tracks, the skyline- divided up into neat little segments that gave a geometry to familiar subjects.
We certainly are a handsome little city, aren't we?
By the time I got home, it was time to call up Holmes and find a suitable place to meet up with him and his main squeeze.
A person's got to eat to live, especially in my case. It's what I call earning a living.
Only then did this Friday night move from youth into middle age, with plenty of bubbles and laughter to ease into it.
Let's just say the god of reason was not needed.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Annihilation Matches
I did my best to lower my debauchery quotient tonight and still had a very fine evening.
Desperately seeking culture, I began at Quirk Gallery for the preview of the new exhibit, "Grab It!" a show about annihilation and humor.
The premise of it was pretty basic: if the world is actually going to end, what soft and cuddly things do you need?
Seven artists interpreted this challenge in a variety of ways. Each collection came in a suitcase, the better to grab and go.
One group was all knitted objects, another was all animals. Phil Barbato (the master of soft art) included only one creature, a pink octopus holding a toothbrush.
Personally, my teeth are of no concern to me when we get to the end.
Diane Koss' choices were arranged in two fabulous suitcases, one purple and one pink.
I only wish my luggage was pink and purple. One figure hung from the ceiling and others reached their tentacles up toward it.
I loved how Brigid Bartels used a Starlite blue train case to hold her grouping. It was exactly like the train case my Richmond grandmother used on visits to us when I was a kid.
The award for most masculine went to Oura Sananikone's collection of a plush pair of glasses (so like Oura's own), a bow, arrows and quiver (but soft), a knife and a bottle of spirits, all done in black, gray and brown.
Clearly Oura was thinking more rationally than emotionally and the result was decidedly right-brained.
As I made my way toward the front of the gallery, I made a stop to look at Matt Lively's show, wishing I could afford a print of his "Deer Treehouses," a fantastically detailed image of a treehouse in the deer's antlers.
Up front, I ran into a friend, a Frenchman, with whom I chatted about the cold. He asked me where I was headed.
Appropriately enough, it was to La Parisienne for music and a bite.
"Maybe you will meet your match there," he said encouragingly. I said I wasn't necessarily seeking a Frenchman and he broke it down for me.
"I'm from Northern France," he explained, "but most men from there are a little cold, very practical. You'd be fine with a man from Southern France or even an Italian. They're neighbors, so they're like the French in what matters."
Questioning what that meant, he said, "They're going to want to pinch you and touch you."
I see.
La Parisienne was my destination because, despite several lunches there, I'd not experienced their Thursday night dinners with live jazz.
Walking in, the first person I saw was a friend, another Frenchman, already clearing his work-weary head with the music. He invited me to join his table.
Before long, the owner came over to welcome me, a gracious habit I saw extended to every person who came in the door.
The three-piece combo playing under low lighting gave a warm vibe to a space I knew only as a lunch hotspot. Okay, this was going to work for me.
Happily, I wasn't the only single (male or female) in addition to work groups, couples and girls' night out tables.
The wine was perfectly lovely, Chateau Cissac. tasting of blackberries with a little spice.
Out of nowhere, a bartender friend walked up to our table and hugged me, shaking his head and saying, "You know everybody."
Not even close. Still, it's nice to happen into an impromptu get-together and he joined us.
Since it was my first dinner foray, I wanted a sampling of what was on the menu.
The country pate wrapped in pastry was venison tonight and came with a winter slaw to cut the richness.
The wings were marinated in Harissa paste so they packed some serious heat. The tartine au jardin with goat cheese, radish and olives was a rustic pleasure.
But I'd have to say my favorite was La Parisienne's take on French onion dip, oh-so much richer and tasting of caramelized onions than the American version could ever hope to be.
It was served with a crepe chips, an ideal use for leftover crepes at the end of the restaurant's day. Crisply fried and lightly salted, they were addicting, especially with that dip.
Our little group alternated listening to the music with chatter about cruises ("3 a.m. and I'm walking the deck with two drinks and smoking cigarettes. What are they gonna do, throw me off the boat?"), retirement ("I don't want to live any one place, just travel non-stop") and crowded bars ("The Fire Marshall was standing outside just hoping he could close us down").
Turns out that the weekly live music nights have brought in a procession of jazz musicians who try out on the spot for a chance at getting into the weekly rotation.
Singers, horn players, you name it, they stop by, listen a while and play a song or two after the break to see if they're worthy.
I love the democracy of it, a subject we also discussed tonight (the French version versus the American version).
So much good wine, food, music and talk tonight that I forgot all about the Frenchman's prediction.
.
Besides, everyone knows you never find a match when you're looking for one. And your match never comes in the package you expect.
The jury's still out on the pinching.
Desperately seeking culture, I began at Quirk Gallery for the preview of the new exhibit, "Grab It!" a show about annihilation and humor.
The premise of it was pretty basic: if the world is actually going to end, what soft and cuddly things do you need?
Seven artists interpreted this challenge in a variety of ways. Each collection came in a suitcase, the better to grab and go.
One group was all knitted objects, another was all animals. Phil Barbato (the master of soft art) included only one creature, a pink octopus holding a toothbrush.
Personally, my teeth are of no concern to me when we get to the end.
Diane Koss' choices were arranged in two fabulous suitcases, one purple and one pink.
I only wish my luggage was pink and purple. One figure hung from the ceiling and others reached their tentacles up toward it.
I loved how Brigid Bartels used a Starlite blue train case to hold her grouping. It was exactly like the train case my Richmond grandmother used on visits to us when I was a kid.
The award for most masculine went to Oura Sananikone's collection of a plush pair of glasses (so like Oura's own), a bow, arrows and quiver (but soft), a knife and a bottle of spirits, all done in black, gray and brown.
Clearly Oura was thinking more rationally than emotionally and the result was decidedly right-brained.
As I made my way toward the front of the gallery, I made a stop to look at Matt Lively's show, wishing I could afford a print of his "Deer Treehouses," a fantastically detailed image of a treehouse in the deer's antlers.
Up front, I ran into a friend, a Frenchman, with whom I chatted about the cold. He asked me where I was headed.
Appropriately enough, it was to La Parisienne for music and a bite.
"Maybe you will meet your match there," he said encouragingly. I said I wasn't necessarily seeking a Frenchman and he broke it down for me.
"I'm from Northern France," he explained, "but most men from there are a little cold, very practical. You'd be fine with a man from Southern France or even an Italian. They're neighbors, so they're like the French in what matters."
Questioning what that meant, he said, "They're going to want to pinch you and touch you."
I see.
La Parisienne was my destination because, despite several lunches there, I'd not experienced their Thursday night dinners with live jazz.
Walking in, the first person I saw was a friend, another Frenchman, already clearing his work-weary head with the music. He invited me to join his table.
Before long, the owner came over to welcome me, a gracious habit I saw extended to every person who came in the door.
The three-piece combo playing under low lighting gave a warm vibe to a space I knew only as a lunch hotspot. Okay, this was going to work for me.
Happily, I wasn't the only single (male or female) in addition to work groups, couples and girls' night out tables.
The wine was perfectly lovely, Chateau Cissac. tasting of blackberries with a little spice.
Out of nowhere, a bartender friend walked up to our table and hugged me, shaking his head and saying, "You know everybody."
Not even close. Still, it's nice to happen into an impromptu get-together and he joined us.
Since it was my first dinner foray, I wanted a sampling of what was on the menu.
The country pate wrapped in pastry was venison tonight and came with a winter slaw to cut the richness.
The wings were marinated in Harissa paste so they packed some serious heat. The tartine au jardin with goat cheese, radish and olives was a rustic pleasure.
But I'd have to say my favorite was La Parisienne's take on French onion dip, oh-so much richer and tasting of caramelized onions than the American version could ever hope to be.
It was served with a crepe chips, an ideal use for leftover crepes at the end of the restaurant's day. Crisply fried and lightly salted, they were addicting, especially with that dip.
Our little group alternated listening to the music with chatter about cruises ("3 a.m. and I'm walking the deck with two drinks and smoking cigarettes. What are they gonna do, throw me off the boat?"), retirement ("I don't want to live any one place, just travel non-stop") and crowded bars ("The Fire Marshall was standing outside just hoping he could close us down").
Turns out that the weekly live music nights have brought in a procession of jazz musicians who try out on the spot for a chance at getting into the weekly rotation.
Singers, horn players, you name it, they stop by, listen a while and play a song or two after the break to see if they're worthy.
I love the democracy of it, a subject we also discussed tonight (the French version versus the American version).
So much good wine, food, music and talk tonight that I forgot all about the Frenchman's prediction.
.
Besides, everyone knows you never find a match when you're looking for one. And your match never comes in the package you expect.
The jury's still out on the pinching.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Hope Floats
If Thursday is the new Friday, then Preview Thursday is the new First Friday.
Why battle crowds when I can enjoy the new art shows the way they used to be when the artwalk first started?
No jostling, no strollers, no inability to take in a piece of art in from across the room.
I began at Ghostprint Gallery, natch, to check out Sterling Hundley's exhibit, "Blue Collar/White Collar."
The mixed media pieces were completely captivating: multi-dimensional, smart and full of familiar faces.
With deeper pockets, I could have purchased works depicting Herbie Hancock, Torie Amos, Marat Sade, Bojangles, or my particular favorite, Shakespeare (oh, how I wish my art budget was bigger!).
Johnny Cash was not for sale.
"My Lady Richmond" was especially compelling, containing images and one person's story of how he came to VCU and was sucked in by the capital city.
It's happened to more than a few of us.
Daniel Day-Lewis had been invited to tonight's preview, but his assistant had called to say he couldn't make it.
Our loss, I'm sure.
Once a friend joined me at the preview, I had company when I went to check out some of the other galleries.
Quirk Gallery's "Sparkle 7: Organism" show was their annual jewelry show.
While I can admire the pieces for art's sake, my non-existent interest in jewelry means that a lot of it washes over me.
Ooh, sparkly things. What else you got?
Yes, I realize that this makes me a poor excuse for a female.
From there we went to 1708 Gallery for "Push, Pull, Resist," a show of inflatable sculptures using reclaimed maritime materials.
Here I actually regretted that it wasn't First Friday so more people could have been there.
Many of the pieces required human interaction to do their thing. A motion sensor inflated a piece. Blowing into a windsock made cloth-rollers inflate and turn.
With enough people, the art would be endlessly in motion. Not so tonight, but something to look forward to tomorrow evening.
Friend and I parted ways after that. I was off for a bite to eat and he was in search of a restful evening after a late night and early morning.
It reminded me of a girlfriend's statement at Ghostprint tonight. "It's not age that make you act old. It's getting up early."
My destination was Carytown Bistro to meet another friend. His boyfriend is out of town so we were meeting for dinner.
We walked into a wine tasting, and at $5.00 for six one-ounce pours, a steal of a deal.
The event had been emblazoned online as "Winos Welcome," although that probably says more about the poster than the tasting.
Except for some of the seating having changed, the place is little different from its days as Bin 22 and the menu is even simpler.
Ever since I'd snacked on a banana during the movie earlier today, my friend (who'd also been at that event), had been craving banana.
He jumped on The King panini, a grilled sandwich of peanut butter and banana.
I was fine with a BLT on an everything bagel, pleased that the "L" portion was actually mesclun and not iceberg.
We savored the tasting before, during and after our sandwiches, satisfied that there was no rushing by our server.
Another friend came in to do the tasting and brought with him a red wine-loving musician, which immediately turned all talk to music.
Which Elvis Costello songs are worth covering? What makes a musician prickly? What's a good first venue for a transplanted musician from L.A.? Which folk acts put a cocaine-addled listener to sleep despite the drugs?
I knew the answers to none of those.
And honestly, with a glass of Barbera and a Kit-Kat bar from the bowl of leftover Halloween candy on the bar, it was tough to imagine that there might really be a Ben Folds mix I could like, despite assurances to the contrary.
But as with all things, I remain ever hopeful.
Why battle crowds when I can enjoy the new art shows the way they used to be when the artwalk first started?
No jostling, no strollers, no inability to take in a piece of art in from across the room.
I began at Ghostprint Gallery, natch, to check out Sterling Hundley's exhibit, "Blue Collar/White Collar."
The mixed media pieces were completely captivating: multi-dimensional, smart and full of familiar faces.
With deeper pockets, I could have purchased works depicting Herbie Hancock, Torie Amos, Marat Sade, Bojangles, or my particular favorite, Shakespeare (oh, how I wish my art budget was bigger!).
Johnny Cash was not for sale.
"My Lady Richmond" was especially compelling, containing images and one person's story of how he came to VCU and was sucked in by the capital city.
It's happened to more than a few of us.
Daniel Day-Lewis had been invited to tonight's preview, but his assistant had called to say he couldn't make it.
Our loss, I'm sure.
Once a friend joined me at the preview, I had company when I went to check out some of the other galleries.
Quirk Gallery's "Sparkle 7: Organism" show was their annual jewelry show.
While I can admire the pieces for art's sake, my non-existent interest in jewelry means that a lot of it washes over me.
Ooh, sparkly things. What else you got?
Yes, I realize that this makes me a poor excuse for a female.
From there we went to 1708 Gallery for "Push, Pull, Resist," a show of inflatable sculptures using reclaimed maritime materials.
Here I actually regretted that it wasn't First Friday so more people could have been there.
Many of the pieces required human interaction to do their thing. A motion sensor inflated a piece. Blowing into a windsock made cloth-rollers inflate and turn.
With enough people, the art would be endlessly in motion. Not so tonight, but something to look forward to tomorrow evening.
Friend and I parted ways after that. I was off for a bite to eat and he was in search of a restful evening after a late night and early morning.
It reminded me of a girlfriend's statement at Ghostprint tonight. "It's not age that make you act old. It's getting up early."
My destination was Carytown Bistro to meet another friend. His boyfriend is out of town so we were meeting for dinner.
We walked into a wine tasting, and at $5.00 for six one-ounce pours, a steal of a deal.
The event had been emblazoned online as "Winos Welcome," although that probably says more about the poster than the tasting.
Except for some of the seating having changed, the place is little different from its days as Bin 22 and the menu is even simpler.
Ever since I'd snacked on a banana during the movie earlier today, my friend (who'd also been at that event), had been craving banana.
He jumped on The King panini, a grilled sandwich of peanut butter and banana.
I was fine with a BLT on an everything bagel, pleased that the "L" portion was actually mesclun and not iceberg.
We savored the tasting before, during and after our sandwiches, satisfied that there was no rushing by our server.
Another friend came in to do the tasting and brought with him a red wine-loving musician, which immediately turned all talk to music.
Which Elvis Costello songs are worth covering? What makes a musician prickly? What's a good first venue for a transplanted musician from L.A.? Which folk acts put a cocaine-addled listener to sleep despite the drugs?
I knew the answers to none of those.
And honestly, with a glass of Barbera and a Kit-Kat bar from the bowl of leftover Halloween candy on the bar, it was tough to imagine that there might really be a Ben Folds mix I could like, despite assurances to the contrary.
But as with all things, I remain ever hopeful.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
The Truth About Cover Bands
We found the perfect happy hour spot.
There was a couch for the two of us to sit on. We paid retail not restaurant prices for the wine and cheese.
And the music was a mix of vintage '80s and '90s classics that never let up, a foreshadowing of what was to come later in the evening.
My girlfriend and I met at Olio, where we kicked off happy hour as the first customers of the evening.
Choosing the Bodegas Montecillo Verdemar Albarion was a no-brainer. Its fruity nose was exceeded only by its big, beautifully rounded mouthfeel.
Deciding on cheese was more challenging, so we narrowed it down to a few in the stinky family.
The chef then asked how much we wanted to spend (we kept it economical) and assured us she'd make a cheese plate from that.
What arrived at our table was a cheese feast.
The Taleggio, French Pierre Robert with creme fraiche (as obscenely rich as good butter), English cheddar and French raw milk Fourme D'Ambert (a creamy bleu) with country pate, cornichons, various sizes of olives and grilled bread slices was truly impressive.
It was as comfortable as being at one of our homes, but with a far better variety of food and wine to choose from.
We girltalked and ate for two hours and still never finished all the food on that plate.
"We're coming back here," she said as we prepared to leave with full bellies.
Great ambiance, a view of the Main Street passersby (like the guy who walked by with an unzipped fly, only to return to the window to zip it up) and well-priced vino and victuals make for an unbeatable combination.
Afterwards, I took my car home so I could begin the artwalk on the night with the most daylight of all the First Fridays.
The crowds were a tad lighter than usual, but bands were performing on the street and vendors were set up everywhere.
Quirk's new show "Supper" featured table settings by Chris Milk, Christopher Jagmin, Tina Frey and Melody Gulik, each distinctive in its own way.
Jagmin's lunch setting was all about numbers on the dishes with office supplies (rubber bands, pencil shavings, push pins) as "food."
Gulik's table and the TV in front of it were covered in moss and plant matter for beautiful, if unusable, furniture.
In the front gallery, local artist Kenneth Chase's "Shop Show" featured collages on wood blocks, some of them painted, too. I felt myself begin to covet one of the very reasonably priced pieces, always a dangerous thing.
After a stop at ADA Gallery's show "Bovasso! Bovasso! Bovasso!" with whimsical and colorful new work by Nina Bovasso, I headed to Gallery 5 for the "Under the Covers" show.
No original material tonight.
I walked in just moments before the Pretend Pretenders began playing. Onstage, star guitarist Paul Ivey spotted me buying my ticket and said, "Karen's here" as if anyone cared.
Lead singer Allison Apperson repeated, "Karen's here" and from there they went into "Brass in Pocket" and took us through" "Kid," "Stop Your Sobbing," and "Back on the Chain Gang."
They did a superb job with the material (I love seeing a bass player slap a bass) and the crowd was wildly appreciative, dancing and singing along. Great songs, great voice, great playing.
The Green Hearts played next, doing "badass power pop" according to the show poster. What that meant was a lot of hard and fast old songs like "Starry Eyes" and "Rock and Roll Girl."
Lead singer Paul Ginder, with his magnificent new chops, did a great job carrying the energy of the songs.
Then Zepp Repplica (two P's, both words) took the stage in their impossibly tight pants and look-alike wigs to rock the faces off of the sweaty crowd.
Having seen them before, I knew how eerily similar they sound to the real thing, but most of the people I knew, as well as strangers, had never witnessed the veracity of their performance.
These twenty-somethings have seriously studied their Led Zeppelin history. Songs are note-perfect, vocals reach Plant-like pitch and mannerisms are nailed.
More than one person asked me afterwards why these guys aren't doing this professionally. Maybe they will. Likewise, several acknowledged how hard it was going to be to follow them onstage.
The Sweater band, a Weezer tribute, had that privilege. And while I can appreciate Weezer, I'm far from an aficionado of the band.
In fact, earlier in the evening, I'd asked musician Prabir why 30-somethings consider Weezer so god-like.
What followed was a 30-something's dissertation about the brilliance of the song writing and the technical skill of the guitar playing.
I recall something about the breadth of sounds Rivers Cuomo is able to coax from his electric guitar and that's about it. Frankly, I think it's because it was high school music for thirty-somethings.
But the Sweater Band fed into those people and soon there was rabid dancing and shouts of "WEE-ZER!" after every song.
I feared for my sandal-clad feet because of the large drunk guy dancing so boisterously right in front of me.
The band was smart, though, and began taking requests directly from the fanatics. It's a great way to shut people up.
And while I knew some material like "Buddy Holly" and of course "The Sweater Song," I couldn't commit like the diehards did.
Near the end of their set, I said my goodnights to nearby friends, including the one who was about as big a fan as me ("I traded my first Weezer album for Prodigy," he admitted sheepishly) and walked outside to say more goodnights there.
For all the cover band haters out there, you guys missed a seriously entertaining evening. They may not have been the real thing, but they were close.
Sometimes close counts in more than just hand grenades and horseshoes. Sometimes it's just good fun.
There was a couch for the two of us to sit on. We paid retail not restaurant prices for the wine and cheese.
And the music was a mix of vintage '80s and '90s classics that never let up, a foreshadowing of what was to come later in the evening.
My girlfriend and I met at Olio, where we kicked off happy hour as the first customers of the evening.
Choosing the Bodegas Montecillo Verdemar Albarion was a no-brainer. Its fruity nose was exceeded only by its big, beautifully rounded mouthfeel.
Deciding on cheese was more challenging, so we narrowed it down to a few in the stinky family.
The chef then asked how much we wanted to spend (we kept it economical) and assured us she'd make a cheese plate from that.
What arrived at our table was a cheese feast.
The Taleggio, French Pierre Robert with creme fraiche (as obscenely rich as good butter), English cheddar and French raw milk Fourme D'Ambert (a creamy bleu) with country pate, cornichons, various sizes of olives and grilled bread slices was truly impressive.
It was as comfortable as being at one of our homes, but with a far better variety of food and wine to choose from.
We girltalked and ate for two hours and still never finished all the food on that plate.
"We're coming back here," she said as we prepared to leave with full bellies.
Great ambiance, a view of the Main Street passersby (like the guy who walked by with an unzipped fly, only to return to the window to zip it up) and well-priced vino and victuals make for an unbeatable combination.
Afterwards, I took my car home so I could begin the artwalk on the night with the most daylight of all the First Fridays.
The crowds were a tad lighter than usual, but bands were performing on the street and vendors were set up everywhere.
Quirk's new show "Supper" featured table settings by Chris Milk, Christopher Jagmin, Tina Frey and Melody Gulik, each distinctive in its own way.
Jagmin's lunch setting was all about numbers on the dishes with office supplies (rubber bands, pencil shavings, push pins) as "food."
Gulik's table and the TV in front of it were covered in moss and plant matter for beautiful, if unusable, furniture.
In the front gallery, local artist Kenneth Chase's "Shop Show" featured collages on wood blocks, some of them painted, too. I felt myself begin to covet one of the very reasonably priced pieces, always a dangerous thing.
After a stop at ADA Gallery's show "Bovasso! Bovasso! Bovasso!" with whimsical and colorful new work by Nina Bovasso, I headed to Gallery 5 for the "Under the Covers" show.
No original material tonight.
I walked in just moments before the Pretend Pretenders began playing. Onstage, star guitarist Paul Ivey spotted me buying my ticket and said, "Karen's here" as if anyone cared.
Lead singer Allison Apperson repeated, "Karen's here" and from there they went into "Brass in Pocket" and took us through" "Kid," "Stop Your Sobbing," and "Back on the Chain Gang."
They did a superb job with the material (I love seeing a bass player slap a bass) and the crowd was wildly appreciative, dancing and singing along. Great songs, great voice, great playing.
The Green Hearts played next, doing "badass power pop" according to the show poster. What that meant was a lot of hard and fast old songs like "Starry Eyes" and "Rock and Roll Girl."
Lead singer Paul Ginder, with his magnificent new chops, did a great job carrying the energy of the songs.
Then Zepp Repplica (two P's, both words) took the stage in their impossibly tight pants and look-alike wigs to rock the faces off of the sweaty crowd.
Having seen them before, I knew how eerily similar they sound to the real thing, but most of the people I knew, as well as strangers, had never witnessed the veracity of their performance.
These twenty-somethings have seriously studied their Led Zeppelin history. Songs are note-perfect, vocals reach Plant-like pitch and mannerisms are nailed.
More than one person asked me afterwards why these guys aren't doing this professionally. Maybe they will. Likewise, several acknowledged how hard it was going to be to follow them onstage.
The Sweater band, a Weezer tribute, had that privilege. And while I can appreciate Weezer, I'm far from an aficionado of the band.
In fact, earlier in the evening, I'd asked musician Prabir why 30-somethings consider Weezer so god-like.
What followed was a 30-something's dissertation about the brilliance of the song writing and the technical skill of the guitar playing.
I recall something about the breadth of sounds Rivers Cuomo is able to coax from his electric guitar and that's about it. Frankly, I think it's because it was high school music for thirty-somethings.
But the Sweater Band fed into those people and soon there was rabid dancing and shouts of "WEE-ZER!" after every song.
I feared for my sandal-clad feet because of the large drunk guy dancing so boisterously right in front of me.
The band was smart, though, and began taking requests directly from the fanatics. It's a great way to shut people up.
And while I knew some material like "Buddy Holly" and of course "The Sweater Song," I couldn't commit like the diehards did.
Near the end of their set, I said my goodnights to nearby friends, including the one who was about as big a fan as me ("I traded my first Weezer album for Prodigy," he admitted sheepishly) and walked outside to say more goodnights there.
For all the cover band haters out there, you guys missed a seriously entertaining evening. They may not have been the real thing, but they were close.
Sometimes close counts in more than just hand grenades and horseshoes. Sometimes it's just good fun.
Friday, May 13, 2011
As Sad as You Want to Be
Tarrant's is a half a mile from my house, but we went the long way, the three mile way.
A good friend had suggested a walk and an early lunch, so she came to Jackson Ward and we began walking east. At her request, our first stop was Lift because she badly needed coffee.
"You totally dissed me Saturday night," the counter girl said to me the moment she saw me. What? When? Seems she'd been waving madly to me at the Firehouse show Saturday and I never even saw her. I pleaded myopia and smiled as sincerely as I could. Honestly, never saw her.
Rock god Prabir (minus the Goldrush) walked up to the counter behind us, jarring my memory. "I had a dream about you last night," I blurted out. He shrugged nonchalantly.
"He hears that so often, it's no big deal," my friend pointed out. He wasn't a major part of the dream, but you'd have thought he could have been a tad more surprised to hear he'd made mine. Nope (yawn). Just another day for Prabir.
Life-giving coffee in hand, my friend and I headed down Broad Street, passing all the school buses in front of the Empire Theater for "Honk," passing the many buildings being rehabbed into apartments and condos, passing the colorful crowds waiting for buses.
She was enjoying every minute of our discovery mission, not having walked this stretch of Broad in years. We paused at the National box office to peruse the schedule, but nothing caught her eye. Eventually, we crossed over to Grace Street for a change of scenery.
We marveled at the Honey Shop (how long has that place been there?), peered in the windows of Jason Alley's new venture, Pasture, abuzz with construction activity, and admired hats at Chic Chapeaux. She showed me her favorite empty storefronts and I showed her mine.
Eventually we were almost back to Belvidere and and definitely in "early lunch" range, so we backtracked to Tarrant's for salads. They really do have an impressive selection of interesting salad choices. And a table next to a sunny window is a delightful thing.
The Cobb salad spoke to her and I got the Pear and Goat Cheese salad, a filling bowl of those two plus strawberries, grapes, cucumbers, tomatoes, mixed greens, and candied walnuts in a creamy sesame dressing. Since it had only been two hours since breakfast for me, it was astonishing that I ate as much of it as I did (98%).
Walking back, we made an art stop at Quirk Gallery to check out Shelly Klein's whimsical paintings on white canvasses. Her new show, "There's No Free Lunch." explores themes of sadness and forgetting the negatives that underpin happiness, about caring too much or not enough, about the sadness connected to the things that make us happy.
Frankly, when I'm walking, talking and eating with a close friend, sadness is the furthest thing from my mind. Without so much as an inward glance, I prefer to enjoy experiences as they happen.
Sorry, Shelly, but there just may be a free lunch, figuratively speaking, as long as you stay in the moment.
A good friend had suggested a walk and an early lunch, so she came to Jackson Ward and we began walking east. At her request, our first stop was Lift because she badly needed coffee.
"You totally dissed me Saturday night," the counter girl said to me the moment she saw me. What? When? Seems she'd been waving madly to me at the Firehouse show Saturday and I never even saw her. I pleaded myopia and smiled as sincerely as I could. Honestly, never saw her.
Rock god Prabir (minus the Goldrush) walked up to the counter behind us, jarring my memory. "I had a dream about you last night," I blurted out. He shrugged nonchalantly.
"He hears that so often, it's no big deal," my friend pointed out. He wasn't a major part of the dream, but you'd have thought he could have been a tad more surprised to hear he'd made mine. Nope (yawn). Just another day for Prabir.
Life-giving coffee in hand, my friend and I headed down Broad Street, passing all the school buses in front of the Empire Theater for "Honk," passing the many buildings being rehabbed into apartments and condos, passing the colorful crowds waiting for buses.
She was enjoying every minute of our discovery mission, not having walked this stretch of Broad in years. We paused at the National box office to peruse the schedule, but nothing caught her eye. Eventually, we crossed over to Grace Street for a change of scenery.
We marveled at the Honey Shop (how long has that place been there?), peered in the windows of Jason Alley's new venture, Pasture, abuzz with construction activity, and admired hats at Chic Chapeaux. She showed me her favorite empty storefronts and I showed her mine.
Eventually we were almost back to Belvidere and and definitely in "early lunch" range, so we backtracked to Tarrant's for salads. They really do have an impressive selection of interesting salad choices. And a table next to a sunny window is a delightful thing.
The Cobb salad spoke to her and I got the Pear and Goat Cheese salad, a filling bowl of those two plus strawberries, grapes, cucumbers, tomatoes, mixed greens, and candied walnuts in a creamy sesame dressing. Since it had only been two hours since breakfast for me, it was astonishing that I ate as much of it as I did (98%).
Walking back, we made an art stop at Quirk Gallery to check out Shelly Klein's whimsical paintings on white canvasses. Her new show, "There's No Free Lunch." explores themes of sadness and forgetting the negatives that underpin happiness, about caring too much or not enough, about the sadness connected to the things that make us happy.
Frankly, when I'm walking, talking and eating with a close friend, sadness is the furthest thing from my mind. Without so much as an inward glance, I prefer to enjoy experiences as they happen.
Sorry, Shelly, but there just may be a free lunch, figuratively speaking, as long as you stay in the moment.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Artwalking to Beat the Crowds
My favorite new trend of the moment? Galleries that do a preview reception the night before First Fridays.
As devoted as I am to my neighborhood free-for-all artwalk, I'd be the first to admit that the crowds can be prohibitive for actually seeing the shows.
Add in the multitude of musical performances, eating options (Captain Slappy's hot dog cart, the Boca Taco truck and starting tomorrow, the Pizza Tonight pizza oven) and before you know it, you've missed half the gallery openings.
Which is why I am thrilled to be able to check out new shows in the relative peace of a Thursday night. The crowds so far (it's only my second month doing this) have been delightful, full of the art-interested, artists themselves and those looking to buy art.
Tonight's adventure began at Ghostprint Gallery, inevitably one of the most crowded on a First Friday (surely a testament to the excellent shows they hang) but calm and low-key tonight. With a glass of wine in hand, I slowly made my way through Lacey McKinney's "What's In a Face."
The works, all of women who were friends of the artist, were decidedly painterly, displaying a thickness of pigment and even modulated drips coming off the figures and faces. My favorite, of a face, shoulder and forearm, had a monumental quality that was almost sculptural. I coveted it, knowing I couldn't afford it.
The other gallery jumping on the civilized Thursday bandwagon was Quirk Gallery, so I made that my next stop. The place had a decent-sized group of people checking out Sarah Masters' show "The Ways That I See It," with two and three-dimensional mixed media works.
There were Lucite boxes with colorful feathers and eggs, paintings of nests, and sculptural pieces. The way I see it, Sarah has a fascination with all things bird-related; it was a most interesting show.
Leaving Quirk, I was sorry that more galleries weren't open given the relaxed vibe and opportunity to linger available to art lovers tonight. I hope this is something that catches on and offers people another reason to come downtown besides on First Fridays.
From the Wards to the Slip, I drove eastward to meet a friend at Bistro Bobette. She'd been out if town for business and pleasure for the past few weeks and wanted to share her stories with me. I wanted to listen. We both wanted to eat and drink.
Arriving first, I was introduced to the only other bar sitter, yet another resident of Vistas on the James. Considering how many residents of the riverfront high-rises I've met at Bobette now, I'm not entirely convinced that they were built with functioning kitchens.
The first requirement for an evening of girl talk was the Domaine Baron Sauvignon Blanc, so a bottle was ordered and both menus considered once my friend arrived.
I decided on one from the bar menu (that superior housemade hot dog) and one from the regular menu (salad of iceburg lettuce, smoked bacon. tomatoes and bleu cheese vinaigrette). My friend did her best to drive the kitchen crazy with a special order salad, which they graciously accommodated.
I don't need to rave about that hot dog again, having devoted most of a post to it already, here, but I will say it was every bit as good the second time around.
My salad arrived with strips of perfectly cooked bacon atop the lettuce mounds and I think we can agree that anything that comes under multiple strips of bacon has a place in my heart (and stomach). The bottle of wine was emptied and more was ordered.
We were in a French restaurant, so how could the subject of Picasso not come up? When I mentioned the absinthe drip at Amuse, Chef Francis' eyes lit up; of course a Parisian would be familiar with such a thing.
I shared the pleasure of my experiences with both the show and the drip, prompting him to plan a visit. Tomorrow. I'd like to think that his enthusiasm was as much about the art as the absinthe, but I've also been called a Pollyanna on more than a few occasions.
From Parisian absinthe bars to Charm City, we ended up discussing a new restaurant in Baltimore that a former D.C. employee of the Chef's has just opened. A crazy Belgian, so guess what he specializes in? I do so love my mussels.
This was particularly relevant because a) my friend's paramour lives in Baltimore and she'll be up there next weekend and b) I have a trip planned there shortly (but not to see my sister who lives there, so we're keeping this trip on the down low).
What lovely information to drop in our laps tonight. A short phone call later and the chef of the new place was thrilled to hear he would soon have out-of-town visitors courtesy of Chef Francis.
Is this a small world or what?
It is a part of the pleasure of this town that I can go out for food and inevitably end up with something more. Perhaps that's where the Pollyanna thing comes from.
As devoted as I am to my neighborhood free-for-all artwalk, I'd be the first to admit that the crowds can be prohibitive for actually seeing the shows.
Add in the multitude of musical performances, eating options (Captain Slappy's hot dog cart, the Boca Taco truck and starting tomorrow, the Pizza Tonight pizza oven) and before you know it, you've missed half the gallery openings.
Which is why I am thrilled to be able to check out new shows in the relative peace of a Thursday night. The crowds so far (it's only my second month doing this) have been delightful, full of the art-interested, artists themselves and those looking to buy art.
Tonight's adventure began at Ghostprint Gallery, inevitably one of the most crowded on a First Friday (surely a testament to the excellent shows they hang) but calm and low-key tonight. With a glass of wine in hand, I slowly made my way through Lacey McKinney's "What's In a Face."
The works, all of women who were friends of the artist, were decidedly painterly, displaying a thickness of pigment and even modulated drips coming off the figures and faces. My favorite, of a face, shoulder and forearm, had a monumental quality that was almost sculptural. I coveted it, knowing I couldn't afford it.
The other gallery jumping on the civilized Thursday bandwagon was Quirk Gallery, so I made that my next stop. The place had a decent-sized group of people checking out Sarah Masters' show "The Ways That I See It," with two and three-dimensional mixed media works.
There were Lucite boxes with colorful feathers and eggs, paintings of nests, and sculptural pieces. The way I see it, Sarah has a fascination with all things bird-related; it was a most interesting show.
Leaving Quirk, I was sorry that more galleries weren't open given the relaxed vibe and opportunity to linger available to art lovers tonight. I hope this is something that catches on and offers people another reason to come downtown besides on First Fridays.
From the Wards to the Slip, I drove eastward to meet a friend at Bistro Bobette. She'd been out if town for business and pleasure for the past few weeks and wanted to share her stories with me. I wanted to listen. We both wanted to eat and drink.
Arriving first, I was introduced to the only other bar sitter, yet another resident of Vistas on the James. Considering how many residents of the riverfront high-rises I've met at Bobette now, I'm not entirely convinced that they were built with functioning kitchens.
The first requirement for an evening of girl talk was the Domaine Baron Sauvignon Blanc, so a bottle was ordered and both menus considered once my friend arrived.
I decided on one from the bar menu (that superior housemade hot dog) and one from the regular menu (salad of iceburg lettuce, smoked bacon. tomatoes and bleu cheese vinaigrette). My friend did her best to drive the kitchen crazy with a special order salad, which they graciously accommodated.
I don't need to rave about that hot dog again, having devoted most of a post to it already, here, but I will say it was every bit as good the second time around.
My salad arrived with strips of perfectly cooked bacon atop the lettuce mounds and I think we can agree that anything that comes under multiple strips of bacon has a place in my heart (and stomach). The bottle of wine was emptied and more was ordered.
We were in a French restaurant, so how could the subject of Picasso not come up? When I mentioned the absinthe drip at Amuse, Chef Francis' eyes lit up; of course a Parisian would be familiar with such a thing.
I shared the pleasure of my experiences with both the show and the drip, prompting him to plan a visit. Tomorrow. I'd like to think that his enthusiasm was as much about the art as the absinthe, but I've also been called a Pollyanna on more than a few occasions.
From Parisian absinthe bars to Charm City, we ended up discussing a new restaurant in Baltimore that a former D.C. employee of the Chef's has just opened. A crazy Belgian, so guess what he specializes in? I do so love my mussels.
This was particularly relevant because a) my friend's paramour lives in Baltimore and she'll be up there next weekend and b) I have a trip planned there shortly (but not to see my sister who lives there, so we're keeping this trip on the down low).
What lovely information to drop in our laps tonight. A short phone call later and the chef of the new place was thrilled to hear he would soon have out-of-town visitors courtesy of Chef Francis.
Is this a small world or what?
It is a part of the pleasure of this town that I can go out for food and inevitably end up with something more. Perhaps that's where the Pollyanna thing comes from.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Yes, We Could Definitely Ride
Owing to the past two weeks being a cultural wasteland for me (for the most part anyway), I couldn't resist getting out for some art viewing this afternoon. I called up a J-Ward friend and asked if he wanted to accompany me without even telling him what it was I wanted to see. He's game like that, though, and said he'd be over in an hour.
We were going to Quirk Gallery to see Couldn't We Ride: The Art and Craft of Bicycles, a show which will surely fascinate a good part of this city's pedaling population. With no real idea of what to expect, I was struck by the array of bicycle-related things gathered for the show.
The exhibit started with an array of R.E.Load bags, those unique handmade messenger bags that are as artful as they are utilitarian. As someone who's been to the R.E.Load shop in Philly, I can attest to both the passion and enthusiasm of the makers (as well as purchasers) of these bags. The ones at Quirk were a well-thought out representation of the variety of artistic styles that make it on to R.E.Load bags. If you're going to wear a big old bag, it may as well make an artistic statement.
One of the hand-painted bike frames was as exquisite as a piece of ceramic, with a creamy ivory background and colorful, delicate flowers and other imagery painted all over it. It was such a beautiful frame that you'd almost hate to see mud splattered on it, an inevitability if it were actually ridden.
On the other hand, the Assless Bike was born out of passion, a creation of a biking enthusiast diagnosed with colorectal cancer and told by his doctor that he was no longer allowed to ride a bike. With an "I'll show him!" attitude, he created a bike that has no seat, thus allowing him to pedal and still follow doctor's orders. It was truly an inspiring thing to witness hanging from the ceiling.
The show is varied, with hand-hammered fittings reminiscent of a fine suit of armour, photographs and paintings of bikes and cyclists and some of the most beautiful etched saddles imaginable. As the artist said, she'd prefer to see her saddles used and become worn rather than treated as works of art, which these clearly were and would remain, even if worn down by use.
There were beautifully cut metal chain guards, including one that resembled a forest, although at first glance the cut-out looked rather abstract. Closer inspection showed open spaces between trunks and towering tree tops. But what a way to protect a chain!
I only ride my bike once or twice a week and I was completely enamored of this show. Regular riders will undoubtedly salivate in appreciation of their fellow riders and artists who have transformed the people's transportation into artistic things of beauty.
And, yes, I immediately came home and took my very basic bike out for a ride. After two weeks at the beach, I was missing riding anyway and if ever I was inspired to appreciate my bike, it was walking out of Quirk Gallery today.
As one of my favorite street art posters proclaims: Crank your city. Ride daily. Live happy.
We were going to Quirk Gallery to see Couldn't We Ride: The Art and Craft of Bicycles, a show which will surely fascinate a good part of this city's pedaling population. With no real idea of what to expect, I was struck by the array of bicycle-related things gathered for the show.
The exhibit started with an array of R.E.Load bags, those unique handmade messenger bags that are as artful as they are utilitarian. As someone who's been to the R.E.Load shop in Philly, I can attest to both the passion and enthusiasm of the makers (as well as purchasers) of these bags. The ones at Quirk were a well-thought out representation of the variety of artistic styles that make it on to R.E.Load bags. If you're going to wear a big old bag, it may as well make an artistic statement.
One of the hand-painted bike frames was as exquisite as a piece of ceramic, with a creamy ivory background and colorful, delicate flowers and other imagery painted all over it. It was such a beautiful frame that you'd almost hate to see mud splattered on it, an inevitability if it were actually ridden.
On the other hand, the Assless Bike was born out of passion, a creation of a biking enthusiast diagnosed with colorectal cancer and told by his doctor that he was no longer allowed to ride a bike. With an "I'll show him!" attitude, he created a bike that has no seat, thus allowing him to pedal and still follow doctor's orders. It was truly an inspiring thing to witness hanging from the ceiling.
The show is varied, with hand-hammered fittings reminiscent of a fine suit of armour, photographs and paintings of bikes and cyclists and some of the most beautiful etched saddles imaginable. As the artist said, she'd prefer to see her saddles used and become worn rather than treated as works of art, which these clearly were and would remain, even if worn down by use.
There were beautifully cut metal chain guards, including one that resembled a forest, although at first glance the cut-out looked rather abstract. Closer inspection showed open spaces between trunks and towering tree tops. But what a way to protect a chain!
I only ride my bike once or twice a week and I was completely enamored of this show. Regular riders will undoubtedly salivate in appreciation of their fellow riders and artists who have transformed the people's transportation into artistic things of beauty.
And, yes, I immediately came home and took my very basic bike out for a ride. After two weeks at the beach, I was missing riding anyway and if ever I was inspired to appreciate my bike, it was walking out of Quirk Gallery today.
As one of my favorite street art posters proclaims: Crank your city. Ride daily. Live happy.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Fast Times at Parkdale High
Given the weather forecast, it wasn't a very good night to try to see an outdoor movie. But in my never-ending quest to improve my cultural literacy, I nonetheless walked over to the courtyard at Quirk Gallery in hopes of seeing Fast Times at Ridgemont High for the very first time.
Before you raise an eyebrow about how anyone on the planet could not have seen this 1982 film by now, remember that I have also never seen Raiders of the Lost Ark, so there is a precedent here. It's just that I take so much crap from friends about my movie-going omissions, that when a unique opportunity to finally see something I supposedly "should" have seen presents itself, I do my best to play catch-up.
And, lo and behold, there were two other girls at the courtyard who'd never seen it either, making me feel much better about my movie knowledge, or lack thereof. Tonight was the first in Quirk's summer movie series (next up: Breaking Away) and needless to say, I'm thrilled with any new event in my neighborhood. Wine, beer and popcorn are available for sale which was a nice touch. Personally, I brought a clementine but that's just me.
The crowd wasn't large, but I ran into several people I knew, including my farmer friend, who, after kissing my cheek said, "Of course you'd be here." Later during the movie, he sneaked over and whispered in my ear, asking if the movie was bringing back memories for me.
"I can see it all now, this is gonna be just like last summer. You fell in love with that girl at the Fotomat, you bough $40 worth of fuckin' film and you never even talked to her. You don't even own a camera."
My first job as a 16-year old was as a "Fotomate" at a Fotomat in suburban Maryland, and I clearly remember how bold guys were with a girl alone in a booth in the middle of a parking lot. Grinning, I told my friend this story which caused him to laugh out loud. Yes, the movie was bringing back memories.
Unfortunately, we weren't even an hour in when it started to sprinkle, but the DVD player was covered and we soldiered on with what umbrellas we had until the sky opened up and began to dump buckets. I grabbed my chair and walked the three blocks home, getting more drenched every step of the way. It wasn't so bad walking west, but when I turned north, the wind was pushing the rain horizontally at me.
By the time I got home, my sunflower sundress was literally dripping wet, but the walk itself had been kind of nice. I never mind walking in the rain when the temperature is warm enough; it's only cold and wet I can't tolerate. There's something about the smell of summer rain when you're in it that I love.
But now I'll never know what happened to the kids at Ridgemont High. Come to think of it, I'm going to presume that it was a lot like what happened to the kids at Parkdale High, which is where I went. There were plenty of people smoking pot, everyone was having sex and guys lusted after girls in Fotomats...all set to a soundtrack with the likes of the Go-Gos and Quarterflash.
Ah, it's all becoming clear now. Perhaps that's the reason I never felt compelled to see Fast Times. I may have already been familiar with the story.
Before you raise an eyebrow about how anyone on the planet could not have seen this 1982 film by now, remember that I have also never seen Raiders of the Lost Ark, so there is a precedent here. It's just that I take so much crap from friends about my movie-going omissions, that when a unique opportunity to finally see something I supposedly "should" have seen presents itself, I do my best to play catch-up.
And, lo and behold, there were two other girls at the courtyard who'd never seen it either, making me feel much better about my movie knowledge, or lack thereof. Tonight was the first in Quirk's summer movie series (next up: Breaking Away) and needless to say, I'm thrilled with any new event in my neighborhood. Wine, beer and popcorn are available for sale which was a nice touch. Personally, I brought a clementine but that's just me.
The crowd wasn't large, but I ran into several people I knew, including my farmer friend, who, after kissing my cheek said, "Of course you'd be here." Later during the movie, he sneaked over and whispered in my ear, asking if the movie was bringing back memories for me.
"I can see it all now, this is gonna be just like last summer. You fell in love with that girl at the Fotomat, you bough $40 worth of fuckin' film and you never even talked to her. You don't even own a camera."
My first job as a 16-year old was as a "Fotomate" at a Fotomat in suburban Maryland, and I clearly remember how bold guys were with a girl alone in a booth in the middle of a parking lot. Grinning, I told my friend this story which caused him to laugh out loud. Yes, the movie was bringing back memories.
Unfortunately, we weren't even an hour in when it started to sprinkle, but the DVD player was covered and we soldiered on with what umbrellas we had until the sky opened up and began to dump buckets. I grabbed my chair and walked the three blocks home, getting more drenched every step of the way. It wasn't so bad walking west, but when I turned north, the wind was pushing the rain horizontally at me.
By the time I got home, my sunflower sundress was literally dripping wet, but the walk itself had been kind of nice. I never mind walking in the rain when the temperature is warm enough; it's only cold and wet I can't tolerate. There's something about the smell of summer rain when you're in it that I love.
But now I'll never know what happened to the kids at Ridgemont High. Come to think of it, I'm going to presume that it was a lot like what happened to the kids at Parkdale High, which is where I went. There were plenty of people smoking pot, everyone was having sex and guys lusted after girls in Fotomats...all set to a soundtrack with the likes of the Go-Gos and Quarterflash.
Ah, it's all becoming clear now. Perhaps that's the reason I never felt compelled to see Fast Times. I may have already been familiar with the story.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Stellar Saturday Stroll in Jackson Ward
Hard as it is for me to accept, I know that there are people who only come to Jackson Ward for First Fridays.
Of course, it's their loss; they're missing out on experiencing an area of the city that has much more to offer than just one night's activities.
And while that's only my opinion, apparently it's also the motivation behind the newest reason to get you here, the Saturday Stroll.
Put aside your concerns because you'll be coming to J-Ward in broad daylight, but you're not going to be disappointed.
These strolls will take place on the third Saturdays of the month and feature all kinds of ways to shop RVA.
And don't we all want to support the local economy?
Businesses are open, artists and craft vendors are located all along the streets and in front of galleries and the restaurants and food carts are ready to feed you; here's your chance to try out the Belvidere @ Broad for lunch, a meal they don't normally serve!
Over at Gallery 5, Amanda's amazing cupcakes are for sale.
Of course there's music; do you have any idea how many musicians live here?
Josh Small was playing today, the hula hoopers were out shimmying and you could have a caricature done.
Galleries had doors flung wide open, inviting you to come in; there was even an artist's talk over at the Black History Museum.
There were artists creating graffiti projects on boards near Quirk Gallery. Bizhan from Gallery 5 was one of the artists spray-painting away and I teased him about going back to his roots; he was a fairly active street artists years ago.
He laughed and acknowledged that he was out of practice and his index finger was already sore.
The other issue was the limitations of the size of the board.
With street art, one tends to have a much bigger "canvas" to work on.
Next month, he's planning to add some wheat pasting to the painting he'll do.
And let me point out that it's really pretty cool to be able to watch street art being created since most of it is done late at night and away from the view of the public.
I only wish Richmond would designate some of its old and derelict buildings for graffiti artists to better visually.
Imagine what a win/win situation it would be to artistically improve the ugly facades and give artists an outlet for their large scale work.
Maybe someday RVA will see the benefit to the city in such an endeavor.
I saw lots of people I knew, neighbors and locals, but there were plenty of visitors, too, out enjoying a beautiful day in Jackson Ward.
Anything that gets people down here to see what we have to offer is a very good thing in my book.
And I know we have some convincing to do; not everyone is as sold on the 'hood as me.
One woman with a stroller suggested to her posse (another family with a stroller), "Let's go eat at Lift. They actually have good sandwiches."
No shit, Sherlock.
We actually have a lot of very good things down here and now there's an easy way for you to check them out.
Just save the third Saturday of the month and we'll knock your socks off, J-Ward style.
Of course, it's their loss; they're missing out on experiencing an area of the city that has much more to offer than just one night's activities.
And while that's only my opinion, apparently it's also the motivation behind the newest reason to get you here, the Saturday Stroll.
Put aside your concerns because you'll be coming to J-Ward in broad daylight, but you're not going to be disappointed.
These strolls will take place on the third Saturdays of the month and feature all kinds of ways to shop RVA.
And don't we all want to support the local economy?
Businesses are open, artists and craft vendors are located all along the streets and in front of galleries and the restaurants and food carts are ready to feed you; here's your chance to try out the Belvidere @ Broad for lunch, a meal they don't normally serve!
Over at Gallery 5, Amanda's amazing cupcakes are for sale.
Of course there's music; do you have any idea how many musicians live here?
Josh Small was playing today, the hula hoopers were out shimmying and you could have a caricature done.
Galleries had doors flung wide open, inviting you to come in; there was even an artist's talk over at the Black History Museum.
There were artists creating graffiti projects on boards near Quirk Gallery. Bizhan from Gallery 5 was one of the artists spray-painting away and I teased him about going back to his roots; he was a fairly active street artists years ago.
He laughed and acknowledged that he was out of practice and his index finger was already sore.
The other issue was the limitations of the size of the board.
With street art, one tends to have a much bigger "canvas" to work on.
Next month, he's planning to add some wheat pasting to the painting he'll do.
And let me point out that it's really pretty cool to be able to watch street art being created since most of it is done late at night and away from the view of the public.
I only wish Richmond would designate some of its old and derelict buildings for graffiti artists to better visually.
Imagine what a win/win situation it would be to artistically improve the ugly facades and give artists an outlet for their large scale work.
Maybe someday RVA will see the benefit to the city in such an endeavor.
I saw lots of people I knew, neighbors and locals, but there were plenty of visitors, too, out enjoying a beautiful day in Jackson Ward.
Anything that gets people down here to see what we have to offer is a very good thing in my book.
And I know we have some convincing to do; not everyone is as sold on the 'hood as me.
One woman with a stroller suggested to her posse (another family with a stroller), "Let's go eat at Lift. They actually have good sandwiches."
No shit, Sherlock.
We actually have a lot of very good things down here and now there's an easy way for you to check them out.
Just save the third Saturday of the month and we'll knock your socks off, J-Ward style.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Houston, We Have Closure
Since I don't ever wear jewelry (hell, I don't even have pierced ears; find another woman who doesn't), I don't get many invitations to go to jewelry shows.
But this morning, a friend called to invite me to join him at the What Is Your Heart Made Of? show at Quirk Gallery, a VCU jewelry sale to benefit victims in Haiti .
As he pointed out, this was not like typical jewelry; this was the kind of unusual, almost sculptural jewelry that was as much about being admired as being worn.
Admiring I can do; it's wearing that I find impossible.
The array of necklaces, rings, earrings, pins and even cuff links was a tribute to the imagination and talent of VCU Craft/Material Studies students.
There were brooches made of fur, rings with ornamentation that extended up several inches, necklaces that resembled looking glasses, with tiny images inside.
It was not like ordinary jewelry, made, as it was, with unusual materials, colors and detailing.
I even tried on one necklace, just to show my friend how ridiculous it looked on me. He denied it, but ended up agreeing that I just can't pull it off.
Browsing Quirk's market afterwards is worth mentioning for the offbeat items I found, which is saying something since I don't like shopping (except for food and wine).
The "Indie Rock Coloring Book" cracked me up. There was a a Broken Social Scene maze, a connect-the-dots to find Stars and MGMT's psychedelic playground to color...even finding all the birds in Devendra Banhart's beard, no easy task.
I must know someone who needs this coloring book, if only ironically.
Their card selection was unique, to say the least.
My favorite? One that said, "Houston, we have CLOSURE."
There's a card I can think of a use for and I hadn't known till today that closure cards even existed!
Then there was the "Fortune Telling Book of Names," a resource to uncover the future, and who can resist a peek at what's coming?
Broken down by girls' names and boys' names, it provided only one fortune for each name, so if you're not ready for a glimpse at your guaranteed future, better not to look.
As for me, I couldn't resist seeing what my name foretold:
You will be reunited with an old friend who will quickly become a new lover.
I warned you.
Don't look if you don't want to know.
But I just may have a new favorite place to buy cards and the odd gift.
But this morning, a friend called to invite me to join him at the What Is Your Heart Made Of? show at Quirk Gallery, a VCU jewelry sale to benefit victims in Haiti .
As he pointed out, this was not like typical jewelry; this was the kind of unusual, almost sculptural jewelry that was as much about being admired as being worn.
Admiring I can do; it's wearing that I find impossible.
The array of necklaces, rings, earrings, pins and even cuff links was a tribute to the imagination and talent of VCU Craft/Material Studies students.
There were brooches made of fur, rings with ornamentation that extended up several inches, necklaces that resembled looking glasses, with tiny images inside.
It was not like ordinary jewelry, made, as it was, with unusual materials, colors and detailing.
I even tried on one necklace, just to show my friend how ridiculous it looked on me. He denied it, but ended up agreeing that I just can't pull it off.
Browsing Quirk's market afterwards is worth mentioning for the offbeat items I found, which is saying something since I don't like shopping (except for food and wine).
The "Indie Rock Coloring Book" cracked me up. There was a a Broken Social Scene maze, a connect-the-dots to find Stars and MGMT's psychedelic playground to color...even finding all the birds in Devendra Banhart's beard, no easy task.
I must know someone who needs this coloring book, if only ironically.
Their card selection was unique, to say the least.
My favorite? One that said, "Houston, we have CLOSURE."
There's a card I can think of a use for and I hadn't known till today that closure cards even existed!
Then there was the "Fortune Telling Book of Names," a resource to uncover the future, and who can resist a peek at what's coming?
Broken down by girls' names and boys' names, it provided only one fortune for each name, so if you're not ready for a glimpse at your guaranteed future, better not to look.
As for me, I couldn't resist seeing what my name foretold:
You will be reunited with an old friend who will quickly become a new lover.
I warned you.
Don't look if you don't want to know.
But I just may have a new favorite place to buy cards and the odd gift.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
