Belatedly I learn that Holmes is disinclined to read through numerous paragraphs of my blog posts just to get to the parts where I mention him.
So let's get right to it, shall we? When I announced that it was time for me to leave, my friend Holmes put a red vinyl 45 of the Damned's "Thanks for the Night" on the turntable in farewell. That's a good music friend.
There, unnecessary reading prevented.
My night began at Reynolds Gallery for Sally Bowring's opening of "Weather Report," nearly a dozen wooden panels capturing what Sally observed - green Novembers, soft blue February skies, the pinks of summer - while going about her life over the past year.
To my eye, her glorious use of color makes it clear that the artist is female, observant and experienced.
Back on home turf, I head to Gallery 5 for "Wastedland," a gallery-wide installation by Andrew Shirley that begins with a mostly black tableau that was all about the audio/visual and shrouded in smoke.
Satellite dishes of varying heights, a cassette player, a weather radio, rabbit ear antennas, a megaphone, ladders and pendant lights were all spray painted matte black with occasional orange dribbles.
Behind it and nearly touching the ceiling was a sculpture, part sea creature, part spacecraft with interactive rolling wooden pieces. Spinning several in succession next to a stranger doing the same, we agreed it felt very child-like.
Going up the narrow stairs brought new challenges since each tread was at least 50% covered in crushed aluminum cans attached to the sides. Upstairs, pieces of corrugated boxes became animals on a wall staring out, while nearby was a cardboard shack with a blue tarp roof. Inside a TV showed mindless twaddle and was wallpapered with panhandler signs.
Jesus was a traveler
Passing thru, ALL love helps
Traveler Broke & Hungry
Lost in life, Looking for Direction
I spotted a male figure in overalls with a wolf head and paused ever so briefly to determine if he was real. Nope. Moments later, I had a surreal moment when I saw a man in overalls with a wolf head striding toward his inanimate twin.
But of course it's art.
In the center of the gallery, I spot an activist friend and without thinking, hug him hugely and offer condolences about the shared loss of our mayoral candidate. Behind me is another activist pal just as distraught.
We're all still feeling a bit shell-shocked at the news but with only three days till the election, feel the need to lay out our stands on alternate choices. None of us want a pawn but none of us desire a corporate whore, either.
There is banter about what role Baliles might be given in the new administration. It's crystal clear to us that he must have a significant one - "What we'll need is a Jedi Council of people who really know the city to help advise" the new administration, the PLF maestro concludes - and we three fervently hope Stoney sees the wisdom in this.
It's both depressing to talk about a mayor we wouldn't have chosen and comforting to think that there's enough of a groundswell to keep the focus on Richmond's creative strengths in whatever the next four years bring.
My final stop is, yes, at Holmes' humble abode, where we begin with a classic Mary Angela's dinner - green salad followed by his favorite pie, pepperoni and mushroom - enjoyed in the dining room listening to a recording of music he made with his brother and a friend decades ago.
A beautiful folk song comes on and Holmes blows us out of the water by sharing that the song had been recorded in that very dining room where we now sat, our fingers greasy with pepperoni oil.
"We hung a couple mics from over there," he says, pointing at the back window, "and had the mixer in there," gesturing past the pocket doors to the living room.
I don't know if I'll ever experience such a unique coincidence again in my lifetime or if I can properly convey how cool it felt to be hearing a song recorded where I sat.
After a proper chocolate dessert, we headed downstairs to where the turntable and monster speakers reside and Holmes promptly put on the Byrds.
"When I was in Paris in '65," he begins and we immediately tease him for his nonchalance, but he goes on to tell us how strongly he recalls being a teen with his own hotel room on family vacation hearing "All I Really Wanna Do" coming up a French alley from an unknown source where the 45 was on constant repeat.
Mais oui, that's one way to reach an impressionable young mind.
Good as it was, it was mere window-dressing for tonight's main event, the two-disc, four-side "Time of the Zombies," a 1974 song compilation that led off with "She's Not There" and Holmes' painful memory of attempting to sing that song at karaoke in Nags Head.
Apparently his range left a bit to be desired.
All four sides were fabulous, channeling everyone from the Beatles to Phil Spector to Herman's Hermits. I could have danced in my bar stool all nigh.
Most surprising was the Zombies' stellar cover of Gershwin's "Summertime" from "Porgy and Bess," but I was in love with it all, from "Tell Her No" to "Time of the Season," a song Holmes said came out after the group had already broken up and which we listened to twice.
Along the way we discussed Beloved's first bikini, purchased for a Carnival cruise to the Bahamas in '77 and no doubt part of the reason she enjoyed the company of the ship's purser, Kurt during their time at sea.
Apparently her Mom had spotted Kurt just as the elevators doors were about to close and commented how nice-looking he was and her daughter had taken it from there.
Female spunk was big in '77, for those who weren't there.
The most charming part of the story sounded like a mere post script when she shared it. "He called me a couple of years ago." He what? "Yes, on the downstairs rotary phone."
Consider, if you will, that I know a woman who still has a rotary phone, not to mention the same phone number as 39 years ago and you can perhaps appreciate the rare birds among those known as "Karen's people."
For the record, since Kurt called, she's given up answering the rotary phone. She's not there.
Showing posts with label reynolds gallery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reynolds gallery. Show all posts
Saturday, November 5, 2016
Friday, January 8, 2016
Porno for Political Philosophers
Schneider's dead. And that's not even the most interesting obituary I read in the paper today.
That honor would go to writer Florene King, whom I'd never heard of when I awoke, but whose work I'm now determined to explore because of this sentence from her Washington Post obituary: Miss King, who once wrote pornographic novels for fast money, was a punctilious prose stylist who became an essayist and pretense-flaying satirist along the lines of a latter-day H.L. Mencken or Dorothy Parker.
Sign me up. One quick question, though. I could be making fast money writing pornographic novels? Why am I just learning this information now?
Of lesser import but kind of fascinating was actor Pat Harrington's obit, not because I watched a lot of "One Day at a Time" (I didn't), but because I learned that the man who played the clueless chauvinistic building superintendent had a master's degree in political philosophy in real life.
Damn, that's a hella good actor.
Closer to home, I started at Reynolds Gallery where Richmond's art elite regularly gather at openings and tonight was no exception. Richard Roth's "Speed Bump," Leigh Suggs' "Double Vision" and Tara Donovan's "Slinkys" attracted an "A" list of local talent, mainly women and I happily chatted with all the ones I knew.
Suggs' intricate hand-cut pieces were a marvel to inspect at close range, at least when I could get the social set to move from in front of them so I could actually see the art. I know, I know, see and be seen.
It was a completely different scene at ADA Gallery for Tom Condon's "Haptic Fugitive" (and, yes, I learned a new word tonight- def: based on the sense of touch), a series of direct positives that resembled nothing so much as the images of a black and white kaleidoscope.
What was cool was hearing eager-beaver VCU students cornering him to pepper him with questions. How did you do these? It looks like you manipulated this part, did you? Was that done in the darkroom? When I left, he was explaining that he'd decided not to include his recent large-format digital photographs in this show because they had such a different feel than these.
From there, it was a short walk under my umbrella to Richmond Comedy Coalition for the premiere of "High There," a new weekly improvised sitcom. "You can't binge-watch this one! This is appointment-only comedy!" host Ryan warned us.
As if I binge-watch anything.
Set in a head shop Jonathan inherits from his uncle, each week's episode begins by opening the envelope with the week's premise. Tonight's was - drum roll, please - the pilot episode. Time to establish characters and scene, in other words.
After an appropriately corny theme song, we watched and laughed as Jonathan and his girlfriend Eve (who intends to be president once she's 40 and can't decide if the weed connection in her past will be a pro or a con for her run) acquaint themselves with their new property.
They're not exactly experts on weed or paraphernalia.
To help them out, they have two staffers, one of whom, Townsend, has been quietly embezzling $25,000 since Uncle's death and the other, Grace, a dizzy type, who, when told that no matter how big a number is, you can't divide it by zero, says enthusiastically with a big smile, "That doesn't mean anything to me, but I'm gonna Google it!"
Talking to Eve about her political aspirations, she wonders, "Are you, like, a liberal or a little bit cuckoo?" Because those are the choices in politics.
Laughs came courtesy of young Jonathan's travails, but also the vintage TV commercials between acts that about brought the house down. A vintage Doritos ad, one for a cheesy '70s bar called Al E. Gator's, complete with ferns and disco dancing, a pineapple burger at McDonald's "for a limited time only" (thank you, Ray Kroc) and a Pepsi commercial that focused on why Coke had changed its formula, all had the crowd in stitches with disbelief.
That's just how corny TV was in the olden days, I'm afraid. Toni Tennille haircuts were everywhere.
Naturally, weed humor abounded, such as when Jonathan mistakes a vaporizer for a "pen with a light" and employee Grace brings him up to speed, informing him it's called an "El Discreeto."
Also helping him learn the ropes is new-agey Waylon who runs a bookstore upstairs and knew Uncle. When the $25,000 shortage is discovered, Waylon says, "I'd offer to lend you the money but I run a Mom and Pop bookstore," which got a big, knowing laugh.
Luckily, Waylon has a philosophy for Jonathan's first day of business blues and it's this: Things work out, you break even and then everybody dies.
Fortunately, not anytime soon. There's seven more weeks of laughs at High There and the best part is you have to be there to find out what happens. It's the showing up that appeals to me most.
Just this morning, a friend messaged me to say he couldn't make our planned movie date next week. He excitedly tells me his consolation was finding a European streaming site that allowed him to watch the new Tarantino film last night.
Nice, but no help for me, I write him back.
You have computer and Internet, it's just not as social, he assures me. I remind him that I don't watch movies anywhere but in public places with others, the way god and MGM intended.
He points out that I sleep late and am sometimes late for appointments now, changes from ten years ago, so there may be hope for me yet. I dismiss this entirely.
I see a cell phone in your future, he audaciously writes (which is doubly funny since just two days ago I got an email from another friend wishing me a happy new year and asking, "Will you buy a cell phone in 2016? I don't think so but doesn't hurt to ask."). As if.
Then he asks what movie I'll go see without him. "Maybe I'll see if I can find that one online. Then we can discuss."
Not entirely certain, but I think he's suggesting an appointment-only movie discussion. I hope my sigh of disgust doesn't transmit through the Interwebs.
Am I an alarmist to think that this is how the world will eventually separate itself, into those willing to show up for life and those just as happy to experience it alone and on a screen?
Excuse me, I may feel the need to pen an essay or perhaps a pretense-flaying satire on the subject, but first I've got a punctilious pornographic novel to write. Pen name: El Discreeto.
Fast money, baby, to be spent out and about in the real world.
That honor would go to writer Florene King, whom I'd never heard of when I awoke, but whose work I'm now determined to explore because of this sentence from her Washington Post obituary: Miss King, who once wrote pornographic novels for fast money, was a punctilious prose stylist who became an essayist and pretense-flaying satirist along the lines of a latter-day H.L. Mencken or Dorothy Parker.
Sign me up. One quick question, though. I could be making fast money writing pornographic novels? Why am I just learning this information now?
Of lesser import but kind of fascinating was actor Pat Harrington's obit, not because I watched a lot of "One Day at a Time" (I didn't), but because I learned that the man who played the clueless chauvinistic building superintendent had a master's degree in political philosophy in real life.
Damn, that's a hella good actor.
Closer to home, I started at Reynolds Gallery where Richmond's art elite regularly gather at openings and tonight was no exception. Richard Roth's "Speed Bump," Leigh Suggs' "Double Vision" and Tara Donovan's "Slinkys" attracted an "A" list of local talent, mainly women and I happily chatted with all the ones I knew.
Suggs' intricate hand-cut pieces were a marvel to inspect at close range, at least when I could get the social set to move from in front of them so I could actually see the art. I know, I know, see and be seen.
It was a completely different scene at ADA Gallery for Tom Condon's "Haptic Fugitive" (and, yes, I learned a new word tonight- def: based on the sense of touch), a series of direct positives that resembled nothing so much as the images of a black and white kaleidoscope.
What was cool was hearing eager-beaver VCU students cornering him to pepper him with questions. How did you do these? It looks like you manipulated this part, did you? Was that done in the darkroom? When I left, he was explaining that he'd decided not to include his recent large-format digital photographs in this show because they had such a different feel than these.
From there, it was a short walk under my umbrella to Richmond Comedy Coalition for the premiere of "High There," a new weekly improvised sitcom. "You can't binge-watch this one! This is appointment-only comedy!" host Ryan warned us.
As if I binge-watch anything.
Set in a head shop Jonathan inherits from his uncle, each week's episode begins by opening the envelope with the week's premise. Tonight's was - drum roll, please - the pilot episode. Time to establish characters and scene, in other words.
After an appropriately corny theme song, we watched and laughed as Jonathan and his girlfriend Eve (who intends to be president once she's 40 and can't decide if the weed connection in her past will be a pro or a con for her run) acquaint themselves with their new property.
They're not exactly experts on weed or paraphernalia.
To help them out, they have two staffers, one of whom, Townsend, has been quietly embezzling $25,000 since Uncle's death and the other, Grace, a dizzy type, who, when told that no matter how big a number is, you can't divide it by zero, says enthusiastically with a big smile, "That doesn't mean anything to me, but I'm gonna Google it!"
Talking to Eve about her political aspirations, she wonders, "Are you, like, a liberal or a little bit cuckoo?" Because those are the choices in politics.
Laughs came courtesy of young Jonathan's travails, but also the vintage TV commercials between acts that about brought the house down. A vintage Doritos ad, one for a cheesy '70s bar called Al E. Gator's, complete with ferns and disco dancing, a pineapple burger at McDonald's "for a limited time only" (thank you, Ray Kroc) and a Pepsi commercial that focused on why Coke had changed its formula, all had the crowd in stitches with disbelief.
That's just how corny TV was in the olden days, I'm afraid. Toni Tennille haircuts were everywhere.
Naturally, weed humor abounded, such as when Jonathan mistakes a vaporizer for a "pen with a light" and employee Grace brings him up to speed, informing him it's called an "El Discreeto."
Also helping him learn the ropes is new-agey Waylon who runs a bookstore upstairs and knew Uncle. When the $25,000 shortage is discovered, Waylon says, "I'd offer to lend you the money but I run a Mom and Pop bookstore," which got a big, knowing laugh.
Luckily, Waylon has a philosophy for Jonathan's first day of business blues and it's this: Things work out, you break even and then everybody dies.
Fortunately, not anytime soon. There's seven more weeks of laughs at High There and the best part is you have to be there to find out what happens. It's the showing up that appeals to me most.
Just this morning, a friend messaged me to say he couldn't make our planned movie date next week. He excitedly tells me his consolation was finding a European streaming site that allowed him to watch the new Tarantino film last night.
Nice, but no help for me, I write him back.
You have computer and Internet, it's just not as social, he assures me. I remind him that I don't watch movies anywhere but in public places with others, the way god and MGM intended.
He points out that I sleep late and am sometimes late for appointments now, changes from ten years ago, so there may be hope for me yet. I dismiss this entirely.
I see a cell phone in your future, he audaciously writes (which is doubly funny since just two days ago I got an email from another friend wishing me a happy new year and asking, "Will you buy a cell phone in 2016? I don't think so but doesn't hurt to ask."). As if.
Then he asks what movie I'll go see without him. "Maybe I'll see if I can find that one online. Then we can discuss."
Not entirely certain, but I think he's suggesting an appointment-only movie discussion. I hope my sigh of disgust doesn't transmit through the Interwebs.
Am I an alarmist to think that this is how the world will eventually separate itself, into those willing to show up for life and those just as happy to experience it alone and on a screen?
Excuse me, I may feel the need to pen an essay or perhaps a pretense-flaying satire on the subject, but first I've got a punctilious pornographic novel to write. Pen name: El Discreeto.
Fast money, baby, to be spent out and about in the real world.
Thursday, February 5, 2015
Words Remind You of Someone
Poetry should always be the precursor to discussing romance.
Nothing could have suited me better today than waking up to an invitation to a poetry reading. With the exception of a man I barely knew reciting "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose" to me a couple of weeks ago, it had been far too long since I'd heard poetry read.
Sometimes you need more than a snippet from a stranger.
Walking in to Reynolds Gallery was bittersweet since it was the first time since owner Bev Reynolds had died that I'd been in. But she was certainly there in spirit because, as it turned out, she was the one who'd originally asked the poet to read at the gallery last August.
But poets are busy people who apparently put off readings and Elizabeth Seydel Morgan was only now getting around to it.
The female energy in the crowded room was fabulous with all kinds of talented women - painters, poets, gallerists - taking up the folding chairs in the gallery around me with the men scattered throughout like tapioca balls in bubble tea.
After being introduced as Buffy rather than Elizabeth, the elegant woman spoke (with a former teacher's ability to project vocally) to the crowd before the reading, allowing the tardy to find seats as she made observations.
"My poet friends are coming in late of course," she said, smiling. "All my artist friends were early or on time." Explaining that she didn't believe in poetry going on too long, she warned us matter-of-factly that, "I stop when the eyes glaze over." This crowd definitely didn't look like she had anything to worry about.
She compared her latest book, "Spans: New and Selected Poems" to an artist's retrospective covering work over the course of a career, saying she'd chosen the name because the poems spanned so many periods of her life.
Before reading an early one, What's the Most Elvis Ever Weighed? she explained that the first stanza took place when he was fat (260 pounds) and the second in 1956. "I brought the proof in case anyone doesn't believe me. It's in the back."
I never saw the proof but the second stanza was about a backstage visit with a friend to talk to Elvis who opened a Coca Cola (pronounced CoCola like the Atlanta native she was) with his key ring and shared it with the girls.
I don't imagine you'd ever forget that soda.
Some time after she read A Sun Lover's Book about afternoons spent with sun-warmed books read in a tree platform, we heard the door open and without missing a beat or looking up, she said, "If it's Ron Smith, don't let him in."
It was and as he sat in the only remaining available chair in the front row, she shared that, "Ron is the poet laureate of Virginia." So while he wasn't punctual, he got a pass because of his presumed talent.
From The Party Before the Party came the line, "I was a grown-up in a sundress," an imagery that I no doubt find appealing because I am unapologetically that grown-up all summer long. Given all her lilac imagery, she also sounded like as big a fan of the fragrant flowers as I am.
Sunset on Eastern Beaches (not that there is such a thing except in Key West, she pointed out) was directed at those who loved the Outer Banks ("Our faces glow with sun we cannot see") but also referenced Tuscany ("Fired horizon hushed us into silence").
Listening to the poems was like following along with the journey of her life as various issues presented themselves with age. "This is the most jagged grief," she wrote in Lost Without Ceremony. About friends who'd downsized and moved out of their homes, she wrote The Owner is Leaving This House, an elegy to the gradual removal of belongings from one house to a new space.
Keeping to the elegiac theme, she read poems about poisoning and shutters, but also said to laughter, "They're elegiac but not wallowing. I'm trying to encourage you to buy my book."
Fittingly, she closed with, "This is my last poem. Pay attention," an ode to her listeners and a wish that in the poetry, "Some word I said reminded you of someone." The last line was yet another reminder that this was the last poem, in case we'd missed it. I don't think anyone had.
More than once she checked to make sure our eyes weren't glazing over and the first time she tried to stop reading, the crowd got vocal yelling for her to keep going, which she did. Don't try to tell me poetry lovers can't get rowdy.
With the reading officially ended, I took the collective female energy in the room and left to go meet a friend for dinner. Why surround yourself with so much life experience and not put it to good use?
Friend and I had made these plans weeks ago, both of us committing to the date so nothing could interfere. Two weeks ago at Lucy's, he'd told me he was intending to ask an interesting woman he'd just met out. Tonight we were going to reconvene at Lucy's to discuss what had transpired since.
After telling me it had taken him a few days to get up the nerve to first message her after we'd talked, he admitted when he finally had done it, it had been at 6 a.m. when he woke up. Before he lost his nerve.
Brilliant, I told him, surprising him. Getting a message with a time stamp like that tells a woman you are thinking of her at an unusual time. "Just don't do it at 3 a.m., right?" he guessed.
Sharing a meat and cheese plate (flank steak to die for), Lucy's big bowl of comfort (also known as beef stew with duchess potatoes) and winter salad (kale, brussels sprouts, pine nuts, lemon vinaigrette and arguably the finest kale salad in all of Richmond), I heard from my friend about their getting-to-know-each-other process.
By the second date, he found himself watching her smile and looking forward to the sight of it. At a Super Bowl party, she insisted that he sit closer than the arm of the couch, patting the seat cushion next to her. Everything was going beautifully.
"But I have a conundrum," he said. "What do I do about Valentine's Day?" A holiday admittedly fraught with danger even for those beyond the third date, I understood his dilemma. Things are going well, but you never want to overstep bounds. On the other hand, she seems interested and he doesn't want to underplay it if doing something would make her happy.
Summoning the wisdom of the ages, I made a suggestion when he said that he may have to work that night anyway. Perfect, I told him.
By being obligated for the big event, he is free to invite her to do something mid-day, a time period that doesn't carry the same romantic weight as evening. If it were me, I advised, I'd invite her to brunch or lunch that Saturday. Have a lovely meal, spend some quality time with her and go off to work.
Even better, stop by Mongrel and get one of those pithy Valentine's Day cards that address this situation. While I guarantee it was a woman who wrote them, I think they swing both ways.
I know we're not like together or anything but it felt weird to just not say anything so I got you this card. It's no big deal. It doesn't really mean anything. There isn't even a heart on it. So basically, it's a card saying hi. Forget it.
To my thinking, if she isn't won over by the charm of a mid-day meal and a self-deprecating card, she probably isn't worth the trouble. Lilacs can come later.
Now he thinks I'm the brilliant one. He gave me all kinds of thanks for the terrific dating advice. Given that my romances have spanned multiple periods in my life, I should have a little bit of experience on the subject.
Most importantly, friend, never stop watching her smile. That's romantic.
Nothing could have suited me better today than waking up to an invitation to a poetry reading. With the exception of a man I barely knew reciting "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose" to me a couple of weeks ago, it had been far too long since I'd heard poetry read.
Sometimes you need more than a snippet from a stranger.
Walking in to Reynolds Gallery was bittersweet since it was the first time since owner Bev Reynolds had died that I'd been in. But she was certainly there in spirit because, as it turned out, she was the one who'd originally asked the poet to read at the gallery last August.
But poets are busy people who apparently put off readings and Elizabeth Seydel Morgan was only now getting around to it.
The female energy in the crowded room was fabulous with all kinds of talented women - painters, poets, gallerists - taking up the folding chairs in the gallery around me with the men scattered throughout like tapioca balls in bubble tea.
After being introduced as Buffy rather than Elizabeth, the elegant woman spoke (with a former teacher's ability to project vocally) to the crowd before the reading, allowing the tardy to find seats as she made observations.
"My poet friends are coming in late of course," she said, smiling. "All my artist friends were early or on time." Explaining that she didn't believe in poetry going on too long, she warned us matter-of-factly that, "I stop when the eyes glaze over." This crowd definitely didn't look like she had anything to worry about.
She compared her latest book, "Spans: New and Selected Poems" to an artist's retrospective covering work over the course of a career, saying she'd chosen the name because the poems spanned so many periods of her life.
Before reading an early one, What's the Most Elvis Ever Weighed? she explained that the first stanza took place when he was fat (260 pounds) and the second in 1956. "I brought the proof in case anyone doesn't believe me. It's in the back."
I never saw the proof but the second stanza was about a backstage visit with a friend to talk to Elvis who opened a Coca Cola (pronounced CoCola like the Atlanta native she was) with his key ring and shared it with the girls.
I don't imagine you'd ever forget that soda.
Some time after she read A Sun Lover's Book about afternoons spent with sun-warmed books read in a tree platform, we heard the door open and without missing a beat or looking up, she said, "If it's Ron Smith, don't let him in."
It was and as he sat in the only remaining available chair in the front row, she shared that, "Ron is the poet laureate of Virginia." So while he wasn't punctual, he got a pass because of his presumed talent.
From The Party Before the Party came the line, "I was a grown-up in a sundress," an imagery that I no doubt find appealing because I am unapologetically that grown-up all summer long. Given all her lilac imagery, she also sounded like as big a fan of the fragrant flowers as I am.
Sunset on Eastern Beaches (not that there is such a thing except in Key West, she pointed out) was directed at those who loved the Outer Banks ("Our faces glow with sun we cannot see") but also referenced Tuscany ("Fired horizon hushed us into silence").
Listening to the poems was like following along with the journey of her life as various issues presented themselves with age. "This is the most jagged grief," she wrote in Lost Without Ceremony. About friends who'd downsized and moved out of their homes, she wrote The Owner is Leaving This House, an elegy to the gradual removal of belongings from one house to a new space.
Keeping to the elegiac theme, she read poems about poisoning and shutters, but also said to laughter, "They're elegiac but not wallowing. I'm trying to encourage you to buy my book."
Fittingly, she closed with, "This is my last poem. Pay attention," an ode to her listeners and a wish that in the poetry, "Some word I said reminded you of someone." The last line was yet another reminder that this was the last poem, in case we'd missed it. I don't think anyone had.
More than once she checked to make sure our eyes weren't glazing over and the first time she tried to stop reading, the crowd got vocal yelling for her to keep going, which she did. Don't try to tell me poetry lovers can't get rowdy.
With the reading officially ended, I took the collective female energy in the room and left to go meet a friend for dinner. Why surround yourself with so much life experience and not put it to good use?
Friend and I had made these plans weeks ago, both of us committing to the date so nothing could interfere. Two weeks ago at Lucy's, he'd told me he was intending to ask an interesting woman he'd just met out. Tonight we were going to reconvene at Lucy's to discuss what had transpired since.
After telling me it had taken him a few days to get up the nerve to first message her after we'd talked, he admitted when he finally had done it, it had been at 6 a.m. when he woke up. Before he lost his nerve.
Brilliant, I told him, surprising him. Getting a message with a time stamp like that tells a woman you are thinking of her at an unusual time. "Just don't do it at 3 a.m., right?" he guessed.
Sharing a meat and cheese plate (flank steak to die for), Lucy's big bowl of comfort (also known as beef stew with duchess potatoes) and winter salad (kale, brussels sprouts, pine nuts, lemon vinaigrette and arguably the finest kale salad in all of Richmond), I heard from my friend about their getting-to-know-each-other process.
By the second date, he found himself watching her smile and looking forward to the sight of it. At a Super Bowl party, she insisted that he sit closer than the arm of the couch, patting the seat cushion next to her. Everything was going beautifully.
"But I have a conundrum," he said. "What do I do about Valentine's Day?" A holiday admittedly fraught with danger even for those beyond the third date, I understood his dilemma. Things are going well, but you never want to overstep bounds. On the other hand, she seems interested and he doesn't want to underplay it if doing something would make her happy.
Summoning the wisdom of the ages, I made a suggestion when he said that he may have to work that night anyway. Perfect, I told him.
By being obligated for the big event, he is free to invite her to do something mid-day, a time period that doesn't carry the same romantic weight as evening. If it were me, I advised, I'd invite her to brunch or lunch that Saturday. Have a lovely meal, spend some quality time with her and go off to work.
Even better, stop by Mongrel and get one of those pithy Valentine's Day cards that address this situation. While I guarantee it was a woman who wrote them, I think they swing both ways.
I know we're not like together or anything but it felt weird to just not say anything so I got you this card. It's no big deal. It doesn't really mean anything. There isn't even a heart on it. So basically, it's a card saying hi. Forget it.
To my thinking, if she isn't won over by the charm of a mid-day meal and a self-deprecating card, she probably isn't worth the trouble. Lilacs can come later.
Now he thinks I'm the brilliant one. He gave me all kinds of thanks for the terrific dating advice. Given that my romances have spanned multiple periods in my life, I should have a little bit of experience on the subject.
Most importantly, friend, never stop watching her smile. That's romantic.
Saturday, September 13, 2014
All Over the Map
It was a well-traveled evening.
Going to the Westhampton to see Woody Allen's latest, "Magic in the Moonlight," got me fabulous views of the south of France: azure blue seas, rose bowers so colorful you could almost smell them and winding tree-lined roadways circa 1928.
From the film's opening strains of Cole Porter's "You Do Something to Me," it announced itself as a Woody Allen movie.
Naturally, the language was delightful ("That young milksop who's smitten with her") and the life lessons spot on ("It's not where you go, it's who you travel with").
The story of a jaded and celebrated magician who sets out to debunk a dewy, so-called psychic was not Allen's best work but I'm not going to complain about looking at Colin Firth for two hours, even if he did play a grumpy, unromantic pragmatist who sees no need to pause and enjoy the pleasures of life.
Well, at least until he meets a sunny optimist with a great smile.
It was the age-old argument of fact versus fantasy, science versus magic and whether it's wise to take some things on faith.
Could it be possible some people are more cosmically in tune and can "see" things most of us can't?
All I know is that I was at a gathering back in the '90s and a psychic was present and when she stopped to talk to me, she took a ring from my hand, closed her eyes and told me things she couldn't possibly have known because no one else in the room knew them.
I'm talking things about a death very close to me and about a particular person who had meant a lot to me and she spouted off both.
So while Colin Firth's character didn't believe some people have a spiritual capability, I do.
Walking out of the theater, I found the sidewalk crawling with pods of young families with kids waiting for the dubious pleasures of eating at The Continental.
Stepping over the smallest ones sprawled on the sidewalk, I escaped back to my world to take my hired mouth out to eat, filling my belly (and taking mental notes) to fortify myself for the rest of the evening's activities.
Reynolds Gallery had two openings tonight: a solo show by Isabel Bigelow and a group show, "Taking Off: Hot, New Painters," of up and coming artists from New York and Chicago.
Moments after walking in, an artist I'd interviewed last year approached me to say hello, followed by a history and art buff I inevitably see at cultural happenings.
The kind of person who's trying to choose between going to an air show or a historical re-enactment. A nerd like me, in other words.
The perception of art openings as dull, dry affairs is a myth; they're highly social evenings fueled by wine and conversation.
But also art.
Bigelow's paintings were gorgeous images of nature in isolation, say a branch or a slice of river, rendered in a limited number of colors.
What the hot, new crew painters had in common was that they were all reworking abstraction in their own ways.
If I had pockets deep enough, I'd have shelled out for Nicole Mauser's "Untitled," a gorgeous piece of color abstraction. But alas, my pockets are so shallow they're almost concave, so I left with just memories of the big cities and the art they spawn.
It was time for music.
Sure, I'd been at Balliceaux just last night but that was for rock and tonight they were presenting world music from eastern Europe with a dash of folk and jazz fronted by Zeb Bangash, a Pakistani singer, and Michael Winograd, a virtuoso clarinet player.
Who stays home on a Friday night and misses that?
Waiting for the doors to open, one of the bartenders walked by raising an eyebrow at me. "Two nights in a row, Karen?"
Shortly after, a saxophonist friend appeared, smiling and saying, "I thought I'd see you here."
I gave him major points for being there since he has to be on the road to Charlottesville at the crack of dawn tomorrow to play from 9 in the morning until noon.
Because the band didn't start until after 11, we had plenty of time to chat about our dedication to endurance training (his running, my walking), the perks of the freelance lifestyle (he teaches music lessons) and the unique charms of what he called "suburban dive bars" such as Sharky's (been there, done that) and Daddio's.
When Sandaraa finally took the stage, we were looking at a singer, violinist and bassist (all female), guitarist, accordionist, drummer and clarinetist, making for a sonic pallet able to bridge rock, Balkan, Afghani, Klezmer and NYC, where the group is now based.
The music soon had two couples at one of the booths dancing tavern-style in the booth, hands clasped with each other and over their heads.
That was just the beginning and before long one couple, then two, then three took to the dance floor to move to the decidedly eastern- sounding music.
If some of their dance moves looked a lot like Deadhead dancers, well, so be it.
Each song seemed to bridge multiple genres, always with Zeb's exotic-sounding voice pulling it all together, and often taking off on accordion and clarinet tangents.
The crowd wasn't large (no doubt the $10 price tag kept all the pretty people out, actually a good thing since they usually gab through shows), but it was quality, with everyone obviously there for the music, too often a rarity.
I started in the back of the room but eventually moved up front to better see the band, putting myself squarely in dancing territory.
Might be the first time I ever moved to a Pakistani singer.
Of course I'd be here.
Going to the Westhampton to see Woody Allen's latest, "Magic in the Moonlight," got me fabulous views of the south of France: azure blue seas, rose bowers so colorful you could almost smell them and winding tree-lined roadways circa 1928.
From the film's opening strains of Cole Porter's "You Do Something to Me," it announced itself as a Woody Allen movie.
Naturally, the language was delightful ("That young milksop who's smitten with her") and the life lessons spot on ("It's not where you go, it's who you travel with").
The story of a jaded and celebrated magician who sets out to debunk a dewy, so-called psychic was not Allen's best work but I'm not going to complain about looking at Colin Firth for two hours, even if he did play a grumpy, unromantic pragmatist who sees no need to pause and enjoy the pleasures of life.
Well, at least until he meets a sunny optimist with a great smile.
It was the age-old argument of fact versus fantasy, science versus magic and whether it's wise to take some things on faith.
Could it be possible some people are more cosmically in tune and can "see" things most of us can't?
All I know is that I was at a gathering back in the '90s and a psychic was present and when she stopped to talk to me, she took a ring from my hand, closed her eyes and told me things she couldn't possibly have known because no one else in the room knew them.
I'm talking things about a death very close to me and about a particular person who had meant a lot to me and she spouted off both.
So while Colin Firth's character didn't believe some people have a spiritual capability, I do.
Walking out of the theater, I found the sidewalk crawling with pods of young families with kids waiting for the dubious pleasures of eating at The Continental.
Stepping over the smallest ones sprawled on the sidewalk, I escaped back to my world to take my hired mouth out to eat, filling my belly (and taking mental notes) to fortify myself for the rest of the evening's activities.
Reynolds Gallery had two openings tonight: a solo show by Isabel Bigelow and a group show, "Taking Off: Hot, New Painters," of up and coming artists from New York and Chicago.
Moments after walking in, an artist I'd interviewed last year approached me to say hello, followed by a history and art buff I inevitably see at cultural happenings.
The kind of person who's trying to choose between going to an air show or a historical re-enactment. A nerd like me, in other words.
The perception of art openings as dull, dry affairs is a myth; they're highly social evenings fueled by wine and conversation.
But also art.
Bigelow's paintings were gorgeous images of nature in isolation, say a branch or a slice of river, rendered in a limited number of colors.
What the hot, new crew painters had in common was that they were all reworking abstraction in their own ways.
If I had pockets deep enough, I'd have shelled out for Nicole Mauser's "Untitled," a gorgeous piece of color abstraction. But alas, my pockets are so shallow they're almost concave, so I left with just memories of the big cities and the art they spawn.
It was time for music.
Sure, I'd been at Balliceaux just last night but that was for rock and tonight they were presenting world music from eastern Europe with a dash of folk and jazz fronted by Zeb Bangash, a Pakistani singer, and Michael Winograd, a virtuoso clarinet player.
Who stays home on a Friday night and misses that?
Waiting for the doors to open, one of the bartenders walked by raising an eyebrow at me. "Two nights in a row, Karen?"
Shortly after, a saxophonist friend appeared, smiling and saying, "I thought I'd see you here."
I gave him major points for being there since he has to be on the road to Charlottesville at the crack of dawn tomorrow to play from 9 in the morning until noon.
Because the band didn't start until after 11, we had plenty of time to chat about our dedication to endurance training (his running, my walking), the perks of the freelance lifestyle (he teaches music lessons) and the unique charms of what he called "suburban dive bars" such as Sharky's (been there, done that) and Daddio's.
When Sandaraa finally took the stage, we were looking at a singer, violinist and bassist (all female), guitarist, accordionist, drummer and clarinetist, making for a sonic pallet able to bridge rock, Balkan, Afghani, Klezmer and NYC, where the group is now based.
The music soon had two couples at one of the booths dancing tavern-style in the booth, hands clasped with each other and over their heads.
That was just the beginning and before long one couple, then two, then three took to the dance floor to move to the decidedly eastern- sounding music.
If some of their dance moves looked a lot like Deadhead dancers, well, so be it.
Each song seemed to bridge multiple genres, always with Zeb's exotic-sounding voice pulling it all together, and often taking off on accordion and clarinet tangents.
The crowd wasn't large (no doubt the $10 price tag kept all the pretty people out, actually a good thing since they usually gab through shows), but it was quality, with everyone obviously there for the music, too often a rarity.
I started in the back of the room but eventually moved up front to better see the band, putting myself squarely in dancing territory.
Might be the first time I ever moved to a Pakistani singer.
Of course I'd be here.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Not Staying Inside the Lines
You know I'm feeling the pride of the 'hood when I open up the Washington Post and see a piece about J-Ward.
There it was, larger than life, a wordy spread about the new GWAR Bar coming to Clay Street, two blocks from where I live. Not to brag, but we are becoming such a hot spot.
Likewise, it's terrific to see an old neighborhood favorite get a face-lift.
I'm talking about Bistro 27, relaunching with a big crowd tonight after a renovation of the dining room and a reworking of the menu (more of a Mediterranean emphasis).
There was air-kissing, there were friends to dish restaurant gossip with, and there was plenty of food to be tried.
Some people were two-fisting grown-up nuggets of thinly pounded chicken, Serrano ham, truffle oil and herbs coated in housemade breadcrumbs while others (Rich, I'm looking at you) stacked five and six tzatziki- topped lamb on pita on their plates.
A pretty girl in a green dress was trying not to inhale too much orecchiette bolognese ("We just got back from New Orleans so my dress already feels tight") while people filled cups with vichyssoise and hunks of crusty housemade bread and loosened their belts.
While assembling a cheese and fruit plate - Brie, creamy bleu, blueberry goat, pineapple, watermelon and figs - a woman began staring at me. When I turned to say hello, she said, "I know I know you."
Turns out we'd met once 20 years ago when I worked downtown and she'd somehow remembered my face. "I'm glad we figured that out because it would have driven me crazy!" she said when we parted.
And, no, I had no memory of her whatsoever when I saw her. Who remembers somebody they meet once and then don't see for two decades? Kudos to you, my dear.
Back at my table, our trio discussed recent theater productions we'd seen (Cabaret, Hair), the challenges of using a decorator (I wouldn't know) and a friend's recent eating and walking vacation in Charleston and Savannah (my kind of trip).
All of us admired Bistro 27's new look, with the newly refinished floors looking much warmer than before but also far more stylish.
The bar's new mosaic-looking front, trendy lighting, fresh art, studded leather chairs and sheer curtains made for a major improvement in the look of the place.
For me, part of the thrill also came from the absence of the TV near the bar (a buzz kill if ever there was one and now replaced with a painting), and the thumping techno music that made it feel like a happening.
My neighborhood joint had finally joined the 21st century. Wait till the neighbors see it now.
I think it was some time after our second wine and cheese plate that I got up to leave for an art opening, inviting my friends to join me, only one of whom did.
Walking outside, I couldn't help but notice that while the sky had been cloudless and blue when I'd arrived, now it was gray and so muggy you had to practically swim through the air.
It didn't matter because we were soon in the air-conditioned environs of Reynolds Gallery for the opening of "Hense: Drawings, Paintings and Shapes."
The artist Alex Brewer, who went by Hense when he'd been a graffiti artist, had done a two-wall installation in the gallery, using graphite, spray paint and large washes and rolls of clear-toned pinks, yellows, oranges and sky blues.
Savoring how it felt to be in that small gallery surrounded by these vibrant, colorful expressionist walls, I mentioned to my girlfriend what a shame it was that it would all eventually be painted over.
"I was just thinking the same thing!" a stranger said, turning to me with a look of consternation on her face. "What a shame that it will go away."
No doubt starting out as a graffiti artist prepares you to let go of your work the moment you finish it.
But there were also 21 paintings of myriad colors, mediums and moods arranged on the front gallery wall so Friend and I amused ourselves by discussing which ones appealed to us, which we could never live with as well as the inter-connectedness of certain recurring themes such as the pink circle.
Naturally, being a spray paint master, he made creative use of drips and in one work, the long,blue drips gave the piece a dense, underwater quality.
Often there was thick over-painting with small areas left showing through, giving the impression that you were being offered a glimpse into an inner world.
And then for something completely different, we headed to the other side of the wall.
One gallery space over was "Vacation Days," a group show full of familiar names and Richmond talent: Sally Bowring, Richard Roth, Sally Mann, Richard Carlyon, Gerry Donato, Jack Wax.
It was the best kind of group show with widely ranging styles and, in many cases, artists represented by two or three pieces. I counted myself as odd that I could be so attracted to one piece by an artist and find nothing to like about another of his. Call me fickle.
One thing Friend and I knew for certain was that our taste in art reflected our taste in attire.
She was drawn to pieces with the dark neutrals - black, brown, navy, gray - that she always wears while I was inevitably captured by color - if it was vibrant in hue, the painting more likely spoke to me.
Not sure what it is about me and color, but recently I bartered with an artist I know, trading him my writing for an upcoming painting of his.
Once he got started working on it, he sent me a picture of the work in progress with a note.
Here's what I have. I was experimenting a bit and wanted something with a lot of colors. Reminded me of you, I think.
Nothing wrong with being the colorful type, right? I should fit in perfectly in a neighborhood with a GWAR Bar.
There it was, larger than life, a wordy spread about the new GWAR Bar coming to Clay Street, two blocks from where I live. Not to brag, but we are becoming such a hot spot.
Likewise, it's terrific to see an old neighborhood favorite get a face-lift.
I'm talking about Bistro 27, relaunching with a big crowd tonight after a renovation of the dining room and a reworking of the menu (more of a Mediterranean emphasis).
There was air-kissing, there were friends to dish restaurant gossip with, and there was plenty of food to be tried.
Some people were two-fisting grown-up nuggets of thinly pounded chicken, Serrano ham, truffle oil and herbs coated in housemade breadcrumbs while others (Rich, I'm looking at you) stacked five and six tzatziki- topped lamb on pita on their plates.
A pretty girl in a green dress was trying not to inhale too much orecchiette bolognese ("We just got back from New Orleans so my dress already feels tight") while people filled cups with vichyssoise and hunks of crusty housemade bread and loosened their belts.
While assembling a cheese and fruit plate - Brie, creamy bleu, blueberry goat, pineapple, watermelon and figs - a woman began staring at me. When I turned to say hello, she said, "I know I know you."
Turns out we'd met once 20 years ago when I worked downtown and she'd somehow remembered my face. "I'm glad we figured that out because it would have driven me crazy!" she said when we parted.
And, no, I had no memory of her whatsoever when I saw her. Who remembers somebody they meet once and then don't see for two decades? Kudos to you, my dear.
Back at my table, our trio discussed recent theater productions we'd seen (Cabaret, Hair), the challenges of using a decorator (I wouldn't know) and a friend's recent eating and walking vacation in Charleston and Savannah (my kind of trip).
All of us admired Bistro 27's new look, with the newly refinished floors looking much warmer than before but also far more stylish.
The bar's new mosaic-looking front, trendy lighting, fresh art, studded leather chairs and sheer curtains made for a major improvement in the look of the place.
For me, part of the thrill also came from the absence of the TV near the bar (a buzz kill if ever there was one and now replaced with a painting), and the thumping techno music that made it feel like a happening.
My neighborhood joint had finally joined the 21st century. Wait till the neighbors see it now.
I think it was some time after our second wine and cheese plate that I got up to leave for an art opening, inviting my friends to join me, only one of whom did.
Walking outside, I couldn't help but notice that while the sky had been cloudless and blue when I'd arrived, now it was gray and so muggy you had to practically swim through the air.
It didn't matter because we were soon in the air-conditioned environs of Reynolds Gallery for the opening of "Hense: Drawings, Paintings and Shapes."
The artist Alex Brewer, who went by Hense when he'd been a graffiti artist, had done a two-wall installation in the gallery, using graphite, spray paint and large washes and rolls of clear-toned pinks, yellows, oranges and sky blues.
Savoring how it felt to be in that small gallery surrounded by these vibrant, colorful expressionist walls, I mentioned to my girlfriend what a shame it was that it would all eventually be painted over.
"I was just thinking the same thing!" a stranger said, turning to me with a look of consternation on her face. "What a shame that it will go away."
No doubt starting out as a graffiti artist prepares you to let go of your work the moment you finish it.
But there were also 21 paintings of myriad colors, mediums and moods arranged on the front gallery wall so Friend and I amused ourselves by discussing which ones appealed to us, which we could never live with as well as the inter-connectedness of certain recurring themes such as the pink circle.
Naturally, being a spray paint master, he made creative use of drips and in one work, the long,blue drips gave the piece a dense, underwater quality.
Often there was thick over-painting with small areas left showing through, giving the impression that you were being offered a glimpse into an inner world.
And then for something completely different, we headed to the other side of the wall.
One gallery space over was "Vacation Days," a group show full of familiar names and Richmond talent: Sally Bowring, Richard Roth, Sally Mann, Richard Carlyon, Gerry Donato, Jack Wax.
It was the best kind of group show with widely ranging styles and, in many cases, artists represented by two or three pieces. I counted myself as odd that I could be so attracted to one piece by an artist and find nothing to like about another of his. Call me fickle.
One thing Friend and I knew for certain was that our taste in art reflected our taste in attire.
She was drawn to pieces with the dark neutrals - black, brown, navy, gray - that she always wears while I was inevitably captured by color - if it was vibrant in hue, the painting more likely spoke to me.
Not sure what it is about me and color, but recently I bartered with an artist I know, trading him my writing for an upcoming painting of his.
Once he got started working on it, he sent me a picture of the work in progress with a note.
Here's what I have. I was experimenting a bit and wanted something with a lot of colors. Reminded me of you, I think.
Nothing wrong with being the colorful type, right? I should fit in perfectly in a neighborhood with a GWAR Bar.
Friday, October 18, 2013
Keep It Moving
I was overdue for a good nine-hour evening.
First up was an in-store performance at my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds.
Performing were a Japanese duo called Elekibass, two Japanese guys who love the Beatles and the Kinks.
The lead singer had a Beatles-esque mop-top and the lead guitarist (wearing a brown short with a lace jabot, I kid you not) somehow had curly Asian hair, making them totally adorable.
They began with an upbeat, sunny song called "Good Morning Blues," sung in heavily-accented English as the lead singer, wearing a plaid suit and tie, walked among the small crowd in the record store.
After a couple of songs, two others joined them, one playing tambourine and shaker ball and the other bass.
At that point, the songs were sung in Japanese.
When they finished, the lead singer began passing out Elekibass buttons as souvenirs.
I don't know why. I'm quite sure none of us will forget a Japanese band anytime soon.
Ashley Eriksson followed, playing someone else's keyboards and singing young woman songs of loss and love.
But enough about that.
From there I went to Reynolds Gallery to hear an artists' talk with Sally Mann, Jessie Mann, Liz Liguori and Ray of the Mountain Lake workshop.
They were discoursing about the new show "Metempsychosis," large format pieces that had used laser imagery, linseed oil, paint and debris like pine needles and wasps to create a wholly new image over a Sally Man discard.
Sally Mann's daughter Jessie, both her muse and once her photographic subject, is all grown up and at the root of this project that used her Mom's photos to scratch, paint and essentially collage on.
The gallery was full of attendees eager to hear about the collaboration and processes (four months just to dry one of these images) required to bring these diptychs to fruition.
During the discussion, the subject of authorship of a collaborative piece came up, raising the issue of attribution when multiple artists use multiple processes to complete a single work.
Looking at the striking works afterwards, a combination of Sally Mann's "bonfire" pieces (discards), Liz's use of a laser through multiple prisms and Jessie's painting, assigning one name seemed ridiculous.
I left the over-crowded opening to go have a bite (the crabby patatas bravas were outstanding) and ran into a DJ friend who had messaged me just a few days ago, saying, "Hey, need a song for a mix. Got one?"
It had been many hours later when I got home and saw that message, so my input was no longer needed.
Tonight, he explained that he'd gone ahead with the mix and promptly went to his car, retrieved a copy of the mix tape and gifted me with it.
Not a bad outcome.
I chatted with a nearby beer-drinker who, when asked about music, told me he liked bands like Periphery and Born of Osiris.
"You know, progressive metal," he said condescendingly.
"Oh, you mean like Between the Buried and Me?" I asked earnestly.
"I have to hug you now," he said, jumping up. "You have changed my world."
Not only was Between the Buried and Me his favorite band, but he had never encountered a single person who knew of them.
Score one for me.
I may know about progressive metal, but it's not really my cup of tea, so when I left with my belly full of South African wine and patatas, it was to go to Balliceaux for music.
The Hi Steps were playing and they're a band who play vintage soul music for the current audience's dancing pleasure.
They say it right up front: they're not for listening to, they're for dancing to.
That means songs like "Higher and Higher,"Ain't Too Proud to Beg" and Curtis Mayfield's "Move on Up."
I ordered a Cazadores and found a spot near all kinds of people I knew and I was set for the night.
Since I'd last seen the Hi Steps, they'd increased their repertoire, adding in songs like Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart," admirably sung by the red and black-clad Butterfly Vazquez with enough lung power to do Joplin proud.
The always impressive Bryce McCormick on keyboards handled vocals when Butterfly didn't, like on their superb cover of Al Green's "Let's Stay Together."
A couple of guys came in and positioned themselves near me, one of them leaning over and asking, "Do you recognize me?"
I did. It was Hugo, a gentle soul I knew from several restaurant jobs, who soon asked me to dance.
Bio Ritmo's conga player Giustino was in the audience and soon joined the band for "Proud Mary," playing with pliers in his teeth until he could stop and adjust his conga drum.
A restaurant friend suddenly appeared at my side, saying, "How did I not see you when I came in?"
I had no idea, but welcomed him in just as bandleader Jason entreated the crowd to fill the empty space in front of the stage. To come dance, in other words.
"Come into the light," he pleaded.
This somehow reminded my friend of a movie and he was soon sharing a childhood memory.
"I remember when my parents took me to see "Jaws" at the drive-in," he said. "I was sitting on the roof of our mini-van and they were inside having sex and I remember the raft scene and rocking on the top of that van."
Too much information. That's the kind of thing that scars a kid for life.
Back in the real world, the band did a killer rendition of MJ's "PYT" and even I was tempted to dance.
When they began Van Morrison's "Into the Mystic," couples flooded the dance floor to slow dance, something I'd have done if I'd had someone appropriate to do it with.
About that time, three of the members of No BS Brass band came in to catch the final song, Otis Redding's "Hard to Handle."
You know what's not hard to handle?
Starting at 5:00 with cute little Japanese boys and finishing out at 1:45 with seasoned musicians playing music I never heard live until they came along.
That and changing a guy's world with the just the right music talk.
First up was an in-store performance at my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds.
Performing were a Japanese duo called Elekibass, two Japanese guys who love the Beatles and the Kinks.
The lead singer had a Beatles-esque mop-top and the lead guitarist (wearing a brown short with a lace jabot, I kid you not) somehow had curly Asian hair, making them totally adorable.
They began with an upbeat, sunny song called "Good Morning Blues," sung in heavily-accented English as the lead singer, wearing a plaid suit and tie, walked among the small crowd in the record store.
After a couple of songs, two others joined them, one playing tambourine and shaker ball and the other bass.
At that point, the songs were sung in Japanese.
When they finished, the lead singer began passing out Elekibass buttons as souvenirs.
I don't know why. I'm quite sure none of us will forget a Japanese band anytime soon.
Ashley Eriksson followed, playing someone else's keyboards and singing young woman songs of loss and love.
But enough about that.
From there I went to Reynolds Gallery to hear an artists' talk with Sally Mann, Jessie Mann, Liz Liguori and Ray of the Mountain Lake workshop.
They were discoursing about the new show "Metempsychosis," large format pieces that had used laser imagery, linseed oil, paint and debris like pine needles and wasps to create a wholly new image over a Sally Man discard.
Sally Mann's daughter Jessie, both her muse and once her photographic subject, is all grown up and at the root of this project that used her Mom's photos to scratch, paint and essentially collage on.
The gallery was full of attendees eager to hear about the collaboration and processes (four months just to dry one of these images) required to bring these diptychs to fruition.
During the discussion, the subject of authorship of a collaborative piece came up, raising the issue of attribution when multiple artists use multiple processes to complete a single work.
Looking at the striking works afterwards, a combination of Sally Mann's "bonfire" pieces (discards), Liz's use of a laser through multiple prisms and Jessie's painting, assigning one name seemed ridiculous.
I left the over-crowded opening to go have a bite (the crabby patatas bravas were outstanding) and ran into a DJ friend who had messaged me just a few days ago, saying, "Hey, need a song for a mix. Got one?"
It had been many hours later when I got home and saw that message, so my input was no longer needed.
Tonight, he explained that he'd gone ahead with the mix and promptly went to his car, retrieved a copy of the mix tape and gifted me with it.
Not a bad outcome.
I chatted with a nearby beer-drinker who, when asked about music, told me he liked bands like Periphery and Born of Osiris.
"You know, progressive metal," he said condescendingly.
"Oh, you mean like Between the Buried and Me?" I asked earnestly.
"I have to hug you now," he said, jumping up. "You have changed my world."
Not only was Between the Buried and Me his favorite band, but he had never encountered a single person who knew of them.
Score one for me.
I may know about progressive metal, but it's not really my cup of tea, so when I left with my belly full of South African wine and patatas, it was to go to Balliceaux for music.
The Hi Steps were playing and they're a band who play vintage soul music for the current audience's dancing pleasure.
They say it right up front: they're not for listening to, they're for dancing to.
That means songs like "Higher and Higher,"Ain't Too Proud to Beg" and Curtis Mayfield's "Move on Up."
I ordered a Cazadores and found a spot near all kinds of people I knew and I was set for the night.
Since I'd last seen the Hi Steps, they'd increased their repertoire, adding in songs like Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart," admirably sung by the red and black-clad Butterfly Vazquez with enough lung power to do Joplin proud.
The always impressive Bryce McCormick on keyboards handled vocals when Butterfly didn't, like on their superb cover of Al Green's "Let's Stay Together."
A couple of guys came in and positioned themselves near me, one of them leaning over and asking, "Do you recognize me?"
I did. It was Hugo, a gentle soul I knew from several restaurant jobs, who soon asked me to dance.
Bio Ritmo's conga player Giustino was in the audience and soon joined the band for "Proud Mary," playing with pliers in his teeth until he could stop and adjust his conga drum.
A restaurant friend suddenly appeared at my side, saying, "How did I not see you when I came in?"
I had no idea, but welcomed him in just as bandleader Jason entreated the crowd to fill the empty space in front of the stage. To come dance, in other words.
"Come into the light," he pleaded.
This somehow reminded my friend of a movie and he was soon sharing a childhood memory.
"I remember when my parents took me to see "Jaws" at the drive-in," he said. "I was sitting on the roof of our mini-van and they were inside having sex and I remember the raft scene and rocking on the top of that van."
Too much information. That's the kind of thing that scars a kid for life.
Back in the real world, the band did a killer rendition of MJ's "PYT" and even I was tempted to dance.
When they began Van Morrison's "Into the Mystic," couples flooded the dance floor to slow dance, something I'd have done if I'd had someone appropriate to do it with.
About that time, three of the members of No BS Brass band came in to catch the final song, Otis Redding's "Hard to Handle."
You know what's not hard to handle?
Starting at 5:00 with cute little Japanese boys and finishing out at 1:45 with seasoned musicians playing music I never heard live until they came along.
That and changing a guy's world with the just the right music talk.
Friday, June 22, 2012
When We Two Parted
"I did it. You know what I mean."
If ever there was a cryptic e-mail, or a clearer statement of fact, it doesn't immediately come to mind.
It was a friend's way of letting me know that we needed to talk.
My only plan for the evening was the opening of "Summer Solstice," a group show at Reynolds Gallery, so we agreed to meet up afterwards.
Like any Reynolds show, the galleries were full of Richmond's old guard art elite, both on the walls and milling about.
The array of artists on display was a who's who of known names: Heide Trepanier, Sally Bowring, Richard Carlyon.
The late, great Theresa Pollak was well represented with four pieces in three mediums, a mini-retrospective of sorts spanning 1960-1992.
I was immediately taken with Jennifer Lauren Smith's "Untitled," an archival black and white pigment print done in triptych form showing an upside down beach umbrella floating on the waves.
Wind happens.
With one glance, Janet DeCover's "Lola" struck me as having been created by a woman.
The lipstick-colored background, the white lace doily-looking object and the delicate and feminine robin's egg blue ovals all seemed to have come from the hand and heart of a female.
Much time was enjoyed in front of Bill Fisher's "Untitled," an abstract-looking piece that seemed to me to resemble a houseboat floating on a background of beautiful blue water.
I'm sure the artist had nothing like that in mind when he painted it and I'm equally as sure he'd have no problem with whatever I saw in his oil and wax on panel.
And speaking of, Jack Wax's "Tum-tree," an enormous 80 by 50" was done with ink and coffee on paper, surely the most unlikely medium used in this show.
The tentacle-like roots of the tree extended up and across the enormous work pulling the viewer closer to better understand the visual.
By the time I finished the upstairs gallery's "Almost Famous" show of VCU MFA students, it was time to meet up with Mr. I Did It at Six Burner.
You know, at the corner of Main and Wine.
The place was bursting at the seams when we arrived.
The participants of Plein Air Richmond were meeting nearby at Brazier Gallery and between that and the Reynolds opening, there were lots of thirsty people on Main Street.
The Ghostlight Afterparty's personable host was tending bar and practically knew to pour me some Stefano Massone Gavi before the words came out of my mouth.
My accomplished friend arrived and got the same before I insisted he spill the beans.
Technically, he'd been right; I knew what he meant when he said he'd done it, but I wanted to hear how he'd put on his big boy pants (his words, not mine) and taken care of business.
And while I wanted to hear how it had gone down, mostly I was just happy that he was finally out of a situation that has been highly unsatisfactory for him for many months.
Let's just say he no longer has to lock up the breakfast cereal or the booze and that's as it should be.
What made me rally happy, though, was hearing that that was only one of several good things happening in his life since we'd last met.
He's found a studio interested in putting his many talents to use. He's started online dating and has an out-of-town date this weekend. He's moving back into the city where he belongs.
But my favorite piece of news was that he's decided to be more adventurous in his eating.
A long-time vegetarian, he's decided that if he doesn't start widening his diet, he may never. And he doesn't want to be that person.
Wasting no time, I got a menu and looked for something new for him to try, deciding on the grilled quail with roasted marinated plums.
It did my heart good to see him stepping out of his usual comfort zone enjoying a bird he said he couldn't identify in real life.
Now that's eating.
I always enjoy our discussions because in many ways, we see the world through the same romantic glasses.
Who else I know would bring up Lord Byron as an example of how to live a passionate life?
Or have the patience to explain a Fairlight synthesizer to me and how it impacted 80s music (hello Peter Gabriel)?
Or be excited abut his first floor apartment because in it his piano won't disturb those below him?
Only someone with a romantic soul, that's who.
When he said that he admired me for the way I choose to live my life, I assured him that he has all the necessary parts to do the same thing.
As he put it, "When I read a book, I think to myself 'That could happen" but other people say "It's just a book."
Not so, I told him.
When you stop thinking "That could happen," it stops happening.
All it takes a romantic soul to know what I mean.
If ever there was a cryptic e-mail, or a clearer statement of fact, it doesn't immediately come to mind.
It was a friend's way of letting me know that we needed to talk.
My only plan for the evening was the opening of "Summer Solstice," a group show at Reynolds Gallery, so we agreed to meet up afterwards.
Like any Reynolds show, the galleries were full of Richmond's old guard art elite, both on the walls and milling about.
The array of artists on display was a who's who of known names: Heide Trepanier, Sally Bowring, Richard Carlyon.
The late, great Theresa Pollak was well represented with four pieces in three mediums, a mini-retrospective of sorts spanning 1960-1992.
I was immediately taken with Jennifer Lauren Smith's "Untitled," an archival black and white pigment print done in triptych form showing an upside down beach umbrella floating on the waves.
Wind happens.
With one glance, Janet DeCover's "Lola" struck me as having been created by a woman.
The lipstick-colored background, the white lace doily-looking object and the delicate and feminine robin's egg blue ovals all seemed to have come from the hand and heart of a female.
Much time was enjoyed in front of Bill Fisher's "Untitled," an abstract-looking piece that seemed to me to resemble a houseboat floating on a background of beautiful blue water.
I'm sure the artist had nothing like that in mind when he painted it and I'm equally as sure he'd have no problem with whatever I saw in his oil and wax on panel.
And speaking of, Jack Wax's "Tum-tree," an enormous 80 by 50" was done with ink and coffee on paper, surely the most unlikely medium used in this show.
The tentacle-like roots of the tree extended up and across the enormous work pulling the viewer closer to better understand the visual.
By the time I finished the upstairs gallery's "Almost Famous" show of VCU MFA students, it was time to meet up with Mr. I Did It at Six Burner.
You know, at the corner of Main and Wine.
The place was bursting at the seams when we arrived.
The participants of Plein Air Richmond were meeting nearby at Brazier Gallery and between that and the Reynolds opening, there were lots of thirsty people on Main Street.
The Ghostlight Afterparty's personable host was tending bar and practically knew to pour me some Stefano Massone Gavi before the words came out of my mouth.
My accomplished friend arrived and got the same before I insisted he spill the beans.
Technically, he'd been right; I knew what he meant when he said he'd done it, but I wanted to hear how he'd put on his big boy pants (his words, not mine) and taken care of business.
And while I wanted to hear how it had gone down, mostly I was just happy that he was finally out of a situation that has been highly unsatisfactory for him for many months.
Let's just say he no longer has to lock up the breakfast cereal or the booze and that's as it should be.
What made me rally happy, though, was hearing that that was only one of several good things happening in his life since we'd last met.
He's found a studio interested in putting his many talents to use. He's started online dating and has an out-of-town date this weekend. He's moving back into the city where he belongs.
But my favorite piece of news was that he's decided to be more adventurous in his eating.
A long-time vegetarian, he's decided that if he doesn't start widening his diet, he may never. And he doesn't want to be that person.
Wasting no time, I got a menu and looked for something new for him to try, deciding on the grilled quail with roasted marinated plums.
It did my heart good to see him stepping out of his usual comfort zone enjoying a bird he said he couldn't identify in real life.
Now that's eating.
I always enjoy our discussions because in many ways, we see the world through the same romantic glasses.
Who else I know would bring up Lord Byron as an example of how to live a passionate life?
Or have the patience to explain a Fairlight synthesizer to me and how it impacted 80s music (hello Peter Gabriel)?
Or be excited abut his first floor apartment because in it his piano won't disturb those below him?
Only someone with a romantic soul, that's who.
When he said that he admired me for the way I choose to live my life, I assured him that he has all the necessary parts to do the same thing.
As he put it, "When I read a book, I think to myself 'That could happen" but other people say "It's just a book."
Not so, I told him.
When you stop thinking "That could happen," it stops happening.
All it takes a romantic soul to know what I mean.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Closing out my Crawl with Picasso on Paper
Since I've already seen the Picasso show at the VMFA twice, it was like shooting fish in a barrel to get me to check out the Reynolds Gallery show of "Pablo Picasso: Works on Paper."
Today's opening featured nineteen works on paper, two vases and one plate and spanned the years from 1905-1972. I arrived in the last hour of a five-hour opening and was quickly followed by a half dozen other art lovers, some of whom may have come for the bubbles and sweets, but several of whom were clearly just art geeks like me.
The works on paper ranged in size and medium while spanning 67 years. The artist was nothing if not prolific.
The first etching in the show "Tete de Femme, Madeline" from 1905 was of a classic Gibson Girl; there was nothing strikingly Picasso about it. And 1905 was when Picasso first began printmaking.
"Femme Couchee," a lithograph from 1924 showed a delicacy of line that later gave way to his thick black outlining.
Being Picasso, his humor and intent are made clear on "Sculpteurs, Modeles et Sculpture," an etching from 1923 that shows classical figures posing but the piece of sculpture next to them is a multi-breasted and buttocked Cubist figure. Statement?
The etching "En la Taberna, Pecheurs Catalans en Bordee" was a study in body hair. One particularly hirsute man is covered in curlicues and loops. Crosshatching is used throughout the engraving to show clothing, skin and sculpture. Active lines are everywhere.
Anyone looking at "Tete de Femme" with its multiple viewpoints of the face (profile and straight-on) would know that Picasso had journeyed through surrealism, although this was done with purely lines, not color or paint. If I were going to take one piece home, it likely would have been this one.
The show at Reynolds is a great companion piece to the VMFA show; its overview of the artist's long career on paper is a glimpse into a master's evolving talent, much the way the other show's painting and sculpture are.
Unfortunately, now that the opening is over you can't expect bubbles or sweets, so you'll have to go for art's sake.
Then I decided to pick up where I left off last night, with the Riesling Crawl. I'd been told that it was fortunate that I'd not stopped at Can Can because apparently their staff had dropped the ball and knew nothing of the event and had nada prepared.
Confident that that would not the the case at Secco, I dropped in to see if they could finish off my evening in RieslingLand. They could; there was one glass left in the last bottle of 2008 Von Beulwitz Kaseler Nies’chen Riesling Spatlese Alte Reben. One glass of its nice acidity and long finish was all I was after anyway.
I could have left then, having officially finished my Riesling crawl , but of course I didn't. I was introduced to an effusively in-love couple who raved about each other and made me long for the same. They gushed, they touched, they were adorable, everyone agreed.
I had an enthusiastic discussion of etiquette and manners with Miss Julia, a subject on which I harbor strong opinions, as did she. Don't mothers teach civilized behavior anymore? As Sunday's New York Times asked, when did it become socially acceptable to not make eye contact in social situations (A: when hand-held devices became more important)?
The fuel for such conversation and others came in the form of Domaine Rouge Bleu Mistral and Chef Tim's highly unique farro salad (smoked farro with shaved carrot, raisins and almonds, garam masala and orange blossom honey creme fraiche). If there's a salad with more complementary flavors and textures, I haven't had it.
More pink followed as did more conversation with assorted people about the glory of Crossroads (two blocks from my house and supposedly the best open mic night in the entire city), the necessity of containing curly hair in humidity and how rva's strength being that it continues to get better, no matter how slowly.
Let's just say that Bird in Hand came up. And what a big deal it was to expect nice people to go to the Bottom back then. And how diverse Jackson Ward is compared to back then. It's true, the whole city has improved step by step.
Back in those days, you couldn't expect to see a blockbuster show like Picasso at the VMFA. And you certainly couldn't expect to walk into Reynolds Gallery and buy a Picasso work on paper.
I can't buy, so I gawk. And I love a city that gives me the gawk-able.
Today's opening featured nineteen works on paper, two vases and one plate and spanned the years from 1905-1972. I arrived in the last hour of a five-hour opening and was quickly followed by a half dozen other art lovers, some of whom may have come for the bubbles and sweets, but several of whom were clearly just art geeks like me.
The works on paper ranged in size and medium while spanning 67 years. The artist was nothing if not prolific.
The first etching in the show "Tete de Femme, Madeline" from 1905 was of a classic Gibson Girl; there was nothing strikingly Picasso about it. And 1905 was when Picasso first began printmaking.
"Femme Couchee," a lithograph from 1924 showed a delicacy of line that later gave way to his thick black outlining.
Being Picasso, his humor and intent are made clear on "Sculpteurs, Modeles et Sculpture," an etching from 1923 that shows classical figures posing but the piece of sculpture next to them is a multi-breasted and buttocked Cubist figure. Statement?
The etching "En la Taberna, Pecheurs Catalans en Bordee" was a study in body hair. One particularly hirsute man is covered in curlicues and loops. Crosshatching is used throughout the engraving to show clothing, skin and sculpture. Active lines are everywhere.
Anyone looking at "Tete de Femme" with its multiple viewpoints of the face (profile and straight-on) would know that Picasso had journeyed through surrealism, although this was done with purely lines, not color or paint. If I were going to take one piece home, it likely would have been this one.
The show at Reynolds is a great companion piece to the VMFA show; its overview of the artist's long career on paper is a glimpse into a master's evolving talent, much the way the other show's painting and sculpture are.
Unfortunately, now that the opening is over you can't expect bubbles or sweets, so you'll have to go for art's sake.
Then I decided to pick up where I left off last night, with the Riesling Crawl. I'd been told that it was fortunate that I'd not stopped at Can Can because apparently their staff had dropped the ball and knew nothing of the event and had nada prepared.
Confident that that would not the the case at Secco, I dropped in to see if they could finish off my evening in RieslingLand. They could; there was one glass left in the last bottle of 2008 Von Beulwitz Kaseler Nies’chen Riesling Spatlese Alte Reben. One glass of its nice acidity and long finish was all I was after anyway.
I could have left then, having officially finished my Riesling crawl , but of course I didn't. I was introduced to an effusively in-love couple who raved about each other and made me long for the same. They gushed, they touched, they were adorable, everyone agreed.
I had an enthusiastic discussion of etiquette and manners with Miss Julia, a subject on which I harbor strong opinions, as did she. Don't mothers teach civilized behavior anymore? As Sunday's New York Times asked, when did it become socially acceptable to not make eye contact in social situations (A: when hand-held devices became more important)?
The fuel for such conversation and others came in the form of Domaine Rouge Bleu Mistral and Chef Tim's highly unique farro salad (smoked farro with shaved carrot, raisins and almonds, garam masala and orange blossom honey creme fraiche). If there's a salad with more complementary flavors and textures, I haven't had it.
More pink followed as did more conversation with assorted people about the glory of Crossroads (two blocks from my house and supposedly the best open mic night in the entire city), the necessity of containing curly hair in humidity and how rva's strength being that it continues to get better, no matter how slowly.
Let's just say that Bird in Hand came up. And what a big deal it was to expect nice people to go to the Bottom back then. And how diverse Jackson Ward is compared to back then. It's true, the whole city has improved step by step.
Back in those days, you couldn't expect to see a blockbuster show like Picasso at the VMFA. And you certainly couldn't expect to walk into Reynolds Gallery and buy a Picasso work on paper.
I can't buy, so I gawk. And I love a city that gives me the gawk-able.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
His and Her Camera Views
How could I be so foolish as to trust the RTD?
Once again, they have shown their ineptitude, this time with something as simple as a fricking calendar.
But the afternoon wasn't a complete loss because the book talk at Fountain Books with Chip Jones, author of War Shots: Norm Hatch and the U.S. Marine Corps Combat Cameramen of WW II, was fascinating and supplemented by some of the most compelling WW II photographs I've ever laid eyes on.
Using images shot by the very cameramen he writes about, Jones talked about former Marine Hatch and his happenstance route to becoming the preeminent photographer of the island-hopping campaign late in the war.
The kid who couldn't afford college ended up documenting the key moments of the war and eventually becoming an advisor to Hollywood on war films.
A photo of Hatch wading ashore with a hundred pounds of film and photo equipment on his shoulders to avoid the waves said it all.
All I could think was that it was a good thing he was young and strong, although Jones said Hatch still has amazing upper body strength, even at 90.
There were photos of Hatch shooting fires, the devastation after Nagasaki and flag-raising at Iwo Jima, all striking for how dangerous his work in documenting the war effort was.
When Jones asked Hatch about how he dealt with being surrounded by such awfulness and death, Hatch claimed "emotional detachment," a difficult thing to believe given what he witnessed.
The audience was full of former Marines, no doubt sharing Jones' sentiment that hearing Hatch's stories somehow gave them a window into their own fathers' wartime experiences.
Without that frame of reference, my interest was mainly in hearing a first-hand witness' take on it all.
I had been joined by my fellow nerd James, who claimed to Fountain owner Kelly that we compete to attend the most nerdy events.
Trying to impress James with my event knowledge, I asked if he was going to the artist talk after the book talk.
Since he didn't even know about it, that round went to me.
Reynolds Gallery was hosting a gallery talk with artist Sally Mann at 1 (or so the unreliable RTD had printed) and James was beside himself about it when I told him.
All of a sudden, we were heading straight from Fountain to Reynolds for more shared learning.
So you can imagine our mutual disappointment when we walked in to a full house and owner Bev Reynolds immediately apologizing because the gallery talk had been earlier.
She told us to come in for the question and answer session in progress and apologized profusely for the RTD error. I lost all my points right there.
Sorry, James.
I don't know who looked the most crestfallen, James, me, or the other latecomers clustered around us.
We only got to hear about ten minutes worth of Mann talking and while it was really good stuff (her developing methods, her shooting strategies), it was only a fraction of what she'd shared with the audience before we arrived.
Over-sized mounted copies of one of Mann's photographs were given to the audience, so there was that unexpected gift, but either of us would have preferred listening to Mann for an hour to a consolation prize.
On the other hand, we got to hear Mann talk about her work for ten minutes and for that we were grateful.
It doesn't excuse the RTD's sloppiness (or my error in taking them at their word), but we had to appreciate the satisfaction of a Saturday spent hearing about the art of photography past and present.
And that, I'm afraid, is what makes us nerds.
Once again, they have shown their ineptitude, this time with something as simple as a fricking calendar.
But the afternoon wasn't a complete loss because the book talk at Fountain Books with Chip Jones, author of War Shots: Norm Hatch and the U.S. Marine Corps Combat Cameramen of WW II, was fascinating and supplemented by some of the most compelling WW II photographs I've ever laid eyes on.
Using images shot by the very cameramen he writes about, Jones talked about former Marine Hatch and his happenstance route to becoming the preeminent photographer of the island-hopping campaign late in the war.
The kid who couldn't afford college ended up documenting the key moments of the war and eventually becoming an advisor to Hollywood on war films.
A photo of Hatch wading ashore with a hundred pounds of film and photo equipment on his shoulders to avoid the waves said it all.
All I could think was that it was a good thing he was young and strong, although Jones said Hatch still has amazing upper body strength, even at 90.
There were photos of Hatch shooting fires, the devastation after Nagasaki and flag-raising at Iwo Jima, all striking for how dangerous his work in documenting the war effort was.
When Jones asked Hatch about how he dealt with being surrounded by such awfulness and death, Hatch claimed "emotional detachment," a difficult thing to believe given what he witnessed.
The audience was full of former Marines, no doubt sharing Jones' sentiment that hearing Hatch's stories somehow gave them a window into their own fathers' wartime experiences.
Without that frame of reference, my interest was mainly in hearing a first-hand witness' take on it all.
I had been joined by my fellow nerd James, who claimed to Fountain owner Kelly that we compete to attend the most nerdy events.
Trying to impress James with my event knowledge, I asked if he was going to the artist talk after the book talk.
Since he didn't even know about it, that round went to me.
Reynolds Gallery was hosting a gallery talk with artist Sally Mann at 1 (or so the unreliable RTD had printed) and James was beside himself about it when I told him.
All of a sudden, we were heading straight from Fountain to Reynolds for more shared learning.
So you can imagine our mutual disappointment when we walked in to a full house and owner Bev Reynolds immediately apologizing because the gallery talk had been earlier.
She told us to come in for the question and answer session in progress and apologized profusely for the RTD error. I lost all my points right there.
Sorry, James.
I don't know who looked the most crestfallen, James, me, or the other latecomers clustered around us.
We only got to hear about ten minutes worth of Mann talking and while it was really good stuff (her developing methods, her shooting strategies), it was only a fraction of what she'd shared with the audience before we arrived.
Over-sized mounted copies of one of Mann's photographs were given to the audience, so there was that unexpected gift, but either of us would have preferred listening to Mann for an hour to a consolation prize.
On the other hand, we got to hear Mann talk about her work for ten minutes and for that we were grateful.
It doesn't excuse the RTD's sloppiness (or my error in taking them at their word), but we had to appreciate the satisfaction of a Saturday spent hearing about the art of photography past and present.
And that, I'm afraid, is what makes us nerds.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
A Lot of It is Luck*
I was out of town today, so I missed the opening of the Sally Mann exhibit at the VMFA.
Boo-hoo for me.
The only way I could deal with that loss was by attending the artist's reception for Mann's show "Afterlight" at Reynolds Gallery tonight.
Walking into the gallery was like seeing a who's who of the local art scene.
My only complaint was that there was so much schmoozing going on that actually seeing Mann's photographs was a challenge.
Not easily deterred when it comes to photography, I persevered and was rewarded with landscapes showcasing the eerie beauty of the south: Georgia, Mississippi, Louisiana, and naturally Virginia.
I ran into a photographer I know who works at Zeus (she'd taken the evening off for this momentous occasion) who, unlike me, had already seen and been wowed by the VMFA show.
She told me that many of the photographs in the show were her original inspiration for taking up photography back in the 90s.
In fact, she was pinching herself to believe that she was in the same room with Mann.
Not able to resist making my way around the gallery twice, I dwelt on some photographs more than others, trying to figure what about them spoke to me.
The theme of death and decay hung over most of them in the most beautiful possible black and white way.
I left with a feeling similar to that of having just finished reading Faulkner.
When I finally left the art elite behind, I took the path of least resistance and walked up a block to Six Burner.
I hadn't gotten the memo, but clearly it was the place to be tonight; every table was occupied and I heard that the next available table was in two hours.
None of which concerned me because while the bar was mostly full, a trio of guys at the corner had conveniently left my end stool free.
I slid in under the canopy of tiny white light-lit branches.
I was there to enjoy some wining, dining and crowd-watching, with the recently-back-in-action Josh as my conversational partner (bartender interrupted...by babyhood).
After ordering my Saint M Riesling and the 6B wings (done with spicy harissa butter), I insinuated myself into the conversation of the three charming guys to my right while they ate a cheese platter.
They'd come in looking for a table and had settled for a snack at the bar, so I asked what their Plan B was.
Wanting to stay parked (because, deep down, we all want to park once and party twice...or even thrice when we can), they'd decided to mosey down to Bellytimber for dinner.
I found it tough to understand how they could have had Six Burner in their sites and been willing to settle for Bellytimber, so I tried to get a feel for their restaurant preferences.
I was in full rescue mode.
After a lengthy discussion of what restaurants we all liked (and didn't), the consensus was that they should eat at Rowland's.
The butterbean cake alone was worth five minutes of discussion and if you've had it you know why.
I felt better for their change of plans and can only hope that they do too.
With any luck, they'll give me a full report back.
Another guy was telling me about when his 95-year old father was in a nursing home and his physician prescribed 4 ounces of vodka over ice twice a day, once at 4:00 and once at 4:30.
If his "Rx" hadn't arrived by 4:02, apparently his dad was on the phone questioning its whereabouts with the staff.
I can certainly understand a near-centenarian needing his meds.
My spicy wings arrived and with them, server T brought me a wad of paper towels.
"We don't usually need these at Six Burner, but here you go," he said.
The six meaty wings packed some Tunisian heat but had great flavor and crispy skin. I ate, I sucked bones and I destroyed my wad of paper towels with my buttery fingers.
6B Heaven.
Really, I kept meaning to leave but Josh kept sucking me back into a good conversation ("So how was the Sufjan show? I know you must have been there.") and interesting bar sitters kept arriving and leaving, so I stayed put.
I stayed through the uptight couple who tore through their drinks and appetizers and never once smiled at each other.
I stayed long enough for Chef Philip to come out of the kitchen and give me the opportunity to compliment his wings.
We got to talking about recently running into each other at Aziza and how much we both love that place despite the fact that so many people don't know it (Aziza? Where's that?).
"It's going to end up like Mama Zu's, where you can't get in," he predicted.
"We'd better go while we can," I agreed.
He's right. It's not big and eventually it will be discovered and mobbed.
I stayed through the discussion with Josh and a local musician about winning the lottery.
We all agreed that our needs are simple and that banking the principle and living off the interest was the way to go.
Talk is cheap, after all.
"I'm rich in spirit," Josh proclaimed. "This bartending gig is just a social experiment."
And we're the experiment's guinea pigs, the musician and I presumed.
No complaint from my cage.
This guinea pig is just fine with what she's expected to do.
Just don't be too cocky about predicting the experiment's results.
To paraphrase Sally Mann, "A lot of it is just luck."
Boo-hoo for me.
The only way I could deal with that loss was by attending the artist's reception for Mann's show "Afterlight" at Reynolds Gallery tonight.
Walking into the gallery was like seeing a who's who of the local art scene.
My only complaint was that there was so much schmoozing going on that actually seeing Mann's photographs was a challenge.
Not easily deterred when it comes to photography, I persevered and was rewarded with landscapes showcasing the eerie beauty of the south: Georgia, Mississippi, Louisiana, and naturally Virginia.
I ran into a photographer I know who works at Zeus (she'd taken the evening off for this momentous occasion) who, unlike me, had already seen and been wowed by the VMFA show.
She told me that many of the photographs in the show were her original inspiration for taking up photography back in the 90s.
In fact, she was pinching herself to believe that she was in the same room with Mann.
Not able to resist making my way around the gallery twice, I dwelt on some photographs more than others, trying to figure what about them spoke to me.
The theme of death and decay hung over most of them in the most beautiful possible black and white way.
I left with a feeling similar to that of having just finished reading Faulkner.
When I finally left the art elite behind, I took the path of least resistance and walked up a block to Six Burner.
I hadn't gotten the memo, but clearly it was the place to be tonight; every table was occupied and I heard that the next available table was in two hours.
None of which concerned me because while the bar was mostly full, a trio of guys at the corner had conveniently left my end stool free.
I slid in under the canopy of tiny white light-lit branches.
I was there to enjoy some wining, dining and crowd-watching, with the recently-back-in-action Josh as my conversational partner (bartender interrupted...by babyhood).
After ordering my Saint M Riesling and the 6B wings (done with spicy harissa butter), I insinuated myself into the conversation of the three charming guys to my right while they ate a cheese platter.
They'd come in looking for a table and had settled for a snack at the bar, so I asked what their Plan B was.
Wanting to stay parked (because, deep down, we all want to park once and party twice...or even thrice when we can), they'd decided to mosey down to Bellytimber for dinner.
I found it tough to understand how they could have had Six Burner in their sites and been willing to settle for Bellytimber, so I tried to get a feel for their restaurant preferences.
I was in full rescue mode.
After a lengthy discussion of what restaurants we all liked (and didn't), the consensus was that they should eat at Rowland's.
The butterbean cake alone was worth five minutes of discussion and if you've had it you know why.
I felt better for their change of plans and can only hope that they do too.
With any luck, they'll give me a full report back.
Another guy was telling me about when his 95-year old father was in a nursing home and his physician prescribed 4 ounces of vodka over ice twice a day, once at 4:00 and once at 4:30.
If his "Rx" hadn't arrived by 4:02, apparently his dad was on the phone questioning its whereabouts with the staff.
I can certainly understand a near-centenarian needing his meds.
My spicy wings arrived and with them, server T brought me a wad of paper towels.
"We don't usually need these at Six Burner, but here you go," he said.
The six meaty wings packed some Tunisian heat but had great flavor and crispy skin. I ate, I sucked bones and I destroyed my wad of paper towels with my buttery fingers.
6B Heaven.
Really, I kept meaning to leave but Josh kept sucking me back into a good conversation ("So how was the Sufjan show? I know you must have been there.") and interesting bar sitters kept arriving and leaving, so I stayed put.
I stayed through the uptight couple who tore through their drinks and appetizers and never once smiled at each other.
I stayed long enough for Chef Philip to come out of the kitchen and give me the opportunity to compliment his wings.
We got to talking about recently running into each other at Aziza and how much we both love that place despite the fact that so many people don't know it (Aziza? Where's that?).
"It's going to end up like Mama Zu's, where you can't get in," he predicted.
"We'd better go while we can," I agreed.
He's right. It's not big and eventually it will be discovered and mobbed.
I stayed through the discussion with Josh and a local musician about winning the lottery.
We all agreed that our needs are simple and that banking the principle and living off the interest was the way to go.
Talk is cheap, after all.
"I'm rich in spirit," Josh proclaimed. "This bartending gig is just a social experiment."
And we're the experiment's guinea pigs, the musician and I presumed.
No complaint from my cage.
This guinea pig is just fine with what she's expected to do.
Just don't be too cocky about predicting the experiment's results.
To paraphrase Sally Mann, "A lot of it is just luck."
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Following Richard Carlyon
I was in the minority without a memory of the man himself.
As I was standing at the Anderson Gallery admiring a Richard Carlyon painting from the 1970s, a man approached me and asked if I remembered the paintings from that period. I didn't because they were before my time; I didn't get to Richmond until the late '80s.
He looked like he felt sorry for me, but introduced himself as a former art history student and fan of Carlyon's work.
Minutes later I was inspecting a large work, intrigued by the pencil-looking lines etched into the flat color plains of the painting when another man asked me if I thought the lines were intentional (I did). He was an artist and also, it seems, a Carlyon admirer of many years.
We backed up from the work and admired it from a distance, losing sight of the lines and seeing nothing but color.
The retrospective I saw tonight at Reynolds Gallery, Visual Arts Center and the Anderson Gallery (I ran out of time and didn't make it to 1708 Gallery by 9:00 for the fourth part of the show) was a fascinating look at a major local artist whose work mirrored all the important periods in modern art.
I'm telling you, the transition from the art of his senior portfolio to his post 9/11 work was staggering and inspiring at the same time.
I loved that his actual studio, in which he had created art for over 50 years, had been fully recreated, down to his house slippers and music collection. As I admired paint brushes of all sizes and shapes and more art supplies than I even knew existed, it wasn't difficult to get a real sense of Carlyon's devotion to his art.
And my goodness, walking home just now, wasn't that a beautiful moon?
As I was standing at the Anderson Gallery admiring a Richard Carlyon painting from the 1970s, a man approached me and asked if I remembered the paintings from that period. I didn't because they were before my time; I didn't get to Richmond until the late '80s.
He looked like he felt sorry for me, but introduced himself as a former art history student and fan of Carlyon's work.
Minutes later I was inspecting a large work, intrigued by the pencil-looking lines etched into the flat color plains of the painting when another man asked me if I thought the lines were intentional (I did). He was an artist and also, it seems, a Carlyon admirer of many years.
We backed up from the work and admired it from a distance, losing sight of the lines and seeing nothing but color.
The retrospective I saw tonight at Reynolds Gallery, Visual Arts Center and the Anderson Gallery (I ran out of time and didn't make it to 1708 Gallery by 9:00 for the fourth part of the show) was a fascinating look at a major local artist whose work mirrored all the important periods in modern art.
I'm telling you, the transition from the art of his senior portfolio to his post 9/11 work was staggering and inspiring at the same time.
I loved that his actual studio, in which he had created art for over 50 years, had been fully recreated, down to his house slippers and music collection. As I admired paint brushes of all sizes and shapes and more art supplies than I even knew existed, it wasn't difficult to get a real sense of Carlyon's devotion to his art.
And my goodness, walking home just now, wasn't that a beautiful moon?
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