The Only Difference

Sometimes you need to look at the energy you've been putting into what you do and regroup.

Or, as my long-time friend Joel would say, deny, deny, deny.

That denial began by meeting friends on the deck outside the Best Cafe at the VMFA before the artist talk began.

Enjoying the warm evening air, we all acknowledged that tonight may have been the last fine night of the year before cold weather arrives.

Artist Tristan Lowe, the creator of Mocha Dick, the amazing life-size whale sculpture currently residing at the VMFA, got me thinking about new phases of life during his talk tonight.

Taking the audience through a history of his sculptural work, he said he reached a point where he needed a new challenge, an epic project with which to challenge himself.

His conversation with curator John Ravenal  provided a fascinating look at a twenty-year career that built on itself, taking flight with figures whizzing around a gallery and culminating in the white felt whale now curved around a column at the museum.

Lowe was well-spoken and self-deprecating and probably overly forthright for many of the blue hairs in the audience.

I appreciated his honesty in discussing the journey his art has made. It was especially satisfying to hear how much he liked the contained placement of his whale in our museum.

Personally, I've been struggling with it, although I'm grateful that we got it at all.

No doubt Richmonders will look back in twenty years and marvel that we had a Lowe sculpture on exhibit way back in 2011.

After the talk and saying farewell to my friends, I made  a bee-line for the Roosevelt where I'd promised multiple people I'd be headed.

Saying that the place was a zoo is a gross understatement.

The place was mobbed, with people waiting for bar stools, waiting for tables and no one showing any signs of leaving.

I hovered, I said hi to people I knew and eventually I scored a glass of Pollak Durant White, a blend that came highly recommended by the guy who'd invited me there tonight.

With patience I eventually got a bar stool and the company of a wine rep (with little tolerance for Virginia wines) and his girlfriend.

Unexpectedly, I learned that the Virginia winery owner I'd met and sent in had already been in for dinner.

I was disappointed to hear that the kitchen was already out of the pig's head terrine I wanted and had to regroup.

Choice #2 was the double cheeseburger with cheddar, bacon onion jam and rooster sauce. To allow me to live with myself, I ordered a side of roasted baby carrots with ginger and orange juice.

Chef Lee's burger borders on sublime; it could be the addition of Sausagecraft meat to the mix or it could be the addition of foie gras butter.

Either way, it's a burger to be reckoned with.

Wisely, I ate it as quickly as I could before my arteries hardened completely. Or someone asked for a bite.

I ran into a couple of friends who are to be extras in the Lincoln movie. One had had his beard shaved to Civil War -looking fashion and the other had spent the day having his pierced (okay, plugged) ears cosmetically altered.

Then there was the beer rep who wanted to tell me about all the Beer Week events going on. The only problem was that I don't drink beer.

A friend told me about U2's Philly show with Interpol opening (not their best effort, he said) and the prime seats they'd had.

The wine rep and I discussed Oregon Pinot Noir and South African Pinotage and why he has a hard time with Virginia Claret.

By the time I switched to Blenheim Cab Franc, the crowds were beginning to thin and the staff no longer considered themselves in the weeds.

It was the best time to gather friends and talk trash about music, restaurants and how expensive it is to have a print framed.

Meanwhile, in the back of my head, the imaginary CD playing was saying, "Time to change course."

Sometimes your best period comes after a sharp turn in direction.

Or so an artist once said.

Must We Fall Back?

Could it stay this weather for a few more months?

It's so beautiful out there and at 81 degrees, a practically perfect temperature for someone like me who gets cold easily.

Not happy to be inside, I called up a restaurant friend I knew was off today and we made plans to meet up at the VMFA Boulevard entrance (always).

He hadn't seen Mocha Dick or the Tobacco Project, so we did those first.

He remarked on the swing between the two ("Wow! A cigarette rug and a life-sized whale?"), but I see them both as representative of the unique offerings that characterize the new VMFA.

We wanted to see the print exhibit "Temples and Shrines in Japan: Woodblock Prints hy Kawase Hasui," and I marveled at how many of the prints showed the stark contrast of snow over vibrant colored buildings.

But the main point in going was to fully explore the sculpture garden, which I hadn't yet done.

I'm a big fan of Maillot's "La Riviere" with its reclining female figure and got a kick out of Arman's "Captain Nemo's Accumulation," a collection of propellers.

But while I'd seen the cascading water stairway, I'd not yet walked up and down the steps beside it.

Nor had I seen the bank of little water fountains near the top of the hill. They resembled exploding champagne bottles to me, each spewing forth with a celebratory froth.

At the top of the hill, we sat down on the lone bench overlooking the garden but with a limited view of it.

We heard the bugle at nearby Benedictine High School signaling the last formation of the day.  In the clear afternoon air, it floated over the sounds of water surrounding us.

Walking back down the hill, we chose the spots where future sculpture should be placed, should the VMFA want our opinion.

After a leisurely time in the garden, we still weren't ready to go back inside, so we strolled over to Curbside to sit on their patio and soak up the perfect October afternoon.

He enjoyed a bacon burger while I sipped a Sauvignon Blanc and we compared Folk Fest experiences in the sunshine.

Curbside is not a regular hangout for me, but on an exquisite autumn afternoon with only one other couple on the patio with us, it was practically perfect.

Really, just a few more months of this would be fine. Say, maybe through February?

Thar She Blows

I have seen "Mocha Dick" and he is enormous.

The 52' white felt whale that is currently residing in a gallery at the VMFA is truly a sight to behold.

It's actually built to scale over an armature of inflated vinyl. The barnacles are handcrafted. The scars were made by the zig-zag stitch on a sewing machine. Discreet zippers hold the enormous piece together.

Standing next to it gives a mere human a sense of the terror such a creature could cause to a boat full of men in the middle of the ocean.

Tristin Lowe's labor of love is a tribute to the same sperm whale that inspired Melville's "Moby Dick" and the accompanying items in the show reflect this.

There's a harpooning scene carved on a whale tooth (as big as you might expect).

A rare 1930s edition of "Moby Dick" shows an illustration of Captain Ahab. "To accomplish his object, Ahab must use tools, and of all tools used in the shadow of the moon, men are most apt to get out of order."


Aren't they, though?

A whale oil lamp from 1813 was made by using the free blow technique.  An Rockwell Kent engraving shows a lookout on a ship's mast. There's Robert Salmon's 1839 oil of "Boston Harbor."

As I moved around the whale, it struck me how tight the quarters were. Load-bearing columns abutted the piece and I wondered why it had been placed in such a small room, relatively speaking.

Turns out the only other place it would fit was the atrium (and too many revenue-generating parties are booked there) so it was put in this gallery at the back of the 21st century galleries out of necessity.

It's the smallest room "Mocha Dick" has ever been shown in.

That's not a complaint; I'd rather have it here and be tight than not have ever experienced it at VMFA.

I spent so long admiring the whale that I ended up talking with one of the guards.

"Do you ever get tired of it?" I asked.

"Never," he said emphatically. "For the first three weeks, I couldn't look away from it. Now if I work in another gallery, I come over here just to see it."

In an 1830 article, the whale was described as "As white as wool. As white as a snowdrift. White as the surf around him."

Every bit of that applies to the magnificent creature I saw today, but without the fear factor.

I'm willing to bet that you won't be able to look away, either.