As you all know, Friday nights in my world were made for Scrabble and porch-sitting. Last Friday, as sheets of rain fell sideways on my windows—and many house plants threatened to bail off of the railings—I contemplated the perfection of remaining, for all eternity, inside my cozy home with Maria and the Parker Brothers.
But it was not to be. Just as I was dreaming this scenario, our friends Preston and Stacey were floating up to the house for Friday fun. Outside. In the hurricane.
Days before we knew what the weather would be like, Maria and I had committed to joining the weekend fray for Alejandro Escovedo at The Palladium downtown. Now, I have seen Alejandro—an artist I am sure will be quite familiar to you WMNFers out there—on several occasions. These occasions, too, were inclement. Perhaps Alejandro, like a wild summer storm, only blows into our fair city when climatic conditions are just right.
Well, so be it. I, and many others, will brave most any weather to see Alejandro’s brand of latin-style-roots-rock-meets-poetic-supplication just about any day. Even if I don’t own a raincoat.
Oh, did I mention that it was raining? Yeah, like ginormous bands of red radar nastiness, with the kind of street flooding that makes you wonder if a duck-tour boat might not have been more appropriate transportation.
So, we ran for the car, and did that sort of giggly, oh-my-God driving (so fun with three backseat-drivers) through the alleyways to find the closest parking spot—the flamboyant driving that only a group of good friends who have just been sharing several pre-night-out drinks find hysterical—and finally arrived (absolutely Gatorade-bucket, pouring-water-out-of-our-shoes drenched) at the grotto-like lobby that is the lovely Palladium Theater.
Some had brought umbrellas. Some had brought raincoats. Some were not shredding handfuls of paper towels in the bathroom to milk the torrents of rain from their hair. Those people were not us. But, we did not melt. Plus, we had beers, and a night of music that we knew would not disappoint.
Actually, to say that Alejandro Escovedo does not disappoint is like saying that the war in Iraq is a bit of a pickle. If they give out awards for understatements, these two are in the top five. Alejandro, usually accompanied by a band of some sort, armed himself last Friday with only two microphones and lead guitarist David Pulkingham. I do not, in any sense, exaggerate when I say the Rolling Stone simply had never heard of this man when they wrote their “Best Guitarists of All Time” list a few years ago. Forget the storm; this virtuoso is enough of a force of nature to put out a large-craft advisory.
Alejandro and David held us—yes, soaked as we were—spellbound inside the frigid auditorium, their incredible harmonies and wild, acoustic collaborations breathing transcendent promises into old Alejandro favorites like “Castanets,” and “Rosalie.” Flawless as the acoustics in The Palladium are, the duo even stepped away from the mics once or twice to enchant us with non-electric bliss. It was perfection.
Except, of course, for the unbelievably obnoxious people sitting in front of us.
People, come on. Why, for the love of all that is holy and sacred and good in this world, would you shell out fifty bucks for a show and then talk—loudly and without any sense of impropriety—throughout the entire performance? They even—and I am so not making this up but oh, dear Gabber readers, I wish I were—went out (to their car, I presume) to recover a book and read passages (quite audibly!) to one another during a few of Alejandro’s more sublime offerings. No, really. I assure you that this is true; I have witnesses. The book was Jon Katz’s Sign Off, a tome that Amazon.com tells us is an “absorbing, well-paced debut” novel from Mr. Katz, “a former producer for CBS Morning News” and it “instructs on the inner workings of a television news division.” Apparently it’s quite compelling, indeed. Maybe you’d like to read it—out load—during a quiet, sit-down occasion of your choice. Only, let me know ahead of time, so that I can skip it.
Okay, but despite the impudent halfwits—and I did finally overcome my inner fear of conflict to ask them to shut it for the last song—the show was, as Preston says, glorious. Worth every single penny. And, frankly, if they’d passed around a collection plate, I would have shelled out more. Musicians of this caliber must be supported. Thank God for people, like those at WMNF, who see the importance of investing in art over the almighty dollar.
Even if the idiots in front of you have no idea.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 3/20/08
March 24, 2008
March 4, 2008
The Meaning of Art and Other Shiny Objects
My friend Leah, who I would generally describe as a worldly and educated woman, was recently in a modern art museum in Paris. As she wandered through halls of sculpture, paintings and collages so obscure that a three-year-old might have created them, she tried to keep an open mind. She gamely persisted to understand the deeper, existential purpose of eyeball mobiles and patterned wallpaper, and she might have succeeded had she not turned a corner and come face-to-face with the patent cliché of the modern art world: three blank canvases.
I am not making this up. She summed up the experience to me later: “All I could imagine was that ‘artist’ laughing somewhere and saying ‘suckers!’”
Before you send me nasty letters, let me explain: I do not mention this story as a means to discredit the modern (or even the postmodern) art movement. My general understanding of the visual arts—apart from Leah’s experience—comes from two art history courses taken in college ten years ago. I took both sections of the course simultaneously (a feat that nearly any student will tell you is tantamount to academic suicide), and basically left with a vague—if not entirely correct—notion that Baroque equals naked people.
As you can imagine, when I wandered through The Arts Center downtown recently, it was with a healthy amount of skepticism, both for contemporary art and my ability to appreciate it. But why, after so many years of driving and walking past this building, did I finally decide to go in? Two words: shiny objects.
Without the slightest intention of “deconstructing art,” I entered the building as any good consumer would: via the gift shop. There are so many glittery, dangley objects d’arte in that place that I was immobilized—I fell into a “gift shop stupor,” if you will. I was so willing to accept the sheer originality of every piece that I actually noticed a large column of bubble wrap standing on its end and thought, “That’s interesting.” (Turns out it really was just bubble wrap, set out for the purpose that bubble wrap was intended, but you can never be too sure.)
In my semi-hypnotized state, I was then directed to the main event—Waves of Meaning: Robert Stackhouse & Carol Mickett. If I had come through the front entrance, as any normal, art-seeking person probably would, I might have experienced this exhibit in a whole different way. Here’s what I do know: I should have had a Leah moment. I was anticipating a Leah moment. I walked through the heavy, vinyl flaps and right into the middle of what could definitely have been a Leah moment. I’m not kidding you when I tell you what was on the other side of those flaps: thin, cedar planks.
Cedar planks filled the blue-lit space, dark and imposing, forming a repetitive, A-frame structure over and around which more cedar planks were nailed. The installation piece was a loop, with the structures built in quadrants; the rough, wooden pieces were placed precisely in some, haphazardly in another. And, I know what you’re thinking, but the whole thing was (in a word I honestly try not to use), breathtaking.
The artists note that Waves of Meaning is ostensibly a journey through the “various ways of representing the Gulf of Mexico which, in turn, act as metaphors for their collaboration, the process of making art, and the living of a life.”
I admit that I liked the sound of that, but I can’t really tell you what it all has to do with the Gulf of Mexico. I can tell you that any artist who can make me stare at cedar planks for twenty minutes must certainly be achieving a higher purpose.
I can also tell you that the rest of the exhibit was equally enthralling, though in the more two-dimensional manner I am accustomed to. One wall consisted of a swirling and stark recreation of the Gulf of Mexico. Another wall (and I’m risking police inquiry when I say I actually contemplated how to sneak the thing home with me) was a long, wavy succession of blue and black zebra stripes. The effect of this gorgeous watercolor is indescribable.
Still another part of the exhibit professed to hold the “key” to understanding the installation piece, but I’m sure I didn’t make all of the connections. What I do think I finally understand, however, is the idea that this exhibit, like most art—perhaps even those three blank canvases in Paris—has a myriad of meanings. As the title of this exhibit suggests, the experience is not finite, but ephemeral, layered, and complex. Whatever you draw from these pieces is, like “the process of making art, and the living of a life,” perfectly correct.
This exhibit was in its last week at the Arts Center, and I, just wandering in off of the street, was lucky enough to have the experience. I’m sorry that I didn’t know about it sooner; Waves of Meaning is already gone.
Of course, I have since learned that the Arts Center is always buzzing with something new and, usually, fantastic. And there’s more there than the Stackhouse/Mickett exhibit. An interesting display from local high school students—a strange mix of passion, silliness and profundity that only high school students can muster—fills a back hall gallery. Some of it is quite good.
The Center also offers all kinds of classes and artist opportunities, and other gallery areas feature artwork for sale. I was reminded, however, that my limited capacity for appreciating art is not the only reason I have mass-produced prints on my walls: original art is not cheap. Not even in the gift shop.
Although, I might be able to talk them into a good deal on that bubble wrap.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, 2/28/08
I am not making this up. She summed up the experience to me later: “All I could imagine was that ‘artist’ laughing somewhere and saying ‘suckers!’”
Before you send me nasty letters, let me explain: I do not mention this story as a means to discredit the modern (or even the postmodern) art movement. My general understanding of the visual arts—apart from Leah’s experience—comes from two art history courses taken in college ten years ago. I took both sections of the course simultaneously (a feat that nearly any student will tell you is tantamount to academic suicide), and basically left with a vague—if not entirely correct—notion that Baroque equals naked people.
As you can imagine, when I wandered through The Arts Center downtown recently, it was with a healthy amount of skepticism, both for contemporary art and my ability to appreciate it. But why, after so many years of driving and walking past this building, did I finally decide to go in? Two words: shiny objects.
Without the slightest intention of “deconstructing art,” I entered the building as any good consumer would: via the gift shop. There are so many glittery, dangley objects d’arte in that place that I was immobilized—I fell into a “gift shop stupor,” if you will. I was so willing to accept the sheer originality of every piece that I actually noticed a large column of bubble wrap standing on its end and thought, “That’s interesting.” (Turns out it really was just bubble wrap, set out for the purpose that bubble wrap was intended, but you can never be too sure.)
In my semi-hypnotized state, I was then directed to the main event—Waves of Meaning: Robert Stackhouse & Carol Mickett. If I had come through the front entrance, as any normal, art-seeking person probably would, I might have experienced this exhibit in a whole different way. Here’s what I do know: I should have had a Leah moment. I was anticipating a Leah moment. I walked through the heavy, vinyl flaps and right into the middle of what could definitely have been a Leah moment. I’m not kidding you when I tell you what was on the other side of those flaps: thin, cedar planks.
Cedar planks filled the blue-lit space, dark and imposing, forming a repetitive, A-frame structure over and around which more cedar planks were nailed. The installation piece was a loop, with the structures built in quadrants; the rough, wooden pieces were placed precisely in some, haphazardly in another. And, I know what you’re thinking, but the whole thing was (in a word I honestly try not to use), breathtaking.
The artists note that Waves of Meaning is ostensibly a journey through the “various ways of representing the Gulf of Mexico which, in turn, act as metaphors for their collaboration, the process of making art, and the living of a life.”
I admit that I liked the sound of that, but I can’t really tell you what it all has to do with the Gulf of Mexico. I can tell you that any artist who can make me stare at cedar planks for twenty minutes must certainly be achieving a higher purpose.
I can also tell you that the rest of the exhibit was equally enthralling, though in the more two-dimensional manner I am accustomed to. One wall consisted of a swirling and stark recreation of the Gulf of Mexico. Another wall (and I’m risking police inquiry when I say I actually contemplated how to sneak the thing home with me) was a long, wavy succession of blue and black zebra stripes. The effect of this gorgeous watercolor is indescribable.
Still another part of the exhibit professed to hold the “key” to understanding the installation piece, but I’m sure I didn’t make all of the connections. What I do think I finally understand, however, is the idea that this exhibit, like most art—perhaps even those three blank canvases in Paris—has a myriad of meanings. As the title of this exhibit suggests, the experience is not finite, but ephemeral, layered, and complex. Whatever you draw from these pieces is, like “the process of making art, and the living of a life,” perfectly correct.
This exhibit was in its last week at the Arts Center, and I, just wandering in off of the street, was lucky enough to have the experience. I’m sorry that I didn’t know about it sooner; Waves of Meaning is already gone.
Of course, I have since learned that the Arts Center is always buzzing with something new and, usually, fantastic. And there’s more there than the Stackhouse/Mickett exhibit. An interesting display from local high school students—a strange mix of passion, silliness and profundity that only high school students can muster—fills a back hall gallery. Some of it is quite good.
The Center also offers all kinds of classes and artist opportunities, and other gallery areas feature artwork for sale. I was reminded, however, that my limited capacity for appreciating art is not the only reason I have mass-produced prints on my walls: original art is not cheap. Not even in the gift shop.
Although, I might be able to talk them into a good deal on that bubble wrap.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, 2/28/08
Golfing With Grandma
A couple of years ago, my grandparents did something unexpected: they moved north to retire. Of course, by “north” I mean North Carolina, but after more than 20 years in Florida, they have become snowbirds. They built, as my grandfather has always done, their own house in a community in the mountains.
I mention this, however, not to point out my grandparents’ peculiar migratory habits, but to highlight a phenomenon of the “golden years” that I never thought would happen in our family. You see, the centerpiece of this community in North Carolina is not necessarily the rugged, mountain wilderness, but a large, sloping golf course—perfect for my grandmother’s new, favorite sport.
Granted, this is not an unusual activity for the senior set. In Florida, it’s really not an unusual activity for anyone. Even my high school had a golf “team.” But, it’s just not the sort of thing my family has ever done. Apart from my grandfather’s obsession with racquetball, our “sports” have usually involved less strenuous activities such as board games and wine tasting.
So now my grandmother, my aunt and my uncle (admittedly a huge fan of golf before joining the family) give each other clip-on towels, titanium clubs, bags with built-in, automatic stands, super long-distance golf balls, loads of lessons and other golfing doodads and accoutrements. As they say, golf is an expensive hobby.
But probably the most intriguing bi-product of this family obsession is that I have been sucked into the freak show. Yes, me. Talented, athletic me.
Because my grandfather does not have the patience to drive to the golf course, much less spend the afternoon walking after an egg-sized ball—and because I have been known to stare at the walls for entertainment—I have become my grandmother’s default golf partner. The truth is, though, I don’t mind so much.
Okay, that’s a lie. I love it. Aside from the fact that my grandmother is the coolest person I know, golfing is a sublime sport. (Well, game, really. I’m not sure if an activity that only elevates your heart rate when you sink a ball into the water trap can really be called a “sport.”)
But maybe that’s why I like it. I’m not very good and, I’m sure my grandmother will forgive me, but she’s not either. It takes us two hours to play nine holes and, if you know anything about golf, you know that’s about twice as long as it should take. We sit, we hit a few dozen “practice” shots, we giggle, we muck around in bushes and water holes looking for the ball and other lost objects, we sit some more and let hoards of “real” golfers play through, and generally wander the course laughing hysterically at our deficiencies. It’s the most fun you can have without beer, really.
While the Tampa Bay area is home to a bajillion golf courses, our favorite is Twin Brooks in St. Petersburg. One of three city-run courses, Twin Brooks has a down-to-Earth atmosphere, and18 holes challenging enough for the good, the bad and—I have some experience with this—the ugly. There’re water traps and sand pits and bushes galore, and a decent driving range where you can take out your pent-up aggression on the ball rounder-upper guy. Oh, and there’s even a small shop so you can buy all those doodads for the golf-obsessed in your life.
As for me, I haven’t made the big leap into investing in any doodads of my own, but I do have a putter. And some tees. And a strange looking fork device for repairing “divots.” My grandmother gave them all to me. Don’t worry though; I’m a long way from building a house in the mountains. Do you realize how long it would take me to find my ball in a place like that?
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 1/30/08
I mention this, however, not to point out my grandparents’ peculiar migratory habits, but to highlight a phenomenon of the “golden years” that I never thought would happen in our family. You see, the centerpiece of this community in North Carolina is not necessarily the rugged, mountain wilderness, but a large, sloping golf course—perfect for my grandmother’s new, favorite sport.
Granted, this is not an unusual activity for the senior set. In Florida, it’s really not an unusual activity for anyone. Even my high school had a golf “team.” But, it’s just not the sort of thing my family has ever done. Apart from my grandfather’s obsession with racquetball, our “sports” have usually involved less strenuous activities such as board games and wine tasting.
So now my grandmother, my aunt and my uncle (admittedly a huge fan of golf before joining the family) give each other clip-on towels, titanium clubs, bags with built-in, automatic stands, super long-distance golf balls, loads of lessons and other golfing doodads and accoutrements. As they say, golf is an expensive hobby.
But probably the most intriguing bi-product of this family obsession is that I have been sucked into the freak show. Yes, me. Talented, athletic me.
Because my grandfather does not have the patience to drive to the golf course, much less spend the afternoon walking after an egg-sized ball—and because I have been known to stare at the walls for entertainment—I have become my grandmother’s default golf partner. The truth is, though, I don’t mind so much.
Okay, that’s a lie. I love it. Aside from the fact that my grandmother is the coolest person I know, golfing is a sublime sport. (Well, game, really. I’m not sure if an activity that only elevates your heart rate when you sink a ball into the water trap can really be called a “sport.”)
But maybe that’s why I like it. I’m not very good and, I’m sure my grandmother will forgive me, but she’s not either. It takes us two hours to play nine holes and, if you know anything about golf, you know that’s about twice as long as it should take. We sit, we hit a few dozen “practice” shots, we giggle, we muck around in bushes and water holes looking for the ball and other lost objects, we sit some more and let hoards of “real” golfers play through, and generally wander the course laughing hysterically at our deficiencies. It’s the most fun you can have without beer, really.
While the Tampa Bay area is home to a bajillion golf courses, our favorite is Twin Brooks in St. Petersburg. One of three city-run courses, Twin Brooks has a down-to-Earth atmosphere, and18 holes challenging enough for the good, the bad and—I have some experience with this—the ugly. There’re water traps and sand pits and bushes galore, and a decent driving range where you can take out your pent-up aggression on the ball rounder-upper guy. Oh, and there’s even a small shop so you can buy all those doodads for the golf-obsessed in your life.
As for me, I haven’t made the big leap into investing in any doodads of my own, but I do have a putter. And some tees. And a strange looking fork device for repairing “divots.” My grandmother gave them all to me. Don’t worry though; I’m a long way from building a house in the mountains. Do you realize how long it would take me to find my ball in a place like that?
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 1/30/08
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