September 18, 2007 at 9:19 pm · Filed under Uncategorized
While I didnt attend as many TBA events as my dog-eared festival booklet may allude, I did make it to the Affair at the Jupiter.
The Affair at the Jupiter is a yearly event for the Jupiter Hotel on Burnside, where they clear out one section of the hotel (top and bottom stories) and make way for art galleries to exhibit from across the country. We made our way through the crowd on one of the last sunny days of 2007, along the small strip of fake lawn between rooms. Chalkboard doors proclaim gallery names and leave open the opportunity for spontaneous creativity. We ponder at the cinema project’s display of constantly rolling filmstrip, and admire Jon Langford’s folk inspired portraits of Bob Dylan. There was of course a bit of the familiar as well with exhibits from Portland’s Quality Pictures (a 1st thurs favorite) and Rake Gallery. Overall it was like getting a little taste of every gallery, if you didnt enjoy one, simply head next door for new adventures.
September 9, 2007 at 2:06 pm · Filed under Uncategorized
Im sure Hellen Keller is rolling in her grave. For years we have bought into the stereotype of the blind, being kind, mild-mannered and overcoming obstacles that those of us who are sight-enabled couldn’t imagine. Well no more! Apparently a rebel gang of the blind is leaving their mark on our fair city. Here is a close up of the rebel mark carefully planted at eye level on an abandoned building where I encountered it on a First Thursday walk. Blind Graffiti indeed. They are defacing public property and spreading their blind power message. But what is that message? I run my fingers over the raised dots of the rebel’s code but gain no comprehension. It could be, “1 potato 2 potato, 3 potato, 4…” it could be, “ink a bink a bottle of ink…” or it could be much more. Sorry Helen.
September 1, 2007 at 3:51 pm · Filed under Uncategorized
Day one: 8/15/07 - Eugene OR
Wednesday, day one of Portland to San Fran road trip. 96 degrees or at least that’s what it feels like in the encased car midday. Just witnessed a Eugene bum, distinguished only from a normal Eugene resident by his trash bag tote drop suddenly to the ground on a perfectly manicured suburban lawn and commence to do push-ups. Only to spring to his feet and continue his steps as if provoked by an imaginary boot camp sergeant.
Went for an impromptu hike; wore a skirt and sports bra for lack of better attire. Proof that you can never pack too much.
Day two: 8/16/07 - Arrival in CA
Entering California, in Redding, and make the required stop at In & Out, the only place where I say “animal style please.” We file through a line worthy of a Disneyland attraction, interacting with employees who are 5 times as cheerful as any Dumbo attendant.
-Arrival in San Francisco
Checked into the Metro Hotel. From the outside had all the promises of being a hip, swanky hotel. It had a sleek, posh red-walled restaurant and outdoor gardens with string patio lights. Conversely, our room was a small, white-walled enclosure no bigger than the Alcatraz cells across the bay; also featured cigarette stained countertops. But nonetheless a place to rest our bodies and minds.
Went exploring on Haight Street, my partner whispering stories of the summer of love some 40 years ago, when Janis Joplin & the Grateful Dead were neighbors and preached from their doorsteps of peace, love, alternate perspectives and altered states of mind. Their modern decedents still haunt the neighborhood, evidenced by the barrage of tie-dye, atheist bookstores, and indie music shops. Their message is sold in shop windows now and spoke freely by homeless street youth.
Day three - 8/17/07 - Redwood city
Help celebrate an 89 year old man’s birthday. Hear stories the the San Francisco of yore. See photos of young men and women in the 1900s wearing loose fitting clothing and camping on the beach. Of men dressed in suits and hats, smoking cigars and swigging beers. Hear stories of the depression and tb epidemic. Hear stories of love found and lost and San Francisco’s coming of age.
Day four- 8/18/07 - San Francisco
We start our last day at the the Legion of Honor Art Museum gazing at the multitude of Monets, Renoirs, Cezanne and a smattering of deKooning. Scouring every brushstroke, we produce our own works of art later over dinner on a paper tablecloth. We journey through little italy, stopping for a drink at a swanky jazz bar with a 3:00 Saturday afternoon show. We smile cheese in front of Coit Tower and find ourselves headed down Columbus into City Lights Bookstore. While it’s no Powells, and there were no “I got lost” stickers, City Lights exuded history and charm. Its walls were papered with stories told through yellowed newpaper articles and photos with attached captions of Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac and the Beat Generation. A documentary of protests, riots and movements from the past.
We stop for a drink, “Widmer Hefeweizen, please” at Vesuvio a quaint little bar with an upstairs balcony. Embellished in paint, a quote above the door of the bar states, “I am itching to get away from Portland, Oregon.” Being mildly offended and altogether curious, I inquire to the assiduous and severely annoyed bartender as to the meaning. He grumbles about some Portland flea epidemic years back. I start to muster up some sort of defense for my fair city, but having just gone through a flea bout with my own cat, find myself at a loss. Talk about bad PR and an odd expression to paint on your bar entryway.
Later that evening we attend an art opening. Ben Frost, a visiting artist from Australia and his vibrant painted collages of American brand icons. Ben stood with me for a while, drink in hand, wearing a camouflage jacket full of patches, dark jeans and an earring. Spoke of his girlfriend back home, an anticipated studio exchange and surviving as an artist without selling out to big brands. I tell him Im a designer and suddenly I feel like a sell out and the conversation soon dies. Soon after this I am bitten by the studio dog who was later described as being “grumpy.”
Day five- 8/19/07 - Hwy 101
On the drive home I put my feet up and read from Ken Kesey’s “Sometimes a Great Notion.” Get out of the car to hug a giant tree, silent guardian of the redwood forest for hundreds of years.
August 12, 2007 at 8:12 pm · Filed under Uncategorized
It’s rare that I attend gallery openings too far away from the standard, well-trodden, wine-stained First Thursday gallery paths, but 23 Sandy’s gallery exhibit for July was just curious enough to draw me out. It featured various artists all set to the same task, to create a handmade book based on the theme of sexuality. As you can imagine the results were wide-ranging from sweet and tender to downright disturbing.
Visitors meandered, flipping through the delicate pieces with the provided white gloves. A hip young grandmother lectured her grandsons after overhearing their whispered snickers. My favorite book is featured above. A story told as you flip through a wallet.
I suppose all wallets could be viewed as stories, some more revealing than others. My wallet story is quite voluminous and contains capivating pages such as: my Rogue Nation Brewery id Badge, Multnomah County Library card, Hot Lips punch card, and a receipt from Edgefield’s 3-par golf course. I think that about says it all.
July 7, 2007 at 11:37 am · Filed under Uncategorized
On the fourth of July, my partner and I started the day, a day for celebrating democracy, ironically at a polo match (the sport of kings). The polo field stretched at our feet while large white tents with white couches and red and blue striped accents lined up behind us. There were enough summer delicacies to feed any army and drinks to compliment. I settled on chilled white wine to combat the 90 plus degree heat, pasta salad, and a bread with an olive tapendade. Women around me wore large straw hats and glittering red and white striped high heels. Men exchanged golf tips and talked about classic cars. The first chukker began and we were struck by the speed of the horses, the clashes of malets and the overall thrill of witnessing a new sport for the first time.
Later in the day, I watched fireworks travel from their launch on a barge on the Willamette to some point in mid air above my head and explode in colorful illumination. I was in prime position, comfortably wedged within the steel structure of the median on the Hawthorne bridge. It was a warm night with a slight breeze that tousled my hair, dry and disheveled from a day of chlorine and sunshine. My skin, dewy from a playful game of basketball glowed reflections of the sparks. Bicyclists rode by shouting patriotic quips. Fathers had children hoisted on their shoulders. A man near us tried unsuccessfully to hide the fact that he was smoking more than just cigarettes. Two Chinese tourists asked to have their picture taken holding an American flag, with fireworks bursting in the background, genuine smiles plastered on their faces. An through it all I felt an overwhelming sense of freedom and comradery that is so often lost in daily routine. I drew close to my partner and felt completely free and beautiful.
