Waxman, man of many hobbies
I’ve known Lorin Waxman for longer than either of us care to remember–but he’s been playing bridge for over 30 years, which I guess is a clue.
When he isn’t playing bridge, Lorin likes to fish. At least that what he calls it. I think he just likes to torture fish. Lorin will fly to the far reaches of Montana, hike into the hills, get up at 0-dark-30, wade into an icy stream, hook a trout, then LET IT GO!!
This is called “catch and release”. I call it insanity, but what do I know?
It really is beautiful in Big Sky Country.
Okay, so the big time conservationists all approve of catch and release. It’s considered cool by the Sierra Club and tree huggers from all over. It even has an article in Wikipedia, which says it’s a good thing.
If I’m going to go to all the trouble to outwit a creature with an IQ of 12 which eats mosquitos, I’m going to be frying it in butter and tarragon, covering it in slivered almonds and having dinner.
Proud fisherman showing off his trophy before putting it back.
There isn’t any point to this article, I just thought I write about Waxman because he gave me a couple of photos to share. Fishing keeps him off the streets, and that can’t be all bad.
What artist statements really mean
The little blurbs artist write about their own work always crack me up. There’s even a website, the Arty Bollocks Generator, which will automatically come up with gems like:
My work explores the relationship between new class identities and football chants.
With influences as diverse as Kierkegaard and Frida Kahlo, new synergies are created from both traditional and modern narratives.
Ever since I was a teenager I have been fascinated by the ephemeral nature of the human condition. What starts out as vision soon becomes corrupted into a tragedy of temptation, leaving only a sense of dread and the chance of a new understanding.
As subtle replicas become distorted through frantic and repetitive practice, the viewer is left with a statement of the edges of our era.
Now this artist explains what her statement means:
Prospect is dim
Gail’s son Toby is home for the summer, living in the guest house with his girlfriend Molly, both of them working on a small organic specialty farm in Sunol. One of the customers of this farm is the restaurant Prospect, in San Francisco. Friday night, we left Jack and Lisa at the Picasso exhibit and joined the kids there for dinner.
Situated at the corner of Spear and Folsom, just south of Market in the downtown area, Prospect is hip, slick and cool. The crowd is all young, loud and good looking. I’m lucky they let me in the door.
The menu is all modern and organic, there just isn’t much of it. We were all surprised at how few offerings there are.
Which is not to say that we couldn’t find something to eat. Toby and Molly eat vegetarian, and the house offered to make an off-menu dish for them, as well as modify another dish for them.
The biggest problem we had was simply getting our food–it took more than 45 minutes for the first courses to arrive. Possibly, that was because there was a party of 22 people across from us (older, Asian, all the men at one end all the women at the other). Trying to get 22 dishes out at the same time for group like that really taxes a kitchen.
Foie Gras torchon
I started with the foie gras torchon. “Torchon”, I now know, means wrapped in a towel and poached–I got a very dense, round piece of foie gras, served with cinnamon raisin toast and tiny champagne grapes. Although I prefer it to be warm and this was cold, I managed to choke it all down.
Gail's scallops, served on the salmon setup so she could enjoy the corn
A few years ago, Gail and I went to Julius Castle, a venerable old establishment on the hill in the City. I wanted one fish served on the setup for another, and the house refused to accommodate me. Prospect is better than that–when Gail wanted the scallops, but the corn from the salmon, it was no problem.
Four different cuts of goat meat.
I’m pretty adventurous in the food department, so there was no chance that I’d pass up the goat. They offered a chop, a piece of sausage, a piece of belly (like rich bacon) and a “roulade”, whatever that was. You don’t get goat everyday, and it’s a shame. It was delicious, and the best sized portion of anything we ordered. The kids had the gnocchi, and it seemed like a tiny little plate to me.
Go out with a pair of 21-year-olds, and dessert is sure to be on the program. We were hoping for some to be comped due to the slow service, but that didn’t happen. Still, we had the Mississippi mud cake, the Prospect Sundae and the Griddled Peach Crepes, and there were no leftovers.
As I write this, it seems like a pretty good place, yet none of us were excited or much interested in going back. I think that’s mostly due to the slow service, which might be a one time thing and not an indication of structural failure of their system. The food was certainly good, yet not spectacular. We didn’t hate it, just weren’t thrilled. I guess that’s all I have to say.
Chicago, that toddling play
There is a new playhouse in Pleasanton, the Firehouse Arts Center. A beautiful facility, with an art gallery and a theater seating maybe 300. It’s about 2 years old, although Gail and I got there for the first time Saturday night to see Chicago in a new production directed by our friend Lois Grandi.
Lois Grandi, and her beautiful daughter. The daughter is the tall one.
The production was put on by the Pacific Coast Repertory Theater, a relatively new company founded by two Equity actors who live in Pleasanton, David Judson and Joy Sherratt, musical director Pat Parr and actor Scott Maraj.
The theater contains an open stage area; there are no curtains or wings. A large turntable stage left allows entrances and exits and quick changes of scene. The band sits at the top of a group of steps at the back of the stage. I noticed tables on the sides where people were sitting with their wine bottles and ice buckets–big shots? big donors? I gotta find out how to get one of those tables, since Gail didn’t like sitting in the front row dead center.
The performance was excellent, given that there were only 2 Equity members in the cast–you guessed it, the company founders, David Judson is Billy Flynn and Joy Sterratt is Roxy Hart. Velma Kelly is played by Nicole Fryman, a 30 veteran of theater, cabaret and film. Sebastian Romeo gave a wonderful, touching performance as Amos Hart, the schmo of a husband Roxy walks all over.
Since they announced that there was no flash photography, I felt free to take non-flash photos and even a short video. Here is David Judson beginning my favorite song, “The Old Razzle-Dazzle”:
[youtube+http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5uoDuexBa6I]
The lighting effects were excellent and dramatic for such a small theater. A mylar sheet on the back wall stage left became many different colors and looks just by changing the lights. You can see it here in a photo as Joy Sterratt sings “Roxy”:
Joy Sterratt as Roxy Hart
Chicago is one of the great musicals, written by Fred Ebb and Bob Fosse, with music by John Kander. Fosse did the original choreography, which Lois has excellently adapted for Firehouse stage. We’ve seen it on stage in San Francisco, Gail saw it in New York with Ann Reinking and Bebe Neuwirth, everyone saw the film a few years ago. It’s hard for a local production to stand up to all that, but the Pacific Coast Rep does a fine job and gave us an excellent and enjoyable production.
Picasso
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Last week, we hit MOMA for the Stein show. Many Picasso’s in the collection, since he was a particular personal and artistic favorite of Gertrude.
This week, we went to the DeYoung for the Picasso show. I’ll let the museum describe it:
The de Young hosts an extraordinary exhibition of more than 100 masterpieces by Spanish artist Pablo Picasso (1881–1973) from the permanent collection of Paris’s world-renowned Musée National Picasso. The once-in-a-lifetime exhibition, made possible only because of the temporary closure of the Musée Picasso until 2012 for extensive renovations, comprises paintings, sculptures, drawings, and prints drawn from every phase of the artist’s career.
Life always has complications. We were supposed to meet Jack and Lisa at the door, since Lisa had purchased the tickets (you always have to buy tickets in advance for special exhibitions, and plan a specific time). As we got there, my phone rang. It was Lisa, stuck in traffic and not going to be there for 15 or 20 minutes.
Thankfully, this is the age of cell phones and computers. I walked over to the membership desk, gave the phone to the woman working, she got Lisa’s membership number and printed out our tickets. Problem solved.
Going downstairs, we purchased our audio tours. Never fail to get the audio tour.
At 5:00 pm on Friday, there was no line to get into the show, so we punched the first number into our audio units and had at it.
This exhibition begins with:
le mort de casagemus - picasso
This is a very early work, depicting the funeral of Picasso’s friend, who took his own life in despair after a failed love affair. It is significant because the death is thought to have precipitated his “blue period”, and caused a premature concept of his own mortality that colored the rest of his life.
Included in the show are many of his more than 1000 sketches for Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, (which hangs in the Museum of Modern Art in New York) often cited as the single most significant work of the 20th century and the origination of cubism. I thought it was odd that there were no sketches or preliminary work related to Guernica, his other world-changing work. (Which resides in the Prado in Madrid.)
A man of infinite creativity, Picasso worked in virtually every medium available, painting, sculpting, drawing, creating from scraps and leftovers. His constant flow from 2 dimensional work to 3 dimensional work might well be seen as a basis for cubism, which is a way to demonstrate the three dimensional world in a 2 dimensional plane.
Needless to say, we loved the show. The Stein show gives an overview of the modern art movement in the early 20th century–the Picasso show delves deeply into this one artist over the long period of his life. You really need to see them both.
More fine dining
Yesterday’s daytime excitement was a trip to the San Francisco Street Food Fair, in the Mission district.
We drove in, magicically willed a parking space to materialize, and met up with Ed and Sheryl Nagy and Lisa Evans, who had come in on BART. The first thing Ed said was “There are meal worm tacos, two to a plate. I’ll eat one if you’ll eat the other.” How could I resist an offer like that?
Right there on the sign--and they still had customers!
Doesn't it just look yummy?
Ed and I dove in, and it was just fine. By the time you put the cheese and the salsa and some onions on the whole wheat tortillas, you can’t really taste the cooked worms anyway. They end up just being generalized protein. And I still get the credit for being adventurous and brave. Win-Win.
There were dozens of booths along the 4 blocks of Folsom Street closed off for the fair, featuring all the food you can imagine and some you can’t–like those tacos.
Biscuits and Gravy. Not like you'd find in the South, sadly.
A very good cheeseburger.
Gail and Sheryl bought tokens to get a glass of wine, but when we got into the liquor area (first having to show our ID’s to prove we were 21. Stupidity isn’t just limited to the TSA), there was no wine, just beer and mixed drinks. Poor Gail had to throw down a Cuba Libre.
The people watching in the city is always great.
Not often that you see Elmo in a stroller.
LIsa's new hat
She looks pretty good in it.
We had a good time, but by 12:30 the streets were so jammed we could hardly move and each stall had an exceptionally long line, making further grazing slow and unpleasant, so we headed out.
I think we’d like to go back next year–but get there earlier and plan on leaving earlier. I wonder what strange food I’ll be able to try?
This is a president?
Rick Perry tries manfully to defend abstinence-only education. Just because it doesn’t work doesn’t seem to matter much to him.
Petty politics
I bow to no man in my disdain for Sarah Palin, but I remain stunned by the pettiness of some of her detractors.
There are an awful lot of good reasons why ex-Gov Palin is completely unqualified to hold any office greater than dogcatcher, but the status of her pedicure is not one of them.
Yet these silly toes have been the subject of countless blog posts and articles this last week, as being somehow exceptionally non-presidential. For instance, from Oz Mudflats:
Well if no one else is going to say it I will… Polka-dot painted toes is an adorable idea – for a teenager. Or maybe even a young mother in her thirties. Or – ok – maybe even an over-the-hill gramma in her late forties who’s young at heart and just trying to keep up with the young people of today but…
…this is NOT what I EVER want to see in public on the feet of my president!
The paint job may be cute as Hell but Sarah’s skin is not. It’s dry, flaking, peeling, reddened and leather-like. The person who gave her this pedicure and told her it would be ok to go out in public and show off her bare, crusted toes should be sent to bed without supper.
As I read my way through the blogosphere, I weary of the negative comments about her toes, her hair, her wigs, her choice of clothes, her choice of accessories, her “water-bra” (apparently some sort of apparatus for increasing one’s bust size). I would think that they were hideously sexist, but most of the comments relating to appearance are from women, not men.
Can’t we just stick with ignorance and incompetence? Avarice? Pettiness? Vindictiveness? The real issues that disqualify her from any sort of serious consideration? Why this childish name calling (Caribou Barbie, Klondike Kardashian)?
Our political system is pretty close to irrevocably broken, and people are fixating on pedicure? I guess H. L. Mencken was right, “nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American pubic.”
Rehab in a good way
Not a bad surprise in my yard.
So Tuesday, Gail and I play at Redwood, as usual. Well, not quite as usual, because we had one of those games where we couldn’t do a single thing right and came in last.
Then we went to work.
Then we came home, and started to play a tournament on Bridge Base. So far, this is pretty boring.
I heard a noise in the yard, and went to investigate. The lovely sight you see above is what I found.
Why is there a beautiful, paint-covered young woman in my yard? Because I had arranged to have the artwork she and her father created re-habbed, and then forgotten that Tuesday was the day. Turns out they had been working for 6 hours already, and were about to finish up.
The work consists of 11 pieces of wood, perhaps 7 or 8 feet long, painted brightly and stuck in the ground. It strikes me as vaguely African, and is one of my favorite pieces. We have owned it for 5 years, and the paint was flaking off; it needed some major work.
Erica, above, and her father Jeff, came up from Watsonville where Jeff operates Sierra Azul Nursery. Over the past 6 years, he has transformed his business from a place that sells plants into a wonderland of a sculpture garden which also happens to sell plants.
Jeff adding clear coat to the finished work
Now Erica is working.
The work finished, they cleaned up and enjoyed a glass of wine in the back yard while dinner cooked.
After work.
Jeff relaxing
Erica is the artist here–she just graduated from Boston University with a degree in art, and is trying to make her way as a portrait artist. It’s a tough business, though, and she still tends bar a couple of nights a week to pay the rent.
It occurred to me that she could make pretty good money as a model–I don’t think you’ll find anyone in Vogue this month more attractive:
Knowing how to paint a portrait, she also knows how to pose for one.
They stayed for dinner, then toddled back to Watsonville. Our sculpture looks wonderful, and will last another 10 years, I hope. Sometimes, rehab is a good thing.
I’m so dense
There’s a big exhibition at MOMA in San Francisco, titled:
The Steins Collect
MATISSE, PICASSO, AND THE PARISIAN AVANT-GARDE
We went to see it last night with Jack and Lisa.
Now, if I had been paying attention, I would have read the title and known what to expect. But I didn’t pay attention. People just kept saying “Have you seen the Gertrude Stein show?”, and for some silly reason I thought we were going to a show of art created by Gertrude Stein, who isn’t exactly known as an artist. I didn’t really have any idea why we were going.
It sure was nice to be wrong.
The show, which is completely spectacular, is a must see for anyone with any interest at all in the birth of impressionism and modern art.
Beginning with Henri Matisse’s seminal Femme au chapeau (Woman with a hat) the Steins (who turn our to be more than just the storied Gertrude but her brother Leo, her brother Michael and his wife Sarah, semi-wealthy San Franciscans who moved to Paris to live the arty life) were not only collectors of art but of artists. Their support for Matisse and Picasso are a large part of the artists success.
Femme au chapeau, Henri Matisse. Its bold brushstrokes and non-representational color shocked the art world.
Brother Leo disdained cubism, while Gertrude was a particular friend of both Picasso and the cubist movement. She even tried to echo the themes of cubism in her poetry.
Gail listening in front of a photo of the Stein apartment. I had to sneak this photo.
I know these things because of the audio tour–without which you simply cannot properly enjoy the show. The lectures are brilliant–the devices are miserable. They rely on touch screens to enter numbers relating to specific areas, and the touch screens don’t work well. Gail ended up using the end of her comb to enter numbers.
And you look like a dork with the headset.
My three favorite dorks.
But ignore the dorkiness. Ignore the difficulty of the touch screens. Go to MOMA, see the Stein show. It ends September 6, so hurry. And don’t worry, there aren’t any Gertrude Stein paintings.
Totally Unauthorized 