Sight Set Eyes On

The Fabrications Hall

Last year I exhibited at Space 301 in downtown Mobile, Alabama—an 8,000 square foot converted warehouse space that used to house the Mobile Press-Register.  I was fortunate enough to be scheduled just when the new director, Bob Sain, was starting. He had only just arrived from California where he had been director of Montalvo Arts Center in Silicon Valley.  Prior to that he started up the LACMALab at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.

We’ve long been in need of someone like Bob here on the coast where the term “contemporary art” meets more often with a questioning stare than anything else.  New Orleans has the CAC, some galleries that I would actually call galleries, universities with art departments that aren’t complete fictions, and on and on.  When it comes to art, my stretch of the Gulf Coast has, well, nada.  That Mobile would raise the bar like this was and is music to my ears.

Until Bob’s arrival, Space 301 used its renovated and polished main space for all its exhibitions.  Few people ever even saw the raw space in the back--the Fabrications Hall—originally home to the Register’s printing presses.   It wasn’t included in the renovations and until now, was used mostly for special events, by people who paid other people to come in and transform it.

The grit and magic of this room--invisible to past curators--was very visible to Bob Sain.  So he asked me to inaugurate it—a new venue for artists whose work might lose its punch in more pristine settings.   And so I did.   Ecstatically.  I now consider it my yardstick.  The space I use to gauge all others.  And, yes, good luck measuring up…

 

Space 301

Carolina

One of the water feature areas

I spent this past week traveling to the Carolinas to install a commissioned piece for a bank in Charlotte.  It was the usual grueling nine hour ride--plus.  Traffic in downtown Atlanta was horrific, but I jammed up my iPod and managed to make it through without giving the finger to any of the redneck guys who cut me off in their really big trucks.  Self control, they say, is a hallmark of maturity. And I managed a little of it I am happy to report.

One of my best friends lives in Greenville, SC--just an hour plus from Charlotte,NC,  so I stayed with her.  The nine hour and then some drive turned into four more hours of champagne and laughter with friends, four hours of sleep and another nine hour day--this time installing the piece, the drive back to my friend's place then another late night of champagne and much laughing.  O.K.--it was tiring but life could be worse.

The great thing about Greenville is that some time back, the City decided to develop the riverfront in the most spectacular way.  Really.  It's amazing.  My friend gave me the tour--the usual shops and restaurants--but the most beautiful water features and public areas I've seen in a long time.  Somebody spent some real money on this one.  Too bad more cities can't do this.  While I didn't take any shots of the overall vistas, I did manage to capture some details--lots of Virgo in my chart--so I'm a detail kind of girl.

Garden area

Doorway

  Waterfall area 

Under one of the bridges

 
 Wall facing the walkway

South Beach: What Could I Possibly Add

While the focus of my trip centered mostly on body surfing and cocktails, I did make a couple of brief trips to South Beach.  Most everything that can be said about this part of town has been said by others--and well too--so I won't be adding anything profound here.  The usual restoration projects were underway--transformations of some of the lesser Deco buildings into pricey apartments to house the hip and local.  There was no shortage either of young women in towering heels and teeny tiny dresses, lined up and waiting every night for entry into the dance club du jour.    

Since I had a late flight out that last day, I decided to stash my suitcase at the airport then take the shuttle back to South Beach and burn up a few hours just walking around with camera in hand.  The heat that day was almost unbearable, so really, I spent most of my time eating gelato and people watching.  I did get a few shots in, but really, and again, the gelato held much more interest for me.

Way too many calories later, I headed for the shuttle back to the airport, and the driver asked me to wait just a few minutes before boarding.  He locked up the bus and ran across the street.  I waited and was joined by a second passenger--a Cuban gentleman who was headed to the other end of town.  The bus driver returned with a large cup and then started filling up a couple of small paper cups and offered them to us.  It was Cuban coffee--probably Bustelo--a brand made in Miami with a long history.  I could tell he wasn't quite sure about me.  He held the little cup out tentatively.  But I'm a Miami girl, so I said, "I love the stuff".  He still wasn't fully convinced, so I said, " I'm from here.  I grew up in Miami, drinking this with all my Cuban friends.  You couldn't offer me anything better."  With that he burst out laughing and gave me seconds.  I couldn't have had a better ending.

 Yes, Lincoln Road--I used to go here as a kid with my mom--fabulous shops then!  Trendy now but very different.

 The colors of Miami

 

 

Nothing Says Miami Beach Like the Fontainebleau

I spent most of this trip to Miami Beach body surfing in the ocean--right outside the hotel's back gate--and drinking cocktails by the pool.  On my last night, though, I left the hotel alone around midnight and headed, with camera in hand, down the street to the Fontainebleau Hotel. 

As a teenager I'd spent many hours with my best friend, Heidi, sneaking into the Fontainebleau pool on weekends and during the summer.  Pool hopping along Collins Avenue was the weekend sport of choice in our day; and in the years that followed, my younger brother did the same with his friends.  It was a rite of passage if you grew up here.  We lived for the diving board--gone now--and for those forbidden jaunts through the lobby in wet bikinis, heading to the elevators with some mischief in mind.

You'll find a short history of Miami Beach and of the Fontainebleau here:

http://www.fontainebleau.com/web/discover/history

My final night at this famed hotel turned into a couple of hours of shooting--and at the end of it, I rewarded myself with a cognac and some reflections on the past.  The Fontainebleau I knew as a kid was nothing like what you see here; it was the magic of another era.  Today, it weaves an entirely different enchantment, and I couldn't bear to leave the Beach without documenting its current incarnation.

All of these shots were taken in the hotel's lobby and lounge.

  

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

  

 

The Florida Room 1

It isn't often that I indulge in a self portrait.  In fact, I rarely let others photograph me.  Nevertheless, the bathroom in my hotel room was so "out there", I just had to...

 

The Fun House Bath!

Nothing but black marble, mirrors and lights!

 

During the 50's and 60's in Miami, houses came with "Florida Rooms"--fabulous rooms, located on the back of the house that were filled with jalousie windows and had a view of the garden or-- if you were lucky--the sea.  I spent a lot of time in Florida Rooms--and now looking back, I enter that hallowed room once again.. 

It isn't often that I head back to the place of my birth.  But this weekend I did just that and made my way to Miami, Florida.  It had been a few years, though the last time I was there I admit to arriving in a rented convertible, wearing dark glasses, a vintage head scarf, and red lipstick.  This time I opted for the less dramatic route and took a cab from the airport to my hotel on Miami Beach.  I wasn't sure how I would feel about being there, but as soon as that thought entered my consciousness, I saw the blue waves break on white sand and rushed to get my bathing suit on.

It would be hard to explain what it was like growing up there.  I didn't know anything about winter.  I didn't experience my first snowfall until I was twenty years old.  My formative years were spent in this strange tropical paradise--body surfing in the ocean, stealing mangoes from my neighbor's tree, and pool hopping along Collins Avenue.  When people tell me about growing up in the midwest--and I say this with some shame--I feel badly for them.

I've often been the first one to say, "you can't go home again",  but I feel differently about that now.  Like voodoo magic, Miami wrapped its arms around me again, and I find myself considering yet another move.  The weekend brought the usual late afternoon thunder storms and a rocking surf.  If anything in life could make me happier than being tossed around in rough blue water and wet sand, I don't know what it is.

   

 View from my room after a brief rain--Collins Avenue and the Inland Waterway.

Mixed Media Exhibition Featuring Work by 19 Artists at Cynthia-Reeves

Mixed Media Exhibition Featuring Work by 19 Artists at Cynthia-Reeves.

Jackson, Early Light

A few days ago I headed to Jackson, Mississippi to see some artist friends who are installing their work in the new federal courthouse building.   Downtown Jackson, like so many city centers, is a convoluted mix of old and new construction.  Rotting wood and torn windows stand next to fresh concrete and shiny new paint. It's an abstraction that is hard to ignore.

While I  come here several times a year, I seldom make time to observe and document these surroundings. This time, though, I thought I would change that and left the hotel early in the morning with camera in hand.  I turned my attention first to what was new.

 

  

 

 

 

And then looked to the past...

The street outside the hotel holds two diners--one, The Mayflower, is still thriving, serving some of Jackson's best home style cooking--collard greens, fried sweet potatoes and the like.  The other, the Bon Ton Cafe is only a remnant.  It's tile floor entrance still greets passers by, but the walls around it have given up hope.  Still, looking at it in the early morning light, its beauty remains.  

The Mayflower
 

 

  

The Bon Ton Cafe...
 

 



   

 

Surrendering to Steel and Glass

I spent my spring in Paris.  I bypassed the museums because I had no interest in them, then escaped the crowds of tourists due to the cold and rainy weather--none of them wanted to be there.  April in Paris is not what one might imagine. I'd been lucky--I'd received a rather generous fellowship--the Jane Crater Hiatt--in order to travel and work abroad.  I am a visual artist, and I set out to see Paris, my favorite city, with new eyes.

There are so many places there that could have taken me captive--convinced me to while away my afternoon hours, but none was more compelling than the Grand Palais des Beaux-Arts. On days where I could not bear my studio any longer, I would head to this shelter, this high church of steel and glass.  It is true that you are met outside by its Classical lines and lush ornamentation, but that's just for show--the real treasure lies inside--under the dome and under the sky-- on top of concrete looking up.

On a perfect day no one will be there and the doors will be open, but that's a perfect day.  Any other time you have to seize your opportunity.  I had many and took them all.  I surrendered to this monument of vast, hard beauty and lost myself.  

So my blog begins with this hideout--my hideout--my secret fort.