Saturday, January 05, 2013

Bostonia Regina

A sleepy, slow Saturday that began in modest fashion.  Some delicious eggs scrambled in a sturdy skillet with chopped onions and veggie sausage crumbles, scrambled with salsa and cheese and slathered with sour cream in a warm tortilla.  Yum.

I hopped the T, red to silver and on to the Institute of Contemporary Art.

The museum was not here when i last resided in Boston, and has certainly made a welcome addition.  I made my way over to the museum, and out to the back harbor.  White sailboats meandered in the distance on the subtle winds like white triangle tops.  A window hanging down from the silver awning left a widescreen image of the meringue triangles.

Once again, I opted to pay full admission.  In my own mind I deserve a medal for this fact, but I know in reality that it matters not.  There was a tour going on at one.  I was the only one.  Lucky me.

The tour guide Sally gave me an in-depth explanation of the building's creation, its surroundings and its role in the community.  I love spaces that create space for creativity.

Anyway, I had a private tour that was excellent.  I was free to ask as many or as few questions as I wanted. The docent mentioned to keep one question in mind, that we continually came back to: why was this material used?

The first exhibit we visited was a video display by Ragnar Kjartansson on all sorts of fascinating clips. I'm not sure if I tried to explain any of them, they would make much sense.  But I will try.

One video was of him and a musician friend playing in the ruggedly beautiful tundra of the Canadian  Rockies.  They are playing music on various screens in various places, and it is all synthesized together to make a frozen song (of sorts).  Another was of him buried up to his waist in a public park, naked and strumming a song along the lines of "Satan is real."  A camera is left filming as all sorts of people pass by.  Another video is an old blues piano wiz, wizened by age and dementia sitting on a piano outside an old shack playing and smoking cigarettes.

The next exhibit of Mickelane Thomas was bright, beautiful and like a blown-out graphic novel still life of a mix between Klimt and blaxploitation.  With all of the glorious texture therein.

These were the new exhibits.  Then we passed through some of the permanent collection.  There was a phenomenal piece of hanging charred wood called Hanging Fire (Suspected Arson), which was just that.  Another piece that was a freestanding, free form box made of pins and nothing else.

There was a fascinating video of Karoke Wrong Numbers, of an artists doing karoke spots to the wrong numbers she received.  Here's a hint: make sure you dial well.

And the tour led out to the giant flatscreen tv expanse of the bay.  My tour ended, with much appreciation.

I continued on my own to a wonderful exhibit of the 1980s.  The exhibit dealt with the 1980s in terms of power, gender, sexuality, materialism and on and on. In short: 80s exhibit, in full regalia. Neon, spray paint and Reagan. I ♥ the 80s.

I ended the afternoon in the glass cafe overlooking the bay. White sailboats flittered in the distance as I sipped the finest of glass of arbor gold and ate a delicious flatbread with grilled eggplant, grilled spinach and grilled red onions topped with ricotta and other cheeses.  I decided to be decadent, so I had a cinnamon apple bread pudding and a cup of Peet's coffee.  Unnoticed baking delays bought me a second cup, and I wrote and read and enjoyed a wonderful afternoon fade on out into a golden hour sunset into the bay and bridge spanning.

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