Alchemy

San Francisco isn't much of an art buying town. Art creating? Yes. Art appreciating? Certainly. Art buying? Not so much. If an artist wants to make a career of it, the sad fact is that they have to leave the Bay Area, and head to one of the big art cities: New York, LA, Chicago, or Miami. San Francisco runs a distant (and depressing) 5th.

As unfortunate as that may be, it shouldn't be too surprising, really ... more than anything, San Francisco has a storied tradition of bleeding edge creativity, rugged entrepreneurship, and flying in the face of the norm ... oftentimes swinging wildly at it. Our strength is thus in underground and emerging artists who aren't aiming at the mainstream unless they're doing so through a set of crosshairs.

When that's combined with the laid-back attitude and studied casualness for which the Bay Area is known, it can be understood why audacious spending on a scale commensurate with serious art collection just doesn't happen here. San Franciscans value one another more for what they create than the price tag of the art they hang on their walls.

What the Bay Area needs is an innovative structure for its art market that takes this reality into account, and works with it -- augmenting its strengths and offsetting its weaknesses -- to enable Bay Area artists to make a semblance of a living creating exactly the art they want to create, without having to compromise their vision. Otherwise, artists whose work deserves to be seen, and whose voices need to be heard, will forever while away their days as your neighborhood barista.

I'd like to see this new market become a reality, and to that end, I've been curating art exhibitions for a variety of events featuring an eclectic mix of emerging artists, styles and media. The most recent was part of False Profit's Alchemy, an interactive art event at San Francisco's CELLspace. It hosted over 600 attendees, all of whom seemed to thoroughly enjoy themselves as they took part in the various interactive aspects of the evening. The gallery featured a variety of oil paintings, pen and ink drawings, photography, collage, print-making, sculpture (works in steel, vinyl and cement), video, and an interactive site-specific installation. The represented artists ranged in age from 21 to 50+.

It was great working with the smart, driven folks at False Profit, and to have the opportunity to exhibit a strong showing of emerging artists to an appreciative crowd. Now ... to just get that crowd to put their money where their appreciation is ....

The Crucible's "Firebird" Fire Ballet

I just wrapped up stage management duties for a two-week run of The Crucible's latest fire ballet, this time it was their take on Stravinsky's Firebird.

I say "take" loosely, of course, since I have a feeling the traditional presentation of Firebird didn't include disco, funk, fire, a stunt motorcyclist, a flaming tutu, and an actual (not a prop) Pontiac Firebird being flown onto the stage. Yep, for reals.

It's always a good time working on the Crucible's productions. You missed this one? Sucks for you. Big mistake. Next time, go. Good cause, good show, good time ... you won't be left wanting for "You have got to be kidding me, they did not just do that. Good lord, they did just do that."

Big props to the Cru crew and their raging talents, constant innovation, and big hearts.

Yuri's Night

Billed as the annual celebration of Yuri Gagarin's being the first human shot into space (the first terrestrials sent were fruit flies ... followed by a dog, which died a panicked, painful death within hours of launch ... brutal, but I digress), Yuri's Night World Space Party is a collection of 198 parties taking place in 51 countries on 7 continents around the world on April 12th. The Bay Area, certainly no slouch when it comes to parties, stacks the deck by throwing it at the birthplace, home and retirement community of awesome: NASA's Moffett Field.

If you're lame, like me, and get your tickets late, like I did, you really take it in the pooper. At $50 a pop, that's a tall order for getting your money's worth. At the very least, there had better be singing frogs and free-flowing booze and mile-high porn if I'm shelling out $50. Sadly, none were in attendance. And yet ...

It was way cool. Long story short, Yuri's Night was simply the closest thing to Burning Man off playa. It was like somebody had taken the coolest parts of Black Rock City (the art, the scientific innovation, the music, the interesting smart people), combined it with long beer lines, and paved it.

Instead of artists slaving away on large-scale art installations all year long, Moffett Field's freakishly large, awe-inspiring buildings, mongo planes and gigantic signs warning of various ways you can be killed more than provided the recommended daily allowance of WTF? Plus, looking around and seeing a NASA logo when you've got a head full of whatever (and many seemed to, I might add)? That's pretty cool.

Next year, check it out. Get your tickets early.

Hillary Is Officially Pathetic

Today was the Pennsylvania Democratic Primary. Hanging on to any shred of hope, against the odds and all evidence to the contrary, Hillary Clinton remains determined to stick it out and "fight". Because she's "a fighter".

*sigh*

Hillary has become that girl at the prom who hasn't quite gotten the clue that nobody wants to dance with her. She moves in a personal fantasy world, determinedly oblivious to the fact that nobody's going to make out with her tonight ... she keeps trying to talk to different boys, smiling expectantly. Now she's trying to get in a limo to the after party, while the people inside are making quick excuses that there's no more room in the car, Hill, but she just knows she can fit!

Barack, the nice kid, who had spent all school year being kind to her, now sits in the corner of the limo, uncomfortably half-smiling toward her before looking down at his shoes as the doors of the limo close and it pulls away, leaving her standing at the curb.

She's that girl. Nobody wants to remember that girl, and the suffering she brought upon herself. Because we're reminded of the suffering we wrought upon ourselves through our complicity.

The Pope Goes Shopping

On his first trip to North America, Pope Benedict
took some time out to do some shopping.

Sorry. I couldn't help it. Yes, I offended you.
If it makes you feel any better, I offended a lot of people.

Got Torch? No, You Didn't.

Somebody asked me the other day why there should be political protests of the Beijing Olympics, rather than leaving them be as a sporting event. Short answer: opportunity and attention. When the eyes of the world are on a country with such an abysmal human rights record, particularly when they're attempting to bolster their global image, it's a unique opportunity to shed light on the other side of the story.

The Olympics have been politicized ever since Hitler refused to put a gold medal around Jesse Owens' neck at the 1936 Olympic games in Berlin. Appropriate or not, it's a world stage like no other.

The thing to scratch your head about, if anything, is that America has absolutely zero moral right to call the Chinese out for human rights abuses (we're living on Native American land, don't forget, while they're living on reservations if they weren't eradicated, and people are currently whiling away their days at Gitmo as I type), but nonetheless we still have the moral responsibility. Protests like this are likely to spur people in power to put more pressure on the Chinese government in ways individuals simply can't.

As for the San Francisco torch run itself, fearing massive confrontations, the powers that be decided to pull a full-blown bait-and-switch, publishing a route, saying it might change, then changing it "at the last minute". And boy what a ruse ... elaborate, expensive, convincing, and very disappointing for the people who really wanted to see it. They did an excellent job of it, but I shudder to think of the cost.

Admittedly, it was smart to deceive everybody in that a) the protesters got to protest, b) the torch got to run, c) the cops had significantly fewer heads they needed to crack, and d) San Francisco suddenly became a big "where the fuck's the torch" game, pitting the media outlets' live coverage capabilities against each other in grand fashion. Everybody won, except those families and kids all dressed up and performing at McCovey Cove and down the fake torch route, waving flags, all happy and proud. Those folks? They got royally screwed. And that? Sucks.

Of course, undaunted, the protesters protested away ... and the media was there, awaiting the big confrontation with the very scary rows of tightly-wound riot police. Unfortunately for the protesters, they had to find other excuses to get violent ... which meant there wasn't any violence of note. According to the official reports, the total number of arrests was in the 10's or less, and violent confrontations about the same ... just some pushing and shoving.

But still, lacking an actual torch at which to aim their five zillion cameras, the media covered the protests instead, and everybody's message got out. So the City danced a nice little dance: they allowed free speech, without lighting the fuse of what was obviously a potentially explosive situation.

Interestingly, I was struck by the massive numbers of pro-Chinese supporters on the streets. Many were apparently bused in by the Chinese consulate and other pro-Chinese business groups, but many more came of their own accord. They all carried very large, very uniform Chinese flags, meaning they were supplied by an official source. To a one, these folks were all very, legitimately enthusiastic, which goes to show that patriotism is as binding as it is blinding. Hmmmm ... sounds famiiiiliar.

After it all went down, I listened to Mayor Newsom's post-mortem radio interview and I kept saying to myself over and over "bullshit". I believe he totally lied about it being a last minute decision to change the route as dramatically as they did because "the police couldn't guarantee everybody's safety". While I had thought (and still do) that it was a good decision overall, his statement angered me not only because it was utterly disingenuous and self-serving, but it was just an obvious lie.

There's no way the police can guarantee people's safety at any protest ... protesters are, by nature, angry, volatile and unpredictable ... you think SFPD isn't used to handling them? And there's no way they'd be able to make a split-second decision to magically reroute this whole phalanx of police and support vehicles to Van Ness and Pine (why there of all places, right?), creatively think to head up to the Golden Gate Bridge via Bay Street, and then whisk it along 19th Avenue right to the airport and outta town ... meanwhile magically securing this entire new route with the wave of a wand. Sorry, no. They had the bait and switch planned all along, and the original published route was an elaborate ruse from the get-go.

Why? The police don't do impromptu in the face of a predictable foe when they control the game, folks. They just. don't. The least Newsom could do is nut up and show us enough respect to tell the truth. I guess that's pretty naive, though. He knows it'll all blow over after the next news cycle and be forgotten.

And by the way, I'm actually a fan of the mayor ... I have friends in his administration, and they (including Gavin himself) have been good to me ... but he definitely just dropped a small notch in my esteem (I'm sure he's crying in his beer club soda). But alas, this is what ultimately happens the closer one gets to higher office.

Sound Check: Anatomy of a Theatrical Debacle

I arrived at the theater, and as I walked up the stairs, Tim came around the corner towards me, looking calm. Tim's my partner in running Everyday Theater, and our company's artistic director. Tim looking calm before one of our shows is unheard of ... the fragility of his pre-show psyche is legendary. Something was wrong.

"What's up?" I said.

"Well, we have no monitors," he said, way too matter-of-factly. "The monitors are gone."

"Gone?"

"Gone."

I looked at my watch. 9:15. Doors were at 10:00. We had 45 minutes to get set up, sound check all the performers, and open up what was going to be a sold out show. And there were no monitors.

Monitors are the speakers on stage that point towards the performers so they can do important things like hear themselves. They are critical for any musical act, but even more so for beat boxers, and we were producing the Vowel Movement's Bi-Monthly Beat Boxers Showcase ... or trying to, anyway.

The previous group's performance had just wrapped up, and the audience was filing out as I waded upstream into the theater. I reached the sound booth and met Dan, our sound technician who was replacing our normal sound guy, who had been called out of town that day. Dan, I was assured, had worked this theater before, and knew the system and the board.

I found Johnny, the guy who oversees the physical theater and the gallery-cum-event space that occupies the adjacent room, and asked him about the monitors. That day, they'd taken them down and removed all the wiring to create a "screening room" for their event in the gallery that night. Apparently he needed reminding that we're a musical show, requiring monitors, just as we had for the last dozen shows we'd done at that very same theater. Johnny just scratched his head and looked genuinely bewildered, like we hadn't been doing shows there for the past 12 months. It felt like talking to a crackhead about geopolitics.

After making some pointed requests through clenched teeth, we got the monitors back. But no cable ... rendering them useless. We scurried to jury rig the system, running an XLR cable (borrowed from one of the performers) down to a single JBL speaker we propped on stage. It was 10:00. We sound checked quickly, and everything sounded pretty good. We'd dodged a bullet. We opened the house at 10:15, unaware that the real trigger had yet to been pulled.

Despite the sound check, the sound started off buzzy and hissy. Dan rationalized it with a somewhat random, but vaguely plausible explanation. I asked him to try and correct it. From that point on, things went off the rails for Dan. The sound was too quiet, then too loud, too much bass, then not enough bass, feeding back, tinny -- in short: all over the place, and constantly changing. The beat boxers didn't know what to do ... and their frustration was so palpable you could touch it from the back of the room. There were a handful of moments where Dan lucked into a sweet spot where it actually sounded good, the performers rocked it, and the audience went nuts. I told Dan that whatever he did, to just. leave. it. right. there.

But it got bad again. Really ... embarrassingly ... bad. I winced. I gritted my teeth. It became clear that the closest Dan had ever come to being an actual sound technician was hauling speaker stacks and setting up mic stands. Eyeball deep in frustration, I leaned in and calmly said to him, "You really have no idea what you're doing right now, do you?" He wouldn't admit it, but he was clearly in way over his head ... he was just twiddling knobs at random, hoping for something to go right. And it wasn't. And Dan, truth be told, was dumb as bricks. To this point, the only dumber people I've ever had to deal with were mopping the floors in my high school, or pumping my gas. He had absolutely no hope in this situation, which required some intellectual acuity ... or at the very least an ability to follow a finger.

I ran back stage and grabbed Tim, telling him I was booting Dan off the board, and he had to fix it. Tim struggled to untangle the system as Dan had left it, and managed to get it somewhere close to sounding decent. But by this time, the sound had run out of ways to suck.

And while my night felt like that nightmare where you're driving a car from the back seat, and you can't quite reach the pedals or the steering wheel, and you're heading for a wall -- the audience absolutely. loved. the show. At the end, they were screaming for more and more encores ... true testament either to the absolute brilliance of these performers, or the myopic perspective of a producer.

I will say this: the post-show cocktail that night tasted particularly good.