Friday night was the opening of Rosana's (Rosana Castrillo Diaz (Merritt)) new solo show at Anthony Meier's gallery (historic home originally designed and built by De Young for his daughter).
Rosana's work continues to impress and inspire, working as much with, and in some cases more so, shadow and space around her work than the physical media itself. It's hard to explain, but really, GO.
The Gallery has a few scans on its Web site, but digital images of white-on-white artwork whose brush-stroke detail may be measured in microns completely fail to represent the originals.
Show details:
January 23- March 2
Anthony Meier Fine Arts
1969 California Street
I came to know Rosana as she married Eli Merrit, another Nashvillian in San Francisco to whom I have many familial ties. Eli and Rosana met in Spain (she herself is Spanish). I met Eli many summers ago at Andrew McAllister's wedding (his mother was a Merritt) in Fairfax. Eli and Rosana live off of Dolores Park and we have become good friends. I seem them much less since the birth of little Allejandro/Alex, who I think is now around four.
I don't remember how it started-- either I invited RoMo along to a party at their place and then to her shows, or invited him to her show at the SF MOMA and then took him along to their parties. Or it may have been a Brown/Candee party connection. RoMo is good for all proper invitations. Regardless, Eli and Rosana have been impressed with RoMo since he brought a blooming bough from a cherry tree to one of their parties (I had to pick him up as it wouldn't fit in the cab, luckily, their kitchen ceiling vaults two and a half stories and could accommodate the flora.). So I was sure to give Eli and Rosana RoMo’s address when they were sending out invitations.
Earlier in the week, RoMo indicated he would be bringing a date (the recurring and physically impressive arm-candy known only as "Kazakhstan"). So I, of course, wanted to bring a date of my own. I really enjoy Dean's company, and spent some quality time with him on Monday, as Sunday morning his bf decided to break it off with him. While supremely sexy and emotionally vulnerable are often a good mix in a man, I had only gentlemanly intentions when I asked him to be my companion for the evening.
As plans developed over the week, Barney decided to join us too and RoMo’s date was dropped by Kazakhstan (apparently something to do with a wife), so the night became more about me and my pals and including Dean than a Wilson and Dean double-date with RoMo and Kazakhstan. While Dean was a bit reserved during the show (understandably), once we dropped off RoMo at BoHo and found a place on Polk Street for dinner, he seemed to liven up.
Barney, who lives just up the west side Nob Hill, is my connoisseur for Polk Street. He recommended one of the better Vietnamese places on the 'strasse. At the demand of both Barney and Dean, I tried the Vietnamese coffee, complete with sweet, gooey condensed milk, and now have an ongoing jonesing for it as if it were crack.
Menu selection led to a little personal revelation from Dean. Growing up and for many years he had a condition by which would sweat profusely from his palms. Like faucets. Hearing his tale it seemed you could milk his fingers like udders. As an adult he had surgery to correct this-- surgery which entered his spine through the back of his neck no less. (He showed us the scar.)
The doctors told him that because his body is so accustomed to shedding such a volume of water, the body may compensate in other ways and there may be some unexpected side-effects. Six-weeks post surgery, he thought he had escaped unscathed. Until a spicy dinner with friends during which he shed over a liter of sweat from his scalp.
Dean has a shaved head now, and he told us this story as he perused his dining options. Generally anything spicy will set him off, even just a little black pepper. Barney and I were excited to see this phenomenon, but apparently it is not an amusing but an exorbitant amount of sweat never to be dared without a turban.
While the restaurant was extremely tasty, it was fairly low-frills and fairly empty. The couple facing us was fun to watch: he was a 6'3", built, white guy and she was the diminutive asian girlfriend. He looked like he was in gym clothes, and he looked good in them (well, mostly below the neck). Both he and his girlfriend were eating/drinking out of what appeared to be big chunks of styrofoam. On the way back from the loo, Barney took this opportunity to cruise the big lummox and asked him about it, which gave us our catch phrase for the night.
Hardly able to contain himself, Barney returned to the table and reported, “I asked him what that was and he said it was a coconut: you eat the meat and suck out the juice.”
Nuff said. (and yes, we have the humor of twelve-year-old boys)
Having been up since 4:30 and working a full day, Dean called it a night after dinner. Javits had invited us to see one of his friends perform at the Cinch at 11:00, so Barney and I walked up to the Lush Lounge to kill some time and entertain ourselves.
I won’t go off on it here because I will likely only write irate, ranting pages but when the fuck did Polkestrasse turn into the New Marina? The Lush has always been a gay/tranny/trendy bar with zero attitude and alternative vibe with cabaret acts. Now it is like Dalva was in the mid-90s. The place was packed with early-20s (I was begging for someone at the door to card these kids) blond newcomers and the desperate boys who wanted them. I was particular pissed at the attitude of a teeny-bopped English girl and her company who tried to spew me some ‘tude while we took seats in the window.
Keep in mind, we are friends with the owners. Kenny and his partners started this bar years ago and are pretty much the ones responsible for the decade-long gentrification of Polk Street. In the 70s and 80s, Polk Street was pretty dank, dangerous, mostly gay, lots of leather, and lots of drugs, hustlers, trannies, whores, and various immigrants and indigents. While the seedy bars have been replaced by the trendy, and the drugs and hustlers have mostly moved on, the trannies still walk the walk and are afforded their due respect by the locals and the experienced.
We love Kenny, and are happy that his venture has been successful and that he was able to open another and successfully launch a hipster bar up the street. But this is our Lush, our ‘strasse, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to take any lip from a 20-something straight twinkie girl thinking she’s alternative, and a tourist at that. (See I told you this would become a rant.) I had been a gentleman for as long as I could and started to seethe. It was only Barney who was able to keep me from verbally pummeling her like some sort of scene from Designing Women. It was painful to keep my sharp tongue sheathed.
Lamenting the absence of the cool young female side-kick, we started texting Shilpa to join us. Which led to the next favorite line of the night, and best taken overheard and out of context:
“Is there a ‘t’ in ‘cootch’?”
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