Travel There: Spending the Morning with an Artless Auctioneer

Welcome Aboard!

After my workout in Norwegian Epic’s marvelous Pulse Fitness Center, I returned to our stateroom and freshened up. Eventually, Bill woke up and was ready for breakfast. Unfortunately, by the time he woke up, the sit down breakfast was just about over. He wasn’t particularly happy about a buffet breakfast, but a man’s gotta eat.

I’ll be honest with you.  I loved the Garden Cafe breakfasts.  You could get anything you wanted.  There were a lot more choices than we found the next day at Taste.  Bill didn’t really have any trouble with the food, he just wanted the sit-down experience with people waiting on you.  I don’t think he realized, at that point, there were people at the buffet to make omelettes to-order or Eggs Benedict or whategger else you wanted.

After breakfast we wandered the decks a little, learning our way around, until it was time for the art auction.  I really can’t remember which of my cruises was the first to include an art auction or when I  attended the first one, but I really look forward to them when I cruise.  The last one I’d participated in was on a Carnival ship.  To my best recollection, we were on board several days before the auction and we’d made visits to the gallery to enjoy the art previous to the actual event.

The Epic had an art gallery, too, but it was tucked away under the Epic Theater on Deck 5.  With the auction being so soon after we boarded, we hadn’t really had a chance to look over the art and fall in love with something.  Still we made our way to Le Bistro to enjoy the show.

Right off the bat, Bill wasn’t happy.  The bar they used for the auction on Carnival Ecstacy had been much larger than the Epic’s French Restaurant.  Strolling through the art on Carnival had encouraged lingering and we’d already been sampling it in the ship’s art gallery.  On Epic, too many people and too much art were crammed into too small of a place.  Bill was ready to leave as soon as we got there.  I reminded him of the champagne they’d be serving and he did stay for that, but not much longer.

The cramped display and bidding rooms were somewhat of a disadvantage to the auction, but the auctioneer was the last straw.  As soon as Bill’s champagne glass was dry, he high-tailed it out of the room. I was really interested in the art, so I overlooked the auctioneer’s lame attempts at entertainment.

Art is not a thing of passing interest to me.  It’s a passion.  I can’t afford to be a collector, yet, but I thrive on the opportunity to visit museums, learn about art and artists, and see pretty things.  The auctioneer for other art auctions I’ve attended aboard cruise ships understood their audience and devoted as much time to entertainment and education, as they did to actually auctioning off the items.  The Epic’s auctioneer took himself entirely too seriously.  He insulted both the audience and the art.  Someone needed to tell him we were on a cruise ship.

He was from Romania and had been working for Park West for five years.  In his opinion that made him an art authority.  If he had any formal art training, he didn’t bother telling us about it.  I’m not going to pretend that I know more than he did about financial side of things, but he wrongly assumed his audience was a bunch of rubes from down on the farm.

The auctioneer’s first sin, in my eyes, was to scold a passenger, before the auction even got going.  The auctioneer was up there bragging on himself and making jokes about Romania when the poor guy in the audience said something to his wife. Unfortunately, the passenger had one of those voices which carry further than intended.  I think the auctioneer was trying to be funny when he challenged the guy, but I didn’t see the humor.  The passenger didn’t even understand what he did wrong and was obviously embarrassed.  The auctioneer continued to pick on the same guy throughout the auction.  I wanted to punch out the auctioneer’s lights, but I remained quietly in my seat.

Then the auctioneer started his schpiel on what did and did not constitute an original work of art.  I happen to know a little something about the business of reproductions.  I understand the difference in a giclee and serigraphy, in lithography, etchings and engravings.  At least I know enough to know that this guy wasn’t someone I would trust.

I stayed in spite of the auctioneer, but I wasn’t happy about it.  Then he pulled out the Thomas Kinkades.  Now people either like Thomas Kinkade or they don’t.  I find his work pleasant, but it’s been overly reproduced, so I wouldn’t buy one.  Apparently, Park West feels the same way.  Before the auctioneer was through, he’d trotted out ten Kinkade giclees and was offering them for $1500 as a set.  I’m not saying the bidding started at $1500, I’m saying he had ten Kinkades up at the front of the room and he said whoever raised their hand first could get them all for $1500.  Even then he couldn’t find a taker.

He hadn’t read his audience at all and he made a mockery of the artist.  I looked at my watch and decided the thing had to be over soon and after putting up with all his stupidity, I should at least stay around for the free art they were giving away.  I cherish a very nice Marko reproduction I got at the Carnival auction, even though it was only am 8X10.  I survived through a trio of modern artist the auctioneer tried to shove down our throats with the same methodology he’d used with the Kinkades.

Next was a Rembrandt etching. As he extolled the value of the Rembrandt, I’d had enough.  Certainly there’s value in owning a Rembrandt etching, but he was going on about it like a carny barker and touting the etching as if it were the first one made, rather than one that had been printed several centuries later.  I relinquished my free gift and went to find Bill.

But let’s leave behind this less than entertaining activity and go to the pools.  See you here next week.

Travel Here: Talk About Something Completely Different!

Education is a funny thing. My BA in Arts and Performance focused on creative writing, but one of the classes I think of most frequently is a photography survey course.  That’s where I first heard of Cindy Sherman.  Her method of creativity includes setting up a vignette and posing in it herself.  Her subject matter frequently deals with the ways in which images of women are exploited.  During the class, I found her work interesting, but when the DMA invited me to the opening of the retrospect exhibition, I had other things going on.  I promised myself I’d get down there and see it before it left.

Then the DMA lured me down there with a more tempting prospect than merely looking at photographs about the exploited female form.  Partners of the museum were invited to a musical performance in conjunction with the Dallas Opera.  For me, that’s a reason to drop everything and run down to the museum.  I tried to imagine what kind of music would be paired with Cindy Sherman’s work, but I was sure whatever it was, it would be grand.

I was right about the music.  Angela Turner Wilson, accompanied by Shields- Collins Bray, provided an interesting, entertaining and beautiful smorgasbord of modern American music, but not the sort of things you hear on the radio – unless you’re a fan of Classical 101 or KERA radio.  There was everything from a ditty about Billy the Kid to John Corigliano’s interpretation of Bob Dylan’s poetry.  The modern American music was meant to correlate with Cindy Sherman’s modern American photography.

After the music, docents showed up to introduce us to the exhibition.  Much of what they covered I knew about from my photography class, but the ideas were fleshed out in more images than I had the opportunity to see before.  I found things I liked and others that I didn’t.  Here’s what the docents had to say about the exhibition – along with a few observations of my own. Oh and Mr. Bill’s.  He went with me.

Her early work is in black and white 8X10′s.  If no one told you what was going on, you might think you’d happened onto a room of publicity stills from the movie industry, but Ms. Sherman is toying with us.  The starlet you see in every shot is no starlet. It’s the photographer dolled up to look like a starlet, but unless you really looked hard you might never figure it out.  Ms. Sherman is a chameleon and even when you know all the photographs are of her, you sometimes can’t believe she’s such a shape-shifter.  Though subtle, the theme of exploitation can be found even in these early works.

The room of centerfolds is more to the point.  Though mimicking the formatting of Playboy’s centerfold, Ms. Sherman’s works candidly portray women who have allowed themselves to become vulnerable to a man.  The viewer looks into the scenes through the eyes of the men who have done the exploiting.  Perhaps the woman is laying on the floor or sitting on a bed, but her eyes convey the message that she’s troubled.

Another room of photos frolics through the art of the ages.  Ms. Sherman parodies the famous tableaux of the past, like Madonna and Child or Judith with the Head of Holophernes, but never exactly replicates any particular piece of art.  Anybody who’s attended an Art Appreciation class will get the joke.

But I didn’t enjoy all of Ms. Sherman’s jokes.  Her work brought her fame and then notoriety.  If there’s a famous female photographer whose images of women are all the rage, what fashion magazine wouldn’t want her to shoot for them.  Well, Ms. Sherman agreed to do some fashion photography, but you wouldn’t want to be in any of her shots.  The viewer is not sure whether Ms. Sherman pities the women who buy outrageously expensive designer frocks or detests them, but I was quite sure she didn’t want to be one of them.  I seesawed between humor and a feeling of disquiet.

The fashion photos may leave you unsettled, but the final room of photographs should disgust you.  You might think I’m trying to insult Ms. Sherman, but that’s exactly the effect she was trying to achieve.  She must have been a little disappointed by the fashion photos.  One can imagine she was trying to shock us with them and when everyone got the joke and moved on, she wanted to shake us up a little bit.  If we’d accept the haunting fashion images without battling an eye, she wanted to find something we wouldn’t cozen up to quite so easily. In short, she turned to sex, vomit and body parts.  I didn’t stay in that room very long.

Cindy Sherman is an important name in the modern art scene.  Her work will both challenge and amuse you, if you come to it with an open mind, but if you just go to look at pretty pictures, perhaps you should stay home.  I take that back.  You should go to the museum.  There’s always plenty to see in the galleries and The Body Beautiful is a gorgeous exhibition, but if you’re easily offended, don’t go to the Barrel Vault until after June ninth.

Travel There: Feeling the Pulse of the Sea

Taking a stroll on Miami Beach

Working out is not my favorite thing to do. That doesn’t keep me from doing it. Land-locked in Dallas, I work-out with a trainer twice a week and ride my stationary bike for an hour on most other days.  I’ve learned it’s just what I have to avoid super-sizing myself.

Walking briskly through the deep sand of Miami Beach wasn’t a tough assignment.  Neither was going to Pulse Fitness Center on Deck 14 of the Norwegian Epic.  I met Deb and Joe in our hallway, while Bill continued his beauty sleep, and we made our way to the fitness center.

One thing they do well on the Epic is keep you constantly aware that there are numerous ways to spend your money on their ship.  To get to Pulse, you have to walk through the spa.  The spa is filled with before and after pictures of faces made more beautiful by a visit to their treatment rooms.  Prices for massages are easy to find.

Were money no object, I’d report to the spa and tell them to give me one of everything and two of some.  Correction, if money were no object, I’d be over in The Haven, where they have their own spa.  I’d be so beautiful when they got through with me that no one would recognize me.

Early in the morning the treatment rooms are empty and no estheticians in their crisp white coats are around.  If you follow the Pulse signs down a nondescript hallway, you’ll come to an information desk where someone will gladly sell you a training session or sign you up to have your feet evaluated.

Then you arrive at an amazing place – a fully equipped gym with hardwood floors.  This is no stinky side room with a few pieces of vintage exercise equipment.  This is the latest and the greatest and no matter what machine you choose, you can do your reps peering out over the ocean.  You may have to pay for a yoga class, but working out on your own is included in the price of your cruise.  Pulse Fitness Center was one of my favorite things about the ship – and remember, I don’t even like to work out.

Deb and Joe boarded the ellipticals, but I sat down on a recumbent stationary bike next to the windows.  I’d brought my Kindle for entertainment during my hour long ride, but I frequently found myself peering over the top of my e-reader to look at the ever-changing sea.

Along with the cardio workout, Deb and Joe did some weight-training and left before I did.  Later in the day, Bill also made his way to the fitness center and he agreed with me whole-heartedly.  Pulse is one of the things that Norwegian got very right and all four us us thoroughly enjoyed our time there.

So what did we do our first day at sea?  Well, come back next week and I’ll tell you.

Travel Here: The Body Beautiful

From the Partner’s Event Invitation

While admiring the Kimball’s exhibit of Bernini’s sculptures in clay,  I mentioned the ongoing rivalry between the Fort Worth museum and Dallas’s own DMA.  As if to prove my point, on the final weekend of the Kimball exhibition which  I called Bodies by Bernini, the DMA opened The Body Beautiful in Ancient Greece.  If the Kimball was going to show us masterpieces from the 1600′s, then the DMA would go back to the second millennium before Christ.  If the Kimball had clay models, count on the DMA to have marble statues.

I’m teasing, of course, but only a little bit.  If I had to judge which exhibit was best, I’d be hard-pressed to choose.

In the category of displaying objects, however, I’d have to give it up for the DMA.  The dramatic effect of the creamy white marble against a backdrop dark slate blue walls is jaw dropping.  Plaster copies of Michelangelo’s David would look good in these display spaces, so you can imagine how marvelous the treasures of the British Museum are.  Much of the Bernini collection had to be viewed through glass cases, but in the DMA you’ll be breathing the same air as Aphrodite and Herakles.  It’s exhilarating!

When it comes to the DMA, which I lovingly consider my museum, membership does have its privileges.  For instance, as a partner at the sponsor level, I was invited to a discussion between the DMA’s director and the director of the British Museum.  It’s one thing to wander through the wonderful pieces and enjoy their remarkable beauty, but you gain a whole new perspective when the British Museum’s director laments that the pieces don’t look as good at home, because the DMA has done such a spectacular job of displaying them.  If I hadn’t had a chance to eavesdrop on the chat between the museum directors, I wouldn’t have considered the exhibit in relation to the questions of ownership the nation of Greece is raising about the irreplaceable treasures. Nor would I be reminded to celebrate the fact that due to the wonders of modern technology, I can now view these pieces in my own home town, rather than having to fly to England or settle for pictures in a book.

I always say that my museum membership is one of the best entertainment values in Dallas.  Heck, the parking privileges alone justify the expense, but that’s only the beginning.  My first tour of the new exhibit was led by the man who curated the show for the British Museum.  On my own, I would have passed by a pair of small statues in one of the first display cases  without even noticing them.  Even if I had been with a docent who explained their significance, I wouldn’t have been as impacted as I was, listening to the man who had combed the entire collection of the British Museum for the exact pieces to best illustrate what we needed to know about Ancient Greek artifacts.  His enthusiasm, charm and delightful accent were infectious.  I, too, wanted an elegant walking stick and I’m telling you, bespoke suits are still the best.

Mother’s Day in Dallas – taken in Klyde Warren Park with my smart phone.

The Body Beautiful will be in Dallas until the first week of October.  I insist that you get down there and see it.  While you’re at the museum, check by the Partners desk.  Sure, you can get into the museum for free, but you’ll miss a lot.  Being a Friend in the museum’s “frequent flyer” program is fun, but for the really good stuff you need to pony up for a partnership.

If you want to see Chagall go before the 26th of this month.  I finally made it by yesterday.  It was interesting, but he’s still not one of my favorites.  Cindy Sherman will be here until June ninth.  I’ll tell you about her exhibit next week.

Travel There: Blue Men and Brownies

Blue Man Group was not on my bucket list, but Deb was thrilled they would be performing on our cruise. Thanks to the never-appearing dessert, our seats were not the best. We sat far off to one side, but fairly close to the front. The theater went dark and the show began.

Deb loved the show.  She laughed heartily through the whole thing.  In most situation we’re twin daughters from different mothers, but when it comes to Blue Men, we’re from different planets.

I was pretty neutral towards the performance until they pulled out the boxes of Captain Crunch.  I wondered what was up as they stuffed dry cereal into their mouths.  I lost my neutrality when they smashed in their cheeks and blew saliva-covered cereal into the first few rows.  This wasn’t my kind of humor.  Regurgitating half-swallowed marshmallows didn’t get any closer to tickling my funny bone.

The funniest part to me was an audience participation skit.  Someone’s grandmother came up and the Blue Men coached her through the scene.  She was obviously very nervous about being up there, but not to the point of timidity.  Before her time on stage was over, she gave as good as she got and that was a lot of fun.

At the end of the show, the whole audience participates in a group effort.  Toilet paper is unrolled at the top of the theater and handed down to the stage like streamers at a sock hop.  Then the show is over and you too can have your picture made with a Blue Man.

On the last at-sea day there was a Q&A session with the Blue Man Group sans the blue.  Deb attended and filled me in on all the Blue Man data, like the most marshmallows swallowed and regurgitated, but I’ll spare you.

After the show, the dessert we’d missed bubbled to the top of our priority list.  We discovered that the only place to get a dessert at that time of night was O’Sheehan’s.  There was one small problem, we’d misunderstood the directions and were looking for Oceana’s.  It took talking to several folks to figure out what we’d done wrong and what we should be looking for, but eventually we were being seated in the Bar and Grill.

Browsing the menu, the only dessert that interested anyone was the ice-cream-topped brownie.  I had no business eating a brownie.  I’d had more calories during the day than I usually have in a week, but there’s something about the sea air.  I ate the brownie, but I left the ice cream on the plate.

Loaded to the gills, all  I wanted to do was go to bed, but my crazy best friend wanted to find someplace to dance.  She went to the Bliss Lounge, but after a dance or two, the music went in some un-dance-able directron and they weren’t too far behind us on their way to deck 13.

So that’s embarkation day.  For our first full day at sea we had plans to work out around eight.  Wait until you hear about the gym.  That’s the next place we’ll go.

Travel Here: Do You Battuto?

Image borrowed from google local.

I love my neighborhood. I’m minutes away from virtually everything, but in recent months, it seems as if everything’s been getting closer.  The next new restaurant on our horizon was something called Battuto Italian Kitchen, another restaurant we can easily walk to.

We watched the construction and saw them hang out a banner announcing a rustic farm-to-table neighborhood Italian restaurant, but from the outside, we couldn’t tell whether they were a going concern yet or still pulling things together.  As soon as cars began to gather, we joined them.

As we enterered, a departing patron grabbed my arm and told me we were going to love it.  Everyone in her party voiced their agreement.  The hostess told us there was a twenty minute wait, so we decided to walk a bit before settling at the bar.  Since they don’t have a beeper system, we were taking somewhat of a risk, but that’s OK.  We were out to have fun and if we had to wait a second twenty minutes it wouldn’t have killed us.

On our return, we made sure the hostess knew we were back and sat down at the bar with a wine list.  Let me tell you, they are very proud of their wines – a little prouder than we felt was necessary, so we opted for a Peroni.  Sitting at the bar, we looked around and realized the new restaurateurs had kept much of the floor plan and decor of  the previous restaurant in the space, but had still managed to pull together a much more sophisticated ambiance.

Soon, we were led to a booth.  The menu is pretty simple – not a lot of clutter.  Bill decided on a prosciutto pannini and I chose a chicken pasta with olives and mushrooms.  I have to confess, our charming, handsome waiter was one of the highlights of the experience.  He greeted us with a basket of warm bread the kitchen had sent out in duplicate for another table. Thank you kitchen.

Bill was not crazy about the pannini.  He thought the prosciutto was tough and the ratio of bread to filling was wrong.  I asked him whether he thought it needed roughage or cheese or more meat, but he wasn’t sure.  He just felt the sandwich was off.  However, he adored the fries.  I didn’t have even one.  If I’d reached over there, I might’ve gotten a slap on the hand. He was that thrilled with them.  He said the fries tasted as if they’d been taken out of the fryer one second and put on the table the next – zero greasy flavor.  The metal can the fries are served in probably helped hold in the heat.

My pasta dish was OK.  It’s fresh pasta and I’m assuming they make it in the kitchen.  There was plenty chicken and I loved the chunks of black olives.  I was iffy on the sauce, which is a shame, because the waiter told us the restaurant’s name is derived from the way they make their sauces.  Battuto comes from a word that means to beat with a club, but has come to describe a certain method of blending sauces.  To me, it seemed as if the flavor might have been completely beaten out of the sauce, because it seemed rather bland to have a restaurant named after it.

It was an evening of hits and misses, but enough hits that we’ll probably make a return visit.  We’ll order something else next time, however.  Neither dish deserved a repeat.  Should you go?  That’s up to you, but if you go, let us know what you think.

Travel There: Freestyle’s First Fail

Deb and Joe enjoy a glass of champagne in Maltings before dinner in The Manhattan Room

OK – I’ve already mentioned that I was a little concerned about the whole free-style thing, but we’d been on the boat for several hours and for the most part, free-styling felt pretty much like traditional cruising.

After the sail-away we returned to our stateroom and did our first dressing dance.  Then we met our friends and rode the elevator down to Deck 7.  The elevator doesn’t go to Deck 6 where the the restaurant is.  Deb speculated that it was to force you to go through the casino, but since the casino’s on six, I never figured out the logic.. Anyway, we went down a flight of stairs and entered chaos.

According to the Q&A section of Norwegian’s website, the first night is lobster night in the main dining rooms, so we didn’t want to miss it.  Apparently, no one else did either.  We showed up about 8 PM with two hours to spare before our reservations for the Blue Man Group, but that just showed how green we were to free-style.  You’re free to do everything except show up for dinner at the main dining room and expect a seat.

Deb and Joe stood in line for Manhattan, while Bill and I rushed down to Taste to see if it was any more likely we’d get a table there.  We might have been slightly better off at Taste, but when we returned to discuss it with our friends. they’d gotten one of the restaurant buzzers that let’s you wander around in the vicinity of a restaurant and they’d gotten coupons for free champagne.  Our concerns took a back seat to the champagne.

We found Maltings, a whiskey tasting bar,  and enjoyed the free champagne.  Nearby, a crooner strummed a guitar and played old folk favorites, but once the champagne was gone, we heard the clock counting down to Blue Man.  Tromping back downstairs and Deb did the honors.  Her reward was a finger-wagging scolding from the hostess for returning before the buzzer summoned us.  We were obviously failing at freestyle, but before we could contemplate the enormity of our sin, the buzzer went off and all was forgiven.

We were shown to our seats and before too long a waitress showed up.  When Deb let her know we had to be out of there in time for Blue Man, the waitress gave us another lesson in free-style.  Seems we really shouldn’t book a show after dinner, if we plan on eating in one of the main dining rooms.  They don’t tell you that on the website, but our waitress was quick to fill us in.  The show was still an hour and a half away, but she behaved as if we’d asked for the moon.

Dinner in the Manhattan Room

For starters, Bill got a shrimp something, Deb got salmon tartare and I got a salad.  (I was still hoping I wouldn’t fall completely off the food wagon.)  Deb and Bill loved their’s, but whoever washed the lettuce for my salad failed to dry it off.  My Caesar Salad was watery and also very heavy on the anchovies.

Then the surf and turf arrived and our mood improved, but my steak was gristlely and the lobster was small.  I wished I’d copied Bill and double-ordered lobster to replace the steak.  It wasn’t the end of the world and it looked like we’d have plenty of time to make the show – until we ordered dessert and waited and waited and waited and…

As we waited we compared notes on cruising and Epic was not coming out ahead.  The dinner-time mob scene had been disconcerting.  We’d have gladly traded our free champagne for an assurance we’d make it to the show.  Then someone mentioned the entertainment.  To one side of the Manhattan stage, sat a lone man playing a guitar.  We could barely hear him, but we think he was playing Beatles songs. We hoped we weren’t seeing Epic’s best foot forward.  We’d been expecting more.

Finally, about five minutes before curtain, I announced we’d have to forego dessert.  We hightailed it to the other end of the deck to the Epic Theater and found mediocre seats moments before the lights went down.  How was The Blue Man Group?  Find out next week!