Category: Art (page 2 of 2)

June 18, 2018

The Dube Abides

Originally published in the Summer 2018 issue of Stock & Barrel

When the beloved Blue Danube abruptly announced they were closing after 78 years, the news nearly broke hearts and local Facebook feeds. But early reports of their eminent demise were perhaps a bit premature.

Yes, the most recent operator Bob Swaim had planned to hold on into June. And the Margetis family, which has actually owned the building for decades while retaining rights to the name, quietly revealed plans to remodel and reopen the restaurant in the coming months. No one has offered much in the way of details or assurances, not wanting to become the victim or villain in this story. And neither narrative would likely allay fears about possibly losing yet another Columbus culinary landmark to a pretentious gastropub or gaudy watering hole with no soul.

Rather than dwell on what we don’t know, let’s celebrate what we do know about the Dube, hoping that a people’s history might sway both sides into preserving part of what makes The Blue Danube unique, instead of letting a cloudy and contentious transition turn into an excuse to sabotage or abandon what folks love most.

Gaye Spetka’s story stretches back to the early years, when her parents first got together following WWII. “It was more posh back then when my parents had their first date there. My father went to OSU after the war, and my mother was shocked when he ordered a beer,” she laughed. Spetka became a regular herself in the ‘70s. She was thankful for the chance to pass on the legacy before it may be lost. “It was a treat to take my niece and her now husband there to share the story of how her grandparents met. But so much of what I remember of the campus area isn’t the same; it’s ticky-tacky steel and glass structures and asphalt parking lots.”

Colin Dearth is among four generations of faithful patrons, marking family milestones at the Dube for decades. “My grandfather was an Army medic who came to Ohio State and met my grandmother. My parents were both juniors at OSU in the ’60s when I was born and lived right around the corner,” he recalled. Dearth grew up to serve in the 82nd Airborne and Special Forces, but didn’t forget simpler times as a teenager spent scarfing down fries smothered in chicken gravy with friends. “I’d come home and spend 20 minutes going over the menu, but still ordered the steak and eggs every time for like 10 years. And PBR pints for a buck-fifty? They may as well have filled up my trunk.” Now a father of three, he orders the vegetarian chef’s salad and hasn’t had a beer in years. “I’ve celebrated too many birthdays there to count. All of my daughters sat in highchairs at the Dube.”

Natalie Thomson was a waitress there in the ’80s, when the Margetis family previously ran the place. “My father played saxophone and we’d walk from Dick’s Den down to the Dube for a bite to eat afterward. I started working there when I was 17. Some nights, I was the only waitress working as we got closer to close,” she revealed. An anachronism in the age of the smartphone, Thomson also remembers when tenants from the adjacent apartments used the payphone as their personal phone number, and waitresses would run next door to let folks know when they had a call. The experience was a far cry from her eventual occupation as a chef, though formative and unforgettable. “I’ve worked in fine dining restaurants, but I still love a greasy spoon.”

Rico Sullivan also discovered the Dube in the ’80s as a teen, when he and his brother used to sell hot dogs during game days at OSU. “After the game, we’d all go to the video arcade, then The Blue Danube and try to act all hip like the college students we saw there. I fell in love with the fish platter back then,” he recalled. “We loved the atmosphere of the place.” Sullivan went on to teach martial arts and took his students there as well. His wife is originally from Pakistan and still considers it her first true taste of America. “My wife and I eat there and always get nostalgic about our first date. It was heartbreaking to find out they are closing. I have a lot of great memories invested in The Blue Danube.”

Dawn Chapman used to sneak into bars and clubs with her fake ID, but actually came to the Dube when she wanted to be alone. “Sometimes, you just need to escape everyone. I was very shy, so I’d go there to write, smoke cigarettes, and drink coffee. It’s also the first place I ever had a gyro,” she recalled. But it proved difficult to be alone for long at The Blue Danube, forging friendships that endure to this day — and others just for the night. “I always hoped to paint a ceiling tile. ‘Paint a tile and we’ll add it to the pile,’ they said, but I never got around to it. I used to make jewelry, and a few of my designs were inspired by certain ceiling tiles. Tile 32 is still my favorite.”

Mike Cavender found something strangely familiar at The Blue Danube since moving to Columbus in the late ’90s. “There are so many places where we used to go that are gone now. Places like North Campus Video and the Dube weren’t homogenized and still seemed a little rougher around the edges. That’s how I felt back then — rougher around the edges,” he explained. Though a “committed carnivore,” Cavender admitted their black bean burger was his first, and a pleasant surprise. His wife was already familiar with the Dube, particularly its infamous jukebox, when they met. But he’d long considered it a litmus test for whether a date was the right fit. “If you go there on a first date and are both into that kind of place, it’s probably going to work out.”

Despite the brisk bump in business, as the days slipped toward the end of this chapter and the beginning of the next, the Dube’s most recent incarnation just couldn’t hold on any longer. In fact, the Friday after the initial announcement, they had to close early because the kitchen ran out of food and had to restock — perhaps a hint in hindsight foreshadowing the final week. As for the iconic neon inside and out, that Grilled Cheese and Dom Pérignon special, and the fate of those famous ceiling tiles, no one seems to know for sure what will stay or go. When asked prior to the unexpected last call, a bartender simply replied, “Bob’s got a lot on his plate.” ▩

June 1, 2018

Blue Eyed Blues

Originally published in the June 2018 issue of (614) Magazine

When Garrett Dutton was eight years old, it was the Beatles who prompted him to take up the guitar. After learning to fingerpick Blackbird and adding a harmonica to the mix, by fifteen he was writing his own songs. But it wasn’t until he asked the owner of his local record store who else besides Bob Dylan and Neil Young played solo acoustic guitar and blew the harp that he was handed his first John Hammond album.

Though his stage name and notoriety were still years away, that was the moment Garrett became G. Love.

“When I heard his rendition of Statesboro Blues, my whole world changed,” G. Love recalled. “I was used to people strumming the guitar, and this was an entirely different sound — holding the bass, playing riffs, playing melodies, all at the same time. That sound guided me toward Delta blues.”

Faithful execution of traditional blues standards probably would have been enough to make a white kid from Philadelphia stand out amid aging hair bands, the grunge craze, or waning days of power pop. Free style rap was becoming as much a part of the emerging Philly music scene as Hall and Oates had by repurposing R&B in the 70s and 80s, or the defining influence of the Delfonics decades earlier. G. Love turned something old into something entirely new, a nod to the past with the pulse on the present.“

The hip hop side of what I do was just part of growing up in our generation and the music we listened to with our friends,” he explained. “I never really thought of myself as a rapper until one night when I was still a street musician, I finished one of my tunes and started singing Eric B. and Rakim’s ‘Paid in Full’ lyrics over the blues riff I was playing and it was like a light shown down on me. It was something no one else was doing.”

That reference to “our generation” wasn’t just a generalization. G. Love and I have some shared history, though our paths had never formally or formerly crossed. We’re the same age, and despite being unapologetically the product of urban, East Coast upbringings, our formative musical influences run a remarkably similar range from the Beastie Boys and Run DMC to Big Bill Broonzy and Robert Johnson. Just as his genre-defying debut album released, I happened to be the blues producer at a tiny public radio station that either didn’t mind (or didn’t know) how often I brought in milk crates of my own vinyl and patched the board into the only studio left that still had a working turntable. That’s when I first dropped the needle on “Cold Beverage” and the sound was unlike anything else on the air.

What easily could have been another catchy one-hit-wonder seemed to stick. Back before Spotify and SiriusXM, the way most musicians found new audiences was through independent radio and the small club circuit. That’s where G. Love and his Boston-born band, Special Sauce, won fans and defied critics. Though it’s been his enthusiasm to collaborate that continues to find new followings with albums and appearances from Ben Harper and Lucinda Williams to Keb’ Mo’ and Citizen Cope constantly redefining his raconteur style.

“Collaboration should be natural and sincere, but you don’t have to be best friends to cut a song together,” he noted. “Most musicians love to get that call to work on an album together. I know I do.”

One such call came from the Avett Brothers, who produced “Fixin’ to Die”, as well as backing G. Love with enough layered harmonies and bright banjo licks to create a credible Appalachian-inspired album of back porch blues.

“The Avett Brothers were huge fans when they were in high school. Seth had a broken cassette deck in his car that had my album ‘Yeah, It’s That Easy’ stuck in it, playing for a year,” he laughed. “They were already big when they took time out to do my album.”

Despite these seemingly unlikely musical alliances, his most well-known and enduring collaboration is probably with Jack Johnson. The two were introduced by a mutual friend and fellow surfer while G. Love was in L.A. working on an album.

“We came back to my little hotel room and traded songs after surfing all afternoon,” he revealed. “Basically every song he played went his first album, Brushfire Fairytales.”

G. Love championed Johnson’s music, even including an early bluesy release of “Rodeo Clowns” as a duet on that album, Philadelphonic. By the time Johnson was coming into his own, G. Love’s label was cutting smaller bands. Brushfire Records picked up G. Love, where his loyalties and royalties remain to this day.

It’s been a winding road, but not a weary one for G. Love and Special Sauce, celebrating the 25th anniversary of the release of their self-titled album this year with a tour of venues and cities large and small. But it’s those cities in the middle where he expects to keep finding ways to stay new and true to the music he admires and aspires.

“Twenty-five years later, I’m still finding new ways to do the same old thing. I used to get chased off the corner as a street musician, but now Philadelphia is exploding because New York has priced people out,” he explained. “Musicians, artists, and actors are going to thrive where they can afford to live, and get a little steam going. Places like Philly, Baltimore, and Columbus are where I think we’re going to see a wave of creatives over the next ten years, cities with scenes small enough to stand out, but still big enough to make an impact.” ▩

G. Love and Special Sauce will perform at the Columbus Arts Festival on June 9th. For more, visit columbusartsfestival.org

June 1, 2018

Aidan 5

Originally published in the June 2018 issue of (614) Magazine

Bryan Michael Block wasn’t surprised when the phone rang, but it wasn’t the call he was expecting. The conversation was short, but sufficient. He opened the door to his closet and grabbed a gray-striped tie and weathered leather jacket to make sure he looked the part of a police detective. There was a serial killer, it was his job to stop him, and the clock was ticking. But this wasn’t any ordinary case. The murder he was called to solve was his own.

Block has an unsettling stature when the situation requires it. Imagine the disheveled understatement of Harrison Ford in Blade Runner amplified by the ominous presence of Vincent D’Onofrio on a bad day. That grim and gritty look is the reason he was originally cast as the lead actor in the ambitious and acclaimed science-fiction series Aidan 5, which recently returned with its long-awaited second season after starting as a short nearly a decade ago.

“We didn’t know what genre was going to get pulled out of that hat. It could have been a western or a romance. With the 48-Hour Film Project it could have been anything,” recalled Block, whose impulsive and intuitive wardrobe selection set the tone for the lead character. “When they pulled sci-fi, that’s when they decided to make a futuristic film noir.”

Professional and lifelong friendships often intersect with the 48-Hour Film Project, an international competition where local teams squeeze the entire motion picture production process into just two days.

“After the acting was done against a green screen, the backgrounds were drawn and scanned in,” Block explained. “It was really just pen and pencil on a sketch pad, cut up in Photoshop, and dropped into a timeline.”

The finished film was low tech, but high concept — a composite comic book look more akin to Sin City than an A-ha music video. Audiences and the industry took notice, making the rounds online and at larger festivals, eventually making it all the way to Cannes. Even William Shatner tweeted his approval of its innovative techniques and technology with the envious interrogative, “Why aren’t I in it?”

“Ben Bays, who is also a producer here in town, approached us after the 48 about turning it into a web series, how we needed to take this world and expand it,” he explained. “That’s when we started to explore the details and fill in the blanks on the future we’d created.”

The original series opens in 2064 with Detective James Aidan standing over his own corpse, one of several clones with which Block appears on screen simultaneously, stitched together digitally in post-production. A world where cloning is commonplace was a crucial creative device and plot point that propels the now 30-episode series. The entire production was created and executed in Columbus essentially as a community film project, with a cast and crew too numerous to name.

“Season One was shot for no money and was cobbled together. But we had a lot of help between favors, friends, and filmmakers willing to show up for several Saturdays,” Block noted. “Season Two is three and a half hours. Add that to the three hours of Season One and we have four feature films worth of finished content.”

The new season is still set in the same dystopian future, and also employed the signature green screen meets black box theater approach. But unlike the original short or the first series that followed, Season Two took several years to complete, funded through Kickstarter to build interest and cover incidentals.

Filming took place in Columbus as well, minus one notable cameo that was almost too good to be true — Richard Hatch, best known for roles in both the original and reimagined reboot of Battlestar Galactica, but also a passionate supporter of streaming series, podcasts, and similar emerging storytelling platforms.

“We reached out to him, but knew it was a long shot. Even though his scene was small, it was pivotal. We sent him the script and he said he really liked the series and the part,” revealed Bays, showrunner and executive producer of Aidan 5. “He specifically mentioned one of the reasons he was doing it was because he was so impressed with the production and performances in Season One and liked working on projects with up-and-coming talent.”

Schedules didn’t align to shoot Hatch’s scene here. But a green screen can be anywhere, so you’d never know Hatch was in L.A. while Bays directed remotely.

“I just Skyped in and directed over a laptop,” Bays added. “There is even a cast photo of everyone in the studio with Richard and someone is holding up a laptop with my face on the other end.”

Aside from consistent studio space, the second season also piqued the interest of local talent, with more than 40 speaking parts and dozens of extras populating their imaginary world. Even the late John Kuhn, artistic director of the Actors’ Theatre of Columbus read for a role.

“It was the first time we’d ever met him and his voice captivated us. He had such gravitas we decided to create a villain around it,” recalled Block, whose contributions also included casting and helping to create the series backstory. “His performance and reputation gave Aidan 5 a lot of legitimacy in the local the theater community, and the episodic nature allowed us to feature local actors in scenes where everyone felt like a guest star.”

As for the final fate of James Aidan and his clones, Bays confirmed the series was always intended to be a trilogy — but we may have to wait a while before the next installment of episodes, just so everyone can catch their collective breath.

“One of the things about Aidan 5 that we love most is that it is so collaborative. It really is a group of friends working together with the local acting community to create something greater than any of us could do on our own,” explained Bays. “Whether it’s someone like Richard Hatch from L.A. or someone local like John Kuhn, the series creates an outlet for filmmakers, writers, and actors to be a part of something that puts Columbus on the map.” ▩

Both seasons are available now at aidan5.com

October 1, 2017

Mob on a Mission

Originally published in the October 2017 issue of (614) Magazine

Kimberly Rottmayer is going to make you an offer you can’t refuse. The photographer by trade is as snappy as her shutter, fierce as her fervor, and undeniable as her freckles. She’s disarming, yet demanding. “No” is not an answer. If you’re a dog, she may just be your best friend — and luckily, she’s not alone.

Rottmayer is part of a clever clique of vocal volunteers at the Franklin County Dog Shelter and Adoption Center, a role that shouldn’t be as controversial as it has become. It was barely a year ago when a distemper outbreak resulted in the euthanizing of nearly a hundred dogs, a heart-wrenching decision that polarized animal advocates and shelter officials. Procedures and protocols have been thoroughly reviewed and revised since then, but those aren’t the only things that have changed.

“Being a volunteer dog walker at the shelter can be a very positive experience, working to help dogs get adopted. But it can be emotionally trying,” admitted Rottmayer. “You also get to know the dogs that have been there for months that may only get one walk a day.”

For perspective, imagine living in a cage or kennel and getting only 20 minutes a day to walk, play, and just be a dog? (Even inmates at a maximum-security prison get an hour in the yard.)

“Over time, you can see the dogs change — become less interactive, less adoptable,” she explained. “After the distemper incident, lots of volunteers quit coming. Those of us who keep coming do it for the dogs. We’re often the only advocates they have.”

Volunteers are tasked with walking dogs to maintain that human connection and mitigate the behaviors that typically come from extended isolation. There’s a class requirement, but students, retirees, flight attendants, and the like who love canines, but maybe don’t have the schedule or time to commit to a dog full-time, fill the ranks.

Then there’s the “Shelter Mafia”.

“It was just a hashtag I came up with to describe the shelter volunteers,” Cindy Renner said modestly. She has been a volunteer for years and witnessed the fall off in dog walkers first-hand. “We have a great group of new and old volunteers who would do anything for our shelter dogs.”

When she says “anything” she means it. Sometimes the only barrier between a dog finding a home and never leaving the shelter is a decent photo. Renner made it her mission to get one particular dog adopted, so she started taking pictures of him—lots of pictures. Denoted with the hashtag #dailysam, the series of snapshots revealed the personality of the pooch in a way a single image couldn’t. It was a hook and a hashtag that stuck.

“It’s so easy to take a picture with your phone, so we all started doing it to promote the dogs on our own social media accounts. Cindy tagged one of hers #sheltermafia and that was it,” Rottmayer recalled. “Now all of the extra things we do for the dogs from enrichment to marketing had a name.”

Among the changes made by the shelter is a new intake process, keeping dogs together that come in on the same day to control exposures, and providing preventive vaccinations. But dogs also go through the system faster now. That sounds good, but it inevitably means dogs that aren’t adopted, go to “rescue” status more quickly, making them less likely to be adopted before they’re put down.

That’s when the Shelter Mafia offers its protection, with a hard social media push of photos, short videos, and persuasive pitches on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and in-person to find foster families to buy each dog a little more time, before it runs out.

Despite the mob mentality, no one is set in their ways. There’s no “Godfather” calling all the shots. “New people bring in a new perspective,” noted Renner.

“It’s not all online. During adoption events, we started printing up old school flyers — you know, like bands do — promoting what makes each dog special,” Rottmayer explained. “We’re the ones who know the dogs, their personalities, whether they get along well with other dogs, or are maybe too rambunctious for small children — traits that are hard to see when someone is only looking at a dog in a cage or kennel that may be reactive, shy, or scared.”

Though there is still some conflict, there is also collaboration. All of those canine candids from the Shelter Mafia are now exchanged with the interns who manage the Franklin County Dog Shelter’s own social media presence, so they too can better promote adoptions. The shelter also started sharing posts from its volunteers, which is quite a turnaround following some unflattering hashtags that emerged in the wake of last year’s tragedy.

Metrics aren’t perfect measurements, but in the past five years, the number of dogs that have been euthanized at the shelter has fallen by roughly 75 percent, from 6,275 in 2011 to 1,617 in 2016. More than 10,000 dogs a year still find their way into the shelter. But that number has been trending down as well — and volunteers are an undeniable part of that, even before the Shelter Mafia emerged to employ its strong-arm, social media tactics.

“There’s probably a more scientific name for it, but we call it deterioration. The longer a dog is at the shelter, the less social they become. So we have to become more social,” Rottmayer noted. “You see it happening, but you also see the difference we can make. That’s what keeps us coming back, what gets us up in the morning, even in the snow. Every day, every picture, every post — we know everything we do helps a dog find a home.” ▩

Interested in adopting a dog, joining the Shelter Mafia, or just taking a walk once in a while with a four-legged friend? Contact the Franklin County Dog Shelter and Adoption Center at franklincountydogs.com or 614-525-DOGS.

June 1, 2016

In Our Nature

Originally published in the June 2016 issue of (614) Magazine

Art is about contrast and conflict — and humanity’s indelible imprint on the environment has never looked as striking, or haunting, as it does when explored by artist Laura Sanders. Her latest exhibition, aptly titled In Our Nature, runs through June 30 at Joseph Editions Gallery, 17 W Russell Street in the Short North.

“I do wonder if all this plastic will be our enduring creation, our fossil remains,” Sanders explained. “I also consider the reciprocal nature of our relationship to the environment. We are shaped by it, and as we change the environment, we change ourselves.”

Those new to Sanders’s work could easily mistake the photorealism of oil and canvas for images that were captured instead of created. One such piece titled “Winter Light” features a young girl in a crocheted cap watching the brisk sky through a large swatch of vinyl construction fence. The waves of orange plastic fold to form a series of tiny windows, casting eerie geometric shadows across her wind-chapped face and rumpled coat.

The exhibition also includes nostalgia-inspired, scientific field illustrations of flora seemingly trapped in plastic bottles — almost like specimen containers

“The work in this show continues my interest in merging the figure and the landscape, with the drawings being the exception. In those, the plastic becomes a stand-in for the human presence,” Sanders noted. “In these, I have drawn plastic water bottles containing reflections of flowers with their Latin names in calligraphy. In my imaginary versions, we have only the captured reflections of the flowers available for study.”

The series is both warm and cold at the same time, much like the organic curves of the plastic vessels. In scarcely a century, we’ve gone from storing food we grew ourselves in glass jars, to eating processed food from metal cans, to plastic bottles filled with chemicals and carbonation. Despite their ubiquity, plastic bottles are both intimate and expendable — designed to hold in our hand and put to our lips, only to be quickly discarded and forgotten.

“I particularly love the paintings on paper in this show — her witty take on 18th century botanical drawings, trapping a blossom in a cage of a plastic water bottle,” concurred director Teresa Kelley. “Joseph Editions seeks to provide a platform for world-class art with local roots, bringing exciting artists from the larger art world to Columbus via the more accessible medium of editions, and showing work by incredible talents like Laura Sanders.”

“The work that perhaps encapsulates this exhibition best is the painting of a single plastic gun held up, finger on trigger. But when we look closely, we see the gun is pointed back at the shooter. It’s a wonderful visual metaphor and I think this type of work is unexpected by those who have followed Laura’s career,” Kelley explained. “I love when an artist grows and changes, and I’m excited by how the work has been embraced by collectors.”

“The Ohio Portfolio project was a great opportunity for Ohio artists to go to New York and work with a master printmaker to create an original edition print,” Sanders explained. “The result is a great opportunity for collectors in Columbus to create a collection of Ohio artists’ work affordably.”

Originally from Detroit, Michigan, Sanders was initially drawn to Central Ohio to study at the Columbus College of Art and Design. Community and opportunity eventually helped make Clintonville her home.

“Recently, I had a conversation with a new arrival to Columbus, explaining how I met many of my artist friends. I kept coming back to the Ohio Art League and what a great community building organization it has been over the years,” she explained further. “For me, having the moral support of artist friends has been a big part of what makes Columbus a great place to work.”

“With CCAD, the Pizzuti Collection, the Wexner Center and the Columbus Museum of Art all having contemporary art exhibition programs, artists have the opportunity to see work that is being made now,” Sanders noted. “Being able to think about my work in the context of what is going on nationally without traveling to New York is a great asset to living here.” ▩

For hours and more info, visit josepheditions.com. For more of Sanders’ work, visit laurasandersart.com.