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“And then I realized, we were in Building Heaven” |
The longest layover of my trip thus far has been spent idly in Denver. Visiting a friend who moved here almost two years ago, I’ve been surprised by her knowledge of Denver. A city of this size would require far more time for me to learn. This is, of course, considering that although my orientation skills have been developing smoothly during the many days on the road, I am still at a loss within some city sprawls. The advantage of course, is that she walks everywhere. That said, let’s get into Denver. I’m reviewing the restaurants that
stood out to me for a variety of reasons, which means most (I react to most dining experiences as if a professional critic, it’s more fun that way), because we both wanted to save money and mostly ate in.
For your reading pleasure, this will focus (as far as I am able) on the highlights of tourist Denver. My first evening was spent enjoying the community of her neighborhood. Although I can’t say much at all positive for the layout of the city, I’m happy that my friend found a street where everyone knows and likes everyone else. The one memory of the city that resounded from my first visit, and was certainly reinforced on this one, is that Denver doesn’t seem to have been planned as most cities I’m used to. Meaning, at all. Zoning, surprise!, happens to exist, but perhaps to the detriment of the rest of the sprawl. Although an ingenious grid system is in place, theoretically, there are too many exceptions and curved roads (around what? We ask ourselves) to laud the execution. However, insofar as you’re traveling in a little square of good grid (which probably means you’re south of Colfax), you can see the Rockies to the west, numbered streets increase towards the north, and the avenues go in alphabetical order, increasing east to west. All it takes is a look at the city map to see how terribly this plan was laid out. Which, in tota, is why I am so happy to have such an able and patient guide.
Ever since I checked up on what was going on in Denver while I would be a visitor, the Museum of Nature and Science, hosting the IMAX film festival, was at the top of my list. I made it there on Friday, ready for a marathon and hopefully some good learning.
The student discounts were excellent. I bought two IMAX tickets and admission to the museum for $14, and went to kill some time in the Gems and Minerals wing. I love museums for the kid-oriented exhibits, the field trips, and the strange looks I get for meandering alone. On this particular weekday there were only about five schools there, and the little ones were at the Gems and Minerals section. As I weaved my way through the tots, the rocks reminded me of the days when I had my own collection and wanted to be a geologist. I secretly still do, which is why I’m going to tell you about rhodochrosite. I didn’t bring my camera unfortunately, but please do look this one up. The Denver Museum houses the largest, best specimen of this manganese carbonate phenomenon, a cranberry-colored cube. Somehow, do not ask me, this stuff forms in perfect right angles, to produce a cherry knox block. Those of you kids who didn’t get the generic stuff, I’m talking about a naturally occurring hard ass jello jiggler. After watching the video of its extraction, I spent some time in the pyrite section. Far more than just fools gold, this stuff grows in a ludicrous plethora of formations. One sample reminded me of a sparkling brass Fortress of Solitude.
Another deposit had layers like sheets, each one barely smaller in area than the last, stacked perfectly smooth, one over the next, making nanostairs of time.
How strange then, to walk past these minerals that somehow (thanks to science) generate miraculously (to those of us who don’t know the science) into idiosyncratic formations, and find the precious gems room. When I had just seen an opal deposit, and a big old hunk of topaz, in the next room are tiny jewels of the same stuff, worth a fortune because of something having to do with carats.
And I was off to Blue Planet. I was hoping for an underwater adventure of mythic and scientific proportion, but I got a space adventure and a look at some pretty awesome destruction. The film (which, like all the film festival admissions, was at least seven years old) focused on the planet we inhabit and how we don’t actually reign supreme, even though we’re slowly shrinking our protective ozone layer. The narration was fairly neutral discussing climate change (not global warming) but dedicated a few minutes to discuss the importance of the thin blue haze of the ozone, emphasized by the beautiful IMAX videography from space. And there was plenty of breathtaking footage from space. The aesthetics of the movie were well done and entertaining. Three side by side videos from Hurricane Hugo with stacked audio optimally utilized the IMAX theater technology. IMAX footage requires 24 frames per second and a separate hi-definition soundtrack. The video reel for a forty-minute film lays out about two and a half miles and weighs two hundred and fifty pounds. I love it.
After exploring the taxidermy section (I had no idea that a male walrus is the size of a large Suzuki! And that a sea lion could probably thrash a hippopotamus!) I decided to learn about the human body a little more in the wing entitled “Hall of Life.” I pondered how the wing across the hall from it could aptly be switched to “Hall of Death” to replace “North American Wildlife.”
The hall of life was enjoyable for me, a healthy and fit person, who gets to watch youngsters “See How Long You Can Ride a Bike!” and climb up and down stairs to explain how bodies need calories. As a socially conscious person, I was saddened at the image of the preteen struggling after one minute of pedaling, and then pleased to see a susceptible youth pause at the video booth playing what must have been Nancy Reagan’s favorite Just Say No ads. After studying the hall of the fetus, a winding path that displayed preserved specimens from blastocyst phase on, I decided to go wait in line and think about my uterus.
The audience in line for Blue Planet had been me, five chaperones, and a middle school. They cut me in line at will until one stepped on me and I said “watch it” or other warning that may or may not scare little punks, after which point they kept at least a foot between us as they cut me. This time, I waited for “Shackleton’s Antartic Adventure” with a large group of other adults. A few women behind me conjectured how so many people have time to go to an IMAX at 3 pm on a Friday, but it seemed obvious to me that when a city hosts a film festival this important, at least a few dozen people a week would rather be released from work than miss out on such an important documentary.
Shackleton’s story blew me away. I highly recommend everyone at least reads one of the acclaimed books written on his journey, but if you can, see the IMAX film. Edge of your seat suspense is not a common attribute for an IMAX film to boast. Awesome fast-moving videography and epic natural phenomena, enthralling zoological observation with incredible sound to match, but suspense? I haven't seen this kind of suspense since the Omnitheater presentation of rock-climbing showed a gradually fraying rope. And this was far better, this, was real heroism as we don't seem to read about anymore. The kind of leadership that can only exist without satellite systems and long-range radio. This story made me proud of my species.
Ernest Shackleton set out to walk across the largest section of the Antarctic Continent ever attempted, with a crew that he recruited with (as legend has it) the short advert in The Times of London "men wanted for hazardous journey. small wages. bitter cold. long months of complete darkness. constant danger. safe return doubtful." The crew thus assembled became a great team with Frank Worsely as captain, Shackleton unofficially the same, for he is possibly the most natural and intuitive leader I've encountered through my years of learning.
Before the men could even reach land from the Weddell Sea to embark on their mission, ice grew up around the Endurance as a vice grip, and slowly compressed the four foot hull, the massive body, and the ship was lost. From here the real adventure begins, with patient, brilliant men willing to endure any torment for survival. The humanity of the story retains its reality best with the footage and photographs that remain. Intermittent with reenactment footage (of the best kind) and narration, the black and white material from Endurance's photographer Frank Hurley captures what could have become conjecture.
I won't go into the saga of these men further, but know that it only gets better, and more terrifying, and thus more triumphant.
I left the theater wiping tears from my glassy eyes, because the finale was such a surprise to me. Now that is great IMAX.
On the weekend I agreed to try out, once again, the Salsa movement. It seems that the dance is becoming what Swing dance was in the nineties. For the aughts, Salsa! I went quite a bit when I was in Ecuador, but my school employed a rather poor teacher (he was a painter) so I learned most at the clubs. I have since developed a love-hate relationship with the dance for the following reasons. I am happy being single, but would much prefer to learn with a partner. Men in all countries of the world it seems will try out Salsa, or become expert at the dance, and go to clubs to dance with strange women. For the lucky few, partners are found and romances begin. People like me, however, experience a dandy lesson, feel pretty good about the basics, then find the lights turning low and the bass beat bumping and the men who are still not more attractive in dim light with sexy music blasting, are the ones who ask for my hand. Take Saturday. We went to La Rumba, THE Salsa club in Denver. I had a fabulous lesson, followed by another fairly good lesson (the teachers of the earlier intermediate lesson are better by far than the beginner teachers) and was enjoying the steps and that great groove you get from owning your hips as Salsa allows.
In between classes, Rich introduced himself. An older man, he was at the beginner class either to learn Salsa so he can impress women or to meet women at the Salsa club. He was very nice but completely clueless, and asked to be my partner during the lesson. I was just beginning to enjoy myself dancing, but was in no way qualified to help Rich learn. When my friend agreed to give him a quick lesson while we waited, a charming older Spanish guy saw and scuttled over to confidently teach the basics.
Then Geraldo made his rounds. A short and stout little man, he wore a bright blue shirt with dark suspenders, smelled of a packed conference room, and attempted to sweep my friends and I off our feet. He pulled us in close, one by one, and spun us around and used none of the typical Salsa moves. It became clear that Geraldo loved his women but didn't pay attention at all to the dance. He led with force but followed no set steps. He asked me if I was Latin. "Not a drop!" I laughed, because it was so painfully obvious not even genes were helping me follow him. When he let me go, Rich came over and scolded me for telling him that I didn't know what I was doing. Hah. When you get the hips down, it's hypnotic.
Then we met the greatest story of Salsa in Denver. A woman determined to learn the dance and a guy already fabulous. They meet, they dance, they fall in love. She learns the moves, he proposes. They marry, and go out every week to strut their stuff like the experts they are. She can move! And by that I mean she is an entertaining follower, she knows what to fill dead time with, how to trust the right men when they spin, dip, and lift her, and how to take care of her own steps when a cocky partner takes over. They were dressed to the nines and everyone watched them. We stood at the bar, mouths agape, and the woman next to me leaned over and said "You, too, can be that good someday." And it's true, it only took the bombshell a year. Her husband circulated the crowd, but I did watch them for a song, which was such a treat. To share that with a good partner, is real dancing.
We stayed in and saved money for a while.
On Wednesdays, the Museum of Art, Denver (MAD) stays open until 10 pm. We borrowed a friend's member card and headed out after work.
The building itself is presented as a work of art. (Are you ready? Because I'm about to go off again about art for a little while)
The building jutted over the street, with rough-angled titanium appendages stretching out like a jausting match of modern archtecture. I felt sorry for the poor workers across the street who now have a titanium panel to look at from their window, rather than a cityscape. Inside the building the walls were characteristically not 90 degree angles, as it is an example of modern architecture. A nice worker explained to us that we must go to the sculpture garden because it will be so pleasant this time of day. So we headed in that direction. Someone in charge of things had invited an artist to spruce up some of the random-angle walls with art, and so, scattered over the white space were circular metal stamps that projected numbers in blue LED. Sometimes the numbers would not stand up but sit on the side or rotate. I think the piece was entitled 80. I thought it was stupid.
The sculpture garden had two concrete chairs with exposed body parts so that the concrete appeared to be suffocating parts of the humans beneath. One one, part of a male torso was superimposed where your back would rest, and the legs showed the cast of a man's shins. The entirety was concrete, but the casts were so detailed that the desired effect was reached. The cityscape was alright, I don't find early dusk to be the greatest time to look at buildings because there isn't much sun and the cool lights aren't on yet. But we got to touch the titanium and that was neat. I think it's a good idea to start there because you can't touch anything after that. We got our fill and moved to the fourth floor.
So I don't get too carried away, I'm going to stick with my notes, mostly. The floor layouts were almost labyrinth-esque, so the bending walls required you to walk into a room to get a good peek. The rooms were created with acute-angled walls rather than doors, although the latter invention were utilized to separate the donated wings. The winding hall led us from a room of modern paintings and sculpture to turn a corner and find ourselves facing an African statue carved from the rough, textured trunk of a tree fern. What a contrast! We walked from a giant ashtray filled with cigarette butts, to metal sticks forming a man exploding, arms and legs spread (Anthony Gromley "Quantum Cloud XXXIII"), to an organic male figure carved to commemorate the ranking celebration of a man moving up in his society. That was breathtaking. Does it seem almost wasteful to anyone else that this statue was used, and was created in a fashion similar to others, while white man art is created to sit in a wing and be judged? Or maybe not wasteful, just masturbatory.
Then we saw the Monet, and the Matisse's (which are beautiful, and from what I hear, the borders are very fluid. What does that mean?), I believe a portrait of a very interesting looking woman, and one entitled "Backstage at the Circus" or so. I saw my first Andy Warhol that I liked. A large canvas with a projection print of a Native American, fairly generic picture in black and white and gray. Entitled "The American Indian," the newspaper grays on white, with some black pixilation, I almost decided he was cheating, then saw that he had captured a concept of this man. And so I was pleased. Depressed, but pleased.
We agreed on Robert Irwin's creativity for his piece "Untitled," which from formed acrylic plastic and acrylic lacquer he made a large white circle. The circle seemed to float in front of the wall, and the light produced four shadows creating a sort of square of circles on the wall behind. A band across the circle, probably a tenth of the diameter, appeared both metallic silver and clear, with a concentration of all the shades in the center. If you stared at that mysterious center gray nothingness, you're guaranteed to get vertigo. Cool.
In the next room was a large metallic blue bowl (similar to the plastic platters for sale at Crate and Barrel during the holidays) hung from the wall. Where's the workmanship? The inspiration?
In the African wing, we saw how African painters and sculpters employ palpable human emotion in their works. This was art and it did not hide behind itself.
Damien Hirst took a skinned bull's head, dropped it in a glass box full of formaldahyde, sealed the box, and named it "Philip (The Twelve Disciples)." Can you guess how I feel about that? He's the same guy who did the ashtray thing on another floor.
In the Western American wing, I noticed that the further I go on this adventure, as I drive this country, I have experienced the awe in places that compels an artist to paint, photograph, or sculpt. From following my gut for itinerary, the more museums I visit, the more works of art I can point to and say, I saw that. In Denver, it was a photograph of the plains of Longmont, many sketches of the rocks of Jemez, and the ruins of Mesa Verde.
I love Zhang Huan.
When we left, the grounds around the museum, with a rock "water"fall, LEDS galore, and bold architecture, I saw that we were walking through a courtyard of new buildings, The Civic Center Cultural Complex. The museums offered lights and angles giving almost a life-like quality to their space. Metals were stark and cold against the green grasses (the first good green I've seen in weeks). Windows extended the shine of the lights, and the heavy walls of the library absorbed it all. And then I realized, were were in Building Heaven.
With this long visit coming to a close, I can urge people to follow my footsteps, but only if you must go here, it just isn't a destination city. Go to the mountains! The small towns! The Breweries! The Parks! Choose nature over civilization in this state, and you will be contented.
previous travel blog entry
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