So thanks to Signs I was a little sleep-deprived when Tom and I went to a party at Butterfield's the next night. Butterfield's is an auction house, and for this shindig they had several million dollars worth of art on display. We each grabbed a glass of wine and proceeded to pick out the piece we would buy if we actually had money. Tom decided to go with a pair of Keith Harings that were full of mess and ribald imagery. I chose a panoramic Ruscha that depicted nothing but a sweep of darkening sky with a small array of telephone poles in the lower corner.

More art for me the following evening when Jim and I went to the opening of the Gerhard Richter retrospective at SFMOMA. I first became aware of Richter when the woman in Lesende stopped me in my tracks at SFMOMA years ago. Later I was delighted to discover that the cover of Sonic Youth's Daydream Nation was also a Richter, one in a series of his candle paintings. His photorealistic paintings deal head-on with mortality and encroaching death, and they are just plain formidable in their execution. And then there are his abstract canvases with their huge streaks and dribbles of color. Richter leaves fate to decide the placement of his paint as he drags huge palette knives and squeegees across the surface of his work. Seeing so much of his stuff in one place was awe-inspiring, enhanced on this particular evening with a very strong Cosmo and violin-tinged electronic music floating through the galleries from downstairs. One time through was not enough; I'm going back again this week already.

As I write all this I feel my back still paying the price from my attendance at the Litquake After Shock party at the Edinburgh Castle Saturday night. Raven and I got there early and snagged a seat on a church pew right next to the stage, and a good thing too as it ended up being standing-room only with a line down the block. Four hours on a pew is enough to tweak anyone's back, however. I didn't notice at the time because I was enjoying the readings so much. After Robert Mailer Anderson gave up trying to be heard above the din of the crowd (and he has a lovely singing voice too, I might add), the owner/emcee reminded everyone there they were there to hear people read so would they please shut the hell up. After that it was a little easier to concentrate on the tales of depravity and drugs from Jack Boulware, Cara Bruce, Anne Marino, Emer Martin, and Irvine Welsh. Boulware was my favorite with his story of the three days in which a loaner Porsche completely took over his life, but Welsh was good fun too as he read passages from his new book Porno. Imagine the Trainspotting crew getting into the porn industry. I just kept thinking of Jonny Lee Miller as Sick Boy and getting a little distracted.

Signs
Butterfield's
Litquake
Edinburgh Castle