Categories
Living

Neighborhood: Surprising serenity

Turn right off heavily trafficked Park Street as you’re heading away from Downtown, or cross the always-bustling 250 Bypass at the base of Pantops Mountain and continue up River Road, and suddenly you’re within the hushed confines of a real estate mecca known as Locust Grove.

“This place has a lot to offer,” says Realtor Nancy McCarthy as we drive through the neighborhood. “It runs the gamut, from starter homes to dream houses.” 


Though some residents say Locust Grove’s streets are not very pedestrian-friendly, Eric Kang is undeterred.

There are streets lined with ranch-style house after ranch-style house, along with streets that illustrate the concept of eclecticism, each row of houses like a series of paintings by an artist who’s eager to try out different styles. There’s also some new building going on, such as a small development on St. Charles Place, and plenty of renovating. “You look around and think, ‘Something is happening,’” says McCarthy.

Homes go fast here. McCarthy points to one that sold in three days, and another that sold in two weeks. It’s no wonder. The neighborhood is essentially a hill, and on it you feel borne aloft, as if you’re in the vast basket of a gigantic hot air balloon tethered to the ground by one or two ropes. But such an image is not meant to imply that the neighborhood is cut off from the city. Au contraire. As McCarthy puts it, “It’s five minutes to anywhere.”

Lofty location

Brynne Potter agrees. A Locust Grove resident since 1998, she says, “The main difference between this neighborhood and others in the city is convenience.”

That’s hard to fathom as you gaze out the floor-to-ceiling living room windows of her recently renovated ranch house on the un-aptly named Bland Circle. The unspoiled view of the Rivanna River makes the house feel leagues away from Charlottesville. Though a full view of the river is a rarity in the area, many nearby properties look out onto Meadow Creek, Darden Towe Park and Pen Park. “We see bald eagles, herons, geese,” Potter says. And there’s a fox family that makes regular appearances near the house. Awwww, how cute!

But back to more practical matters. Potter’s husband takes the bus to his job at UVA. Her older son often walks to the Downtown Mall. As for car travel, getting to main thoroughfares such as Park Street and the 250 Bypass is a one-step process, and not a little adventure, as it is starting out from many neighborhoods in town. “It’s simple,” she says simply.

Latecomers

Given its prime location, why is it that most of the houses in the neighborhood are only 50 years old, as opposed to a much older neighborhood like Belmont? “This whole area used to be a dairy farm,” Potter explains, “until it was bought by a developer at the start of the 1960s.” Hence, what might have been one of the first neighborhoods established in Charlottesville was actually one of the last.

Those original houses generally cover two distinct options: a lower-priced one with minor renovations, and a higher-priced one with major renovations.


The housing stock in the neighborhood is diverse—"from starter homes to dream homes," says a real estate agent.

After a lot of marveling at the general eclecticism, McCarthy gets specific. “This is more like a Cape Cod,” she says as she unlocks the door to a four-bedroom, two-bath house on St. Charles Avenue. No major spatial improvements have been done, which keeps the price at $275,000, but everything from the new roof to the sleek hardwood floors exudes loving care. The second floor is dominated by two large bedrooms and two walk-in closets. It’s tempting to call the first floor “cozy,” but that single word doesn’t cut it. “Lean elegance” is more like it, the kind that awakens you to the fact that many people occupy more space than they actually need.

The next stop is a house on Martin Street that’s a half-block away from the bypass, and selling for $200,000 more. The reason, to borrow Potter’s word, is simple: The attic has been renovated into a master-bedroom space, and the basement has been renovated so that it’s now like an extra floor. “This is a great example of someone taking an old house and adding charm,” McCarthy says. “If you have a basement, you can renovate and double your square footage.”

The charm isn’t just spatially evident. There are eye-catching details, like the brick fireplace with wood paneling, the chess-board-tile kitchen floor, the built-in bookshelves and the custom wood blinds. Also, the front yard and back yard are landscaped in a way that takes full advantage of their urban size. Inside, and even outside, the house isn’t showered with noise from the bypass. 

So is there anything about the neighborhood to lament? To the question of whether the streets are pedestrian-friendly, Potter answers a distinct “no.” The lack of sidewalks, and a fairly significant cut-through-traffic situation, are the main culprits. Potter says that the issue often comes up at neighborhood meetings, but that possible solutions entail messing around with a space many residents feel is just dandy the way it is. “We can’t really get a consensus,” she says.

Nevertheless, it’s pretty darn impossible to argue against life on Bland Circle, and surely everyone in Locust Grove would agree that it’s a fine place to be—for a fox family or any other kind of family.

Categories
News

Hotel homicide case heard

On Monday, February 5, the capital murder trial of Anthony Dale Crawford got underway at the Charlottesvile Circuit Court.

Charged with killing his estranged wife in November 2004, Crawford, 48, is being represented by Rhonda Quagliana. Prosecutors contend that he shot his wife in Northern Virginia, drove to Charlottesville, left her naked body in a Quality Inn hotel room, and then high-tailed it to Florida. In addition to capital murder, Crawford is charged with rape, abduction, two weapons counts and grand larceny.


Sarah Crawford had a restraining order against her husband, Anthony Dale Crawford (above), in the weeks leading up to her gunshot death.

Crawford’s suspicious behavior stretches back to 1992, when he was acquitted by a South Carolina court of the marital rape of his then-wife, Trish. Crawford argued that a video, which showed the couple having sex while her hands and feet were tied and her mouth and eyes were covered with duct tape, was evidence of a consensual game that the couple regularly played.

The Manassas resident’s version of the events in November 2004 is equally bizarre. He says he  and his wife, Sarah Louise Crawford, were driving through Charlottesville on their way to a weekend trip to the mountains when he accidentally shot her while in the process of trying to kill himself.

Prosecutors rebut this version by saying that Sarah Louise lived in fear of her husband, and would never have agreed to take a trip with him. Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney Jon R. Zug also says that the day she disappeared she was scheduled to have a date with another man, who was surprised when she didn’t show up.

C-VILLE welcomes news tips from readers. Send them to news@c-ville.com.

Categories
News

The Virginia Quarterly Review

words There are other places in the world to worry about besides the Middle East. No one knows that better than the folks at The Virginia Quarterly Review. They’re determined to keep Africa in our hearts and minds. Last year, they presented a series of articles on widespread AIDS in Africa. And now, in the current issue, their focus is on the effect of the oil business on that continent.

Of the four essays, two—John Ghazvinian’s look at how foreign oil companies have been extracting millions of barrels of oil from the Niger Delta with little or no benefit to the local people, and J. Malcolm Garcia’s look at the nefarious politics of oil in Chad—are especially notable in their use of a narrative journalism style. In fact, their pacing is suppler than the issue’s two short stories.


A near-flawless winter edition of The Virginia Quarterly Review expands the social conscience of the literati.

Testifying to VQR’s signature variety, the other big feature of the issue is a symposium on “Lyric Poetry and the Problem of People”—i.e., is lyric poetry’s concentration on “I” always a deterrent to a wider social focus? After David Baker’s excellent but somewhat obvious points about how cultural identity is often developed through interiority and self-interest, the symposium takes flight with Linda Gregerson’s look at the political poetry of Muriel Rukeyser, and with Stanley Plumly’s essay about Wallace Stevens’ transference of literal figures into archetypes.

“Lyric Poetry and the Problem of Concrete Detail” could be another VQR symposium one day. The poems in this issue, by Glyn Maxwell, Debra Bruce and others, demonstrate how good contemporary poets are skilled in the art of incorporating the plain things of the world with refined elements of language and style.

There’s so much more to mention: J. Hoberman’s examination of the political and cultural implications behind Steven Spielberg’s “entertainments” Catch Me If You Can, The Terminal and War of the Worlds; Charles Burns’ photographs consisting of two disparate images yoked together; David J. Morris’ account of American soldiers’ experiences in Iraq; Harry Berger Jr.’s essay about Rembrandt’s “The Night Watch”; and Pauline W. Chen’s “Morbidity and Mortality: A Surgeon Under Exam.”

And there’s very little to criticize. I had to force myself beyond Berger’s amatuerish beginning: “You go to the museum and you see this huge Thing staring you in the face and there doesn’t seem much you can say or feel about it except: Wow!” But I was glad I did. Chen’s essay, on the other hand, begins with a masterful description of a surgeon at work, and then sags.

The issue ends appropriately with a lovely piece by David Rieff, son of Susan Sontag, about his late mother’s legacy, regrets, and passion for erudition—“for her, the joy of living and the joy of knowing really were one and the same.”

http://www.vqronline.org/

Categories
News

Little Big Minds

words  At a certain point in my adult life, I decided to give myself a crash course in philosophy. Sure, I’d learned plenty of details in college, but they had gotten lost in the day-to-day drama of making a living. It was time to start over completely. The process went something like this: 1) severe incomprehension, as if I was reading a personal computer manual written in Japanese; 2) the feeling that I had stumbled out of Plato’s cave—only to be greeted by a pitch black night; 3) the feeling that searchlights were gradually zeroing in on me; 4) glorious comprehension, whether I was reading the convoluted sentences of Heidegger or the god-awful prose of Hegel.

I’m certain I would have had an easier time of it had I been exposed long ago to Marietta McCarty’s methods of teaching philosophy to children. A professor at Piedmont Virginia Community College, McCarty believes that children are naturally disposed to wonder about difficult concepts without feeling defeated by them. To prove her theory, she’s traveled all over, introducing groups of kids to famous philosophers and classic philosophical concepts, and sparking discussion. Little Big Minds documents some of the amazing responses she’s received, as well as offers tips to educators and parents about how to start their own programs.

Kids K-8 discussing Kierkegaard? The Danish philosopher’s passion for personal identity strikes a chord with young minds, according to McCarty. “They vividly recall being part of a ‘million people at the mall,’ being ‘pushed in line’ for a popular ride at an amusement park…” All this is infused with a certain simplicity, but the concept that McCarty sets before the kids—that individual consciousness is as powerful as a collective, blinding consciousness—is an invaluable beginning to a life of thinking.

To name just a few of McCarty’s other methods: using the plot of Albert Camus’ novel The Plague to hash out the nature of responsibility; considering a child’s sense of timelessness through St. Augustine’s ruminations about God’s essence and the concept of human free will; tackling the nature of courage by way of Mary Wollstonecraft’s feminist writings; using Jean-Paul Sartre’s essay “Portrait of the Anti-Semite” to wonder about the origins of prejudice, and Simone de Beauvoir’s The Ethics of Ambiguity to talk about the relationship between values and freedom.

Despite a few weaknesses (philosophy buffs will have to endure reading a lot of facts that they already know about famous thinkers; McCarty makes the teaching process sound too easy and doesn’t spend enough time discussing potential roadblocks), Little Big Minds is a wonderful book that will convince you of Bertrand Russell’s maxim that the study of philosophy can fill “the individual…with love of mankind.”

Categories
Arts

A Funny Thing Happened On the Way To the Forum


Ancient Rome is finished but Play On! is just beginning: Four of the 19-member cast of the new theater’s production of A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to the Forum.

stage A funny thing happened to me a few minutes into A Funny Thing Happened On the Way To the Forum. I began to enjoy myself.
    Let me explain. The classic musical farce is the premiere presentation of a new Charlottesville community theater named Play On! (The “Play On” on the front cover of the program has an exclamation point, and the one on the back cover doesn’t—whether this is a sign of uncertainty on the theater’s part I don’t know. But to give them a vote of confidence, I’m going with the exclamation point.) The stage is tucked away in the back of a space in the Ix Building, and the inauspicious entrance reminded me of my dentist’s office. My teeth figuratively ached as I wondered if Charlottesville can really sustain another theater. The seating area, though hardly cramped, is cozy—a surprise for me, considering that visions of well-meaning high school productions in cavernous auditoriums were dancing in my head.
    And then, after two staff members’ emotional remarks lauding the many efforts of many people to get the theater off the ground, and gentle pleas for financial assistance beyond the measly ticket price, the show began.
    A Funny Thing Happened, first produced in 1962, is silliness incarnate, its only real substance composer Stephen Sondheim’s always brilliant sidestepping past Broadway musical clichés (rendered just fine by the duo of pianist Diane Tuchyner and percussionist Bruce Penner). The book by Larry Gelbart (who went on to write countless droll one-liners for the TV show “M*A*S*H”) and Burt Shevelove lampoons the slavery and sexism that was a part of the fabric of Ancient Rome. It somehow makes one feel positively giddy about dreadful human folly.
    Director, vocal director, and principal choreographer (try saying that three times fast) Carole Thorpe takes the right approach. She leaps at every opportunity to add her own layers of silliness to the material, so that the audience is never witnessing a dead-in-the-water attempt to simply get through the text and the songs. She also clearly filled the 19-member cast (who knew there was so much competent acting and singing talent in Charlottesville?) with the notion that, without sufficient energy from the actors, the audience begins to feel they’ve expended all of theirs. The good time the actors were having even carried me past that point I always experience in a performance of a musical comedy when I no longer wish to be relentlessly entertained, when I itch to watch Ingmar Bergman’s Through A Glass Darkly to restore my equilibrium.
    So welcome to the scene, Play On! (Exclamation point decidedly mine.)—Doug Nordfors

Pride of Baghdad
By Brian K. Vaughan and
Niko Henrichon
Vertigo, 136 pages
comics Over the past five years writer Brian K. Vaughan has taken the comics world by storm. His ongoing series, including Marvel’s Runaways, Wildstorm’s Ex Machina and Vertigo’s Y: The Last Man, have netted modest commercial (and immodest critical) success. Deservedly so, as they’re easily some of the most inventive and best-written comics currently in production. But when I heard the pitch for his latest project—a hardcover graphic novel based on the true story of four lions that escaped from the Baghdad Zoo during a 2003 U.S. military raid—I thought it must be a joke. It sounded far too cartoony, even cheesy. Well, shame on me for losing my faith in Vaughan. Pride of Baghdad is a lushly illustrated, moving story that’s about a hell of a lot more than four big cats.
    With the war in Iraq as his backdrop, Vaughan uses the somewhat fanciful premise to explore the often-ignored complexities of freedom. It seems so easy: Nobody wants to be caged, to be deprived of all the liberties we Americans enjoy. But sometimes forcing our version of “freedom” on another country has unforeseen consequences, and the inevitable struggle of two cultures clashing can leave supposedly oppressed people in even more dire straits than before.
    Vaughan avoids the trap that most writers fall into when writing animal characters—the cutesy route, basically—although he’s perhaps guilty of treating his core characters with a bit too much reverence. The supposedly starving lions pass up multiple opportunities to feed on lower members of the food chain. It all leads to the inevitable, crushing ending, but detracts a bit from the realism of the book.
    If it sounds odd to regard a comic book about four talking lions as “realistic,” you haven’t seen Niko Henrichon’s art. The relatively unknown talent renders the animals realistically and regally. At times his lines look unfinished, which only adds to the exotic beauty. He avoids having the lions mug with facial expressions (except, perhaps, cub Ali), yet manages to convey a full range of emotions.
    Precious premise aside, Pride of Baghdad is a sterling example of what graphic novels should be: the marriage of a fantastic story and evocative art, to exhilarating effect. –Eric Rezsnyak

Categories
Arts

Amadeus

stage  If Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart suddenly floated down out of the sky and waltzed into the nearest record store, he would see ample evidence that the relative indifference paid to his music during his life has morphed into something resembling religious worship. Just as Friedrich Nietzsche said, “Life without music would be a mistake,” classical music without Mozart’s splendidly conceived and melodically sublime compositions would be unimaginable.
    How strange it is, then, that most of our sense of Mozart the man comes from playwright Peter Shaffer’s overblown characterization of him as a potty-mouthed, cackling arrested adolescent. Fans of Amadeus, however, know that the buffoonery simply lends comic touches to this moving play about the discrepancies between inner desire and external reality.
    Live Arts’ production, directed by Mendy St. Ours, is a worthy rendering of Shaffer’s vision. St. Ours isn’t out to impose herself on the material—she presents it with a clean respect that calls to mind an 18th-century composer going through the motions of classical form. While this approach may be disappointing to some, most will be impressed by Live Arts’ ability to pull off an effortless reading of such a dramatically demanding play. In many respects, Shaffer’s work doesn’t need much ornamentation. Those who are only familiar with Milos Forman’s visually stunning film version will welcome all of the wonderful lines that would have cluttered the screenlplay (my favorite: a musically mediocre character saying, “My teacher always told me to avoid music that smells like music”), and notice how the play’s original ending is not only more complex, but also more gritty.
    Jon Cobb plays the title role. At first, it’s distracting how physically wrong he seems for the part—Cobb is tall and sleek, whereas Mozart was very short, with a head too big to match his frame. But all that washes away when it becomes clear how much energy Cobb is willing to expend, and how concentrated and controlled that energy is. The way he bristles with unbounded genius at the beginning is just as believable as the way he seethes with life-induced madness at the end. Adding to the audience’s pleasure is the way Sara Eshleman, as Mozart’s wife, Constanze, matches Cobb’s electric pace step for step.
    Danny Murphy is just fine in the extremely challenging role of Antonio Salieri. The show’s almost three-hour running time would pass more fleetingly, however, if St. Ours and Murphy had worked harder to make each stage in the evolution of Salieri’s anguished jealousy more distinctive. To reverse Austrian Emperor Joseph’s nitwit summation of Mozart’s musical style, “Too many notes” (ah, how much wiser we are today!), Murphy’s performance may have too few.

Categories
News

Odetta

How Charlottesville has changed. Ten years ago, the idea of hearing a 20th-century musical icon at a small club on a Downtown side street, not to mention on a Monday night in January, was inconceivable.

The largely middle-aged crowd at the Gravity Lounge reflected the fact that icons don’t always remain in the spotlight. But the trendy flavor of America’s cultural tastes can’t erase Odetta’s impact on modern popular music. Both Janis Joplin and Bob Dylan named her as a direct influence on their work, and her importance to succeeding generations is readily apparent, such as in the music of Joan Armatrading (more on her later) and Tracy Chapman. Perhaps most significantly, her 50-year touring career and 28 albums have kept alive the traditions of blues and politically conscious protest songs.

Dressed in elegant bohemian garb, Odetta immediately awoke the audience from their winter brain freeze by asking them to sing along to her first number, “This Little Light of Mine.” Her initial comments between songs implied that much time was going to be taken up with little lectures about what’s wrong with American society. Her overall intention, though, was to let her powerful material speak for itself. One other thing became clear as the show went on: The night belonged to the blues, with a few folk songs sprinkled in.

In the hands of some singers, the blues can be monotonous and curiously vacuous. Odetta is an entirely different story. Whether performing comic songs like Leadbelly’s take on Washington D.C. (“a bourgeois town”) or tragic songs like Bessie Smith’s “Poor Man’s Blues,” she had no trouble inhabiting their original spirit, and with each verse varied her delivery and incorporated surprising tonal changes. All this proved that listening to the blues should be not so much an event as an experience.

Anyone who believes that Armatrading is one of the giants of popular music, and who hasn’t heard Odetta sing a folk song, would not only be stunned by how alike they sound, but would have to concede that Armatrading began to fly with Odetta’s wings. Both their voices have a unique depth that feels like the difference between crying and sobbing, or between pitiful speculation and resounding insight.

One final note: Odetta’s accompaniment—just your average balding white guy who can play the blues like the devil—would have really brought down the house if his tinny-sounding electric piano had been replaced with a booming acoustic one. Is it too much to ask that Gravity Lounge rent or acquire one?