I shuffle my right foot back and forth along the unfinished wooden floor of the Worcester Art Museum and it sounds like sand paper grinding on asphalt. I notice that other than the noise of my shuffling this part of the museum sits silent so I stop. I realize that I stand in the European Art section of the museum when I look down at my map. The display is eleven adjoining rooms that circle the Renaissance Court of the museum and the paintings are divided into rooms based on the century they were created. The cedar smell of the floor overwhelms my nose but I get used to it in a few minutes. The dim lights on the high ceiling and pale salmon colored walls barely offer enough light on the paintings and I wonder if this set up is most ideal for viewing the artwork.
Worcester Art Museum
Renaissance Court
The room I have walked into first contains the most recent art from the twentieth century. The paintings of the twentieth century radiate a multitude of colors and the subject matters range from abstract people, geometric shapes and nature scenes in pointillism. Even though the color catches my eye, the frames that encase each painting catch my eye even more. The frames differ in color and design almost as much as the paintings themselves do. Some of the frames are simple golden rectangles while others are intricate three-dimensional designs of curves and circles. I decide to focus just as much on the frames as I do the paintings themselves.
In the first four of rooms the frames are all kinds of glimmering gold designs. When the security guard exits the room I briefly run my pointer finger along the rim of an exceptionally intricate frame. The guilded gold paint roughly brushes against my finger much to my surprise. I walk into about the fifth room and there is a stark change in the tone of the room. The walls have morphed from a pale salmon to an ominous gray. The frames themselves have also changed. These frames are now plain simple pieces of painted black wood. The colors of the artwork also seem to have become duller with that of the walls. I wonder how the frames get chosen for the artwork. Have they been with the artwork the whole time? Who makes the frames?
I end my journey of the European art in the room filled with fourteenth century art. The ceilings hang lower than any other room and the area is significantly smaller. All of the artwork is religious and the frames overwhelm the artwork itself. All of the frames sit like gold crowns around the paintings. The dull colors of the art are overpowered by the somewhat blinding shine of the frames. I guess chronologically the frames went from extravagant to simple and are in the process of becoming once again extravagant.
The new Anokye Krom African-American is a simple restaurant in Worcester, representing the recent wave of immigration in the city in the past few decades. The Ghanaian establishment is surrounded by numerous stores, even a hair salon, all brandishing African flags, spreading the prominence of the culture throughout this neighborhood.
We enter on a Sunday afternoon to a virtually empty restaurant. The walls are plastered with a mix of traditional African art and the Americanized appeal of the typical bar/restaurant. The seemingly odd mix of decorative paintings and a neon Bud Light sign confirms this. Any new establishment can be visibly detected, and from the pristine look to the colorful décor on the inside with the added smell of the soapy fresh bathroom-like tiles on the floor, the place had the “fresh start” look.
We awkwardly wait around for a minute, as if to be seated, when a man in a bright-yellow striped shirt enters with his entire family from behind, and with a kind smile gives the hint, “Sit anywhere.”
He sits with his family, greets the men working around, and then orders a drink, speaking to the waiter in a native tongue. He has a commanding presence about himself, speaking with most of the workers as they pass him, leading me to assume that he is the owner. The workers are all dressed in plain clothing, nothing distinguishing about them. One of them, wearing a simple sweatshirt and jeans, eventually makes his way to our table, casually greets us with a friendly smile, and stands over us, staring. Confused for a minute, we take this as a sign he is our waiter and we order.
TVs blare all around us, one with a Ghanaian news station feed, and the other with a soccer game. The other restaurant-goers are in frantic upheaval, watching and screaming passionately about the game by the bar. Each dress like the owner, in colorful garb, shirts with patterns and designs that make me feel even more out of place there, ashamed of my drab plain white tee. Someone scores a goal and the patrons go nuts; some seem elated and others seem furious, again all the shouting and banging on the tables going on is in their respective languages. The owner swings by our table again and assures us it’s all “friendly arguments,” but the continued frustration of some paired with the slamming of fists against the table convinces me otherwise.
Finally, we get our food. I stare at my meal: Jollof rice with chicken, an unknown slaw with blood red sauce drizzled on it, and an out of place hard-boiled egg on top. I stir the rice and the steam exudes that piping hot smell of fresh food. I take a cautious bite and get a roundhouse kick of flavor, a jolting of spices that makes me reach for my water bottle. The food, expensive but satisfying, gave everyone the chance to say that we ate Ghanaian, one more dish we could add to our palate experience.
An out-of-place apartment style complex hides along a busy stretch of Main Street in Worcester. In a retail-heavy section of the city, often congested with traffic and street fairs, bustling with people, blaring with street performers and car honking in a symphonic blend of city noise, lies this building, a quintessential fixture of any downtown environment. Arts Worcester, an exhibition for local artists, is housed on the first two floors, a cultural center melded into the otherwise normal urban setting.
The gallery is fairly standard by exhibition criteria. The décor is bare, so as to not distract from the paintings hanging all around the room. An overpowering waft of plain white dry wall plaster material lingers all around the space. There is a void of life here on a Saturday morning though. The only other person present is the girl, no older than college-aged, keeping shop in the back of the room, who waves me in nonchalantly, to show any curious onlookers are allowed to wander in, wondering what could lie inside, free of charge.
The floors have a conspicuous feel to them, a nonspecific hard plastic material that turn any step taken on them into loud clanking. Even in sneakers I couldn’t go unnoticed here. The design of the building lends to obvious echoing of movement, making each step reverberate around. Creeping downstairs, the gallery becomes more enchanting. This section, sponsored by the Worcester Consortium of Art, is where many college students have submitted pieces displayed. Each has a name of the artist, school, and price hung next to them on a plain white sheet of paper. Most of the pieces on display are modern in style; they are perplexing, different, hard to understand, but captivating to look at. A suspiciously odd theme of the human eye is present among most of the paintings. The transfixing gazes grant a sort of appreciation to the pieces, making it seem they watch you as much as you watch them. To be honest it’s a little too creepy for my tastes, but nevertheless any art is good art in the eye of the beholder.
I sit in a deceptively uncomfortable maroon-cushioned chair in the center of the space. Being that it is right in the middle of the entire floorspace, I instantly regret the move, thinking I might have sat on a part of the exhibit. I remember now that I am alone, and other than the mechanical whirring of the fluorescent light, there’s really nothing going on around here. So, from the perspective of my chair, I draw the whole room in. Art has a way of stirring up an appreciation of all things, and for once, amid the crazy chaos of the city, I have a moment of peace and quiet admiration for the craft.
There it was on, the side of the street. Sandwiched between rundown apartments and a dingy bus station. A giant, dark, stone building. Intricate mason work marked the whole outer face of the building. And, in big, brass, block letters it proclaimed, Mechanics Hall. I pried open the giant wooden doors and stepped inside.
What a Lovely Exterior
Everything was pristine, smoothy vacuumed and brightly polished. The red carpet cushioned and eased my feet with every step. I slowly made my way up the elegant staircase. I ran my hand over the smooth edges of the shiny golden banisters. It felt silky underneath my rough fingertips. The stairs cracked under my heavy footsteps. I hadn’t actually been invited so I figured this should be a sneaky look around.
Who's that handsome man on the stairs?
I made it to the top of the red stairs and turned the corner. In front of me was a shiny golden room. Graceful chandeliers hung from the painted ceiling casting warm rays of light through the entire hall. Rows of crisp red chairs stood in rows standing like soldiers at attention, their backs rigid and straight.
On the stage organ pipes shot sky high, trying to assert themselves as the biggest and best. Underneath the pipes sat rows of chairs and stands, begging to be filled by a full orchestra. But, in front of them all, stood the conductors platform, conducting them all in the eerie silence.
Chairs n' Stuff
Not wanting to disturb the silence any longer I silently shut the door. I slowly crept out of the hall, not wanting to be discovered. I eased myself down the creaky hallways and stalked past the giant oil paintings. Their eyes seemed to look at me with disproval as I left their quiet sanctuary.
He's watching you...
As I walked down the cushy, red staircase I realized that the foyer had the same magnificent golden chandeliers as the concert hall. I finally made it to the exit, past the luscious, green, potted plants, and eased myself out the heavy wooden door.
“I’ve been coming to this for 20 years and this is why! It just gets louder and higher every year! This is through the doors imagine what it sounds like in there! It just doesn’t get any better than this!” While Michael and I don’t necessarily share the passion for monster truck driving with our new Mohawk clad, oddly tattooed friend, we both admit this is not what we expected. After strolling down to the DCU center on a whim, The roar of a massive engine greets us. We act as if we belong here, and take a stroll over to the arena doors. A quick peek in reveals the origin of the roar: a monster truck driver warms up inside by doing donuts throughout the stadium.
“Take a look at this man!” Our new friend calls a friend of his own over, “He’s wahmin’ up in there! We came at the right time!” Mike and I try our hardest to suppress laughter as a detailed discussion on the history of monster truck rallies takes place. Without trying to, I notice that one of the fanatics has the word “Life” tattooed on the knuckled of his left hand. “25 years and they still come to Woostah. Gotta love that man. They know where the real fans are.”
“Excuse me gentlemen, you can’t stay here the arena is closed right now. You have to come back with a ticket tonight when the event starts.” We issue sheepish apologies to the security officer and head towards the door. To my surprise, the two fanatics exit with equal obedience. On the way out, Mike still wears the shocked expression that has inhabited his face since we first heard the roar.
Comments Off on Then: Sounds of Miss Worcester
February 23rd, 2012 Posted 1:27 am
“Alright who took it? Fess up who’s trying to steal my bathroom key?” The buzz of conversation screeches to a halt, and silverware crashes into plates. The silence pierces the white noise as all eyes dart to the waitress. “I remember giving it to you.” The woman accuses a middle aged man and his son. “I gave it to him! I promise!” “Yeah, and then I…” “It’s right here you idiot.” The accusers partner groans as she holds up a blue lanyard. “Oh. Sorry about that. You kids have a seat up here.”
The buzz of conversation and clanking of forks fills the Miss Worcester Diner Once again. We must appear to be lost, as the former accusers Massachusetts accent now carries a hint of friendliness, “The menu’s right up there, and I’ll take your order as soon as I get a minute, In the meantime what can I get ya to drink?” After ordering four waters, she shot back, “Four waters? Musta been a big night on the hill last night!” The Friendliness transforms back into a brisk tone as she barks directions at her partner, “Bring these over to that table.”
Losing count of the number of times our lovely server proclaimed, “That’s it, I quit!” to nobody in particular, she came to take our order. Mike, Kamele, and I all ordered traditional diner breakfasts, but Kevin broke the chain. “I’ll have the Nutella and Banana French toast please.” “Ahh man! I knew one of you was gonna get me! Why can’t you be like your friends?” “I’m sorry, but I can get bacon and eggs anywhere.”
Nutella and Banana French Toast
The grill hisses as the eggs from our order join their brothers. The bacon crackles to life and a large iron-shaped tool makes the French toast sizzle. The waitress effortlessly arranges the food on the grill, her spatula creates a rhythmic song as it makes contact with the aluminum. The rythym breaks only for seconds as the spatula tosses the finished products onto a plate. Our mouths water as we hear, “Here ya guys go, Enjoy!”
The more traditional fare
Silence descends upon our group as we shovel food into our mouths. The only noise coming from the four of us is the piercing sound of fork against plate. After swallowing his last bite of banana, nutella, and French toast, Kevin proclaimed, “Yeah, definitely better than a plate of eggs.”
I slowly crawled out of the cab looked up at the rundown warehouse in front of me and thought, “This is the Palladium?” Cautiously, I strolled up to the door and cracked it open.
What A Lovely Place
The smell smacked me in the face. Waftings of stale beer, body odor and hardcore rock n’ roll seeped into my nostrils making my brain cloudy and my eyes water. I tried to avoid slipping on the thin film of unrecognizable liquids on the floor as I cautiously tiptoed over to the dirt smeared service window to ask for help.
I knocked on the only clean part of the window and noticed a poster advertising upcoming concerts for bands with names like This Is Hell, Stray from the Path, OverKill and highly anticipated New England Heavy Rock and Metal Tour.
Out strolled a man with a scraggly red beard, ripped up cargo pants, and a faded black shirt that displayed more skulls than any shirt should. He smelled like dirty old laundry and french fries which filled my nose with a whole new aray of smells
“Hey I’m Chris, what can I do for you” he asked in a shockingly light tone. His scent and skulls made me believe that he would be a lot less welcoming. Chris told me that unfortunately, a band was currently in the middle of soundcheck and I couldn’t get onto the stage. However, I was free to roam about the concert hall and take any notes or pictures.
I stepped through the large gateway into the inner venue. I was expecting to get blasted in the face with more noxious odors. However, once I opened the door, all I felt was the cold blast of air conditioners flowing over my skin. The smooth granite floors were waxed flat and well swept. I was expecting to fined crushed beer cans and burnt down cigarette butts. The stage was painted a crisp black and the enormous speakers on the stage were playing some soft classic rock. I wandered around for a few minutes and noticed the bright lights and the expensive sound board.
Chris came and found me and told me that the band needed to practice for tonight’s show so I’d better get going. As I exited through the still smelly foyer I didn’t notice the odor of the slimy ground or the grungy employees. I had just experienced the Palladium, one of Worcester’s best concert venues.
Welcome to Holy Cross Blogs. This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start blogging!
I end my journey of the European art in the room filled with fourteenth century art. The ceilings hang lower than any other room and the area is significantly smaller. All of the artwork is religious and the frames overwhelm the artwork itself. All of the frames sit like gold crowns around the paintings. The dull colors of the art are overpowered by the somewhat blinding shine of the frames. I guess chronologically the frames went from extravagant to simple and are in the process of becoming once again extravagant.
