 | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  |
Houston Chronicle
Dec. 30, 2006, 11:50AM
Place for 'music, art, coffee' in East End
Area artists, students, families find a cozy retreat at community cafe
By CYNTHIA LEONOR GARZA
WHERE IT'S AT
•Bohemeo's is tucked in the back corner of Tlaquepaque Market shopping center at 708 Telephone Road.
•For more information, go to www.bohemeos.com
Copyright 2006 Houston Chronicle
East End residents and neighborhood artists Lupe and Sidonie Olivarez got tired of driving to other parts of the city to find a
comfortable retreat in an artsy coffee house, so they decided to open their own.
Bohemeo's, with its bright orange and pink facade and sign that says "music, art, coffee" is a new business twist in a neighborhood
where those three elements haven't traditionally mixed.
"I wanted this to be an island, a headquarters for artists in this part of town," said Lupe Olivarez, 47.
Since it opened, the cafe — which has indoor and outdoor stages, wireless Internet, a patio area and original art hanging from the
walls — has been "a lot of things to a lot of different people at different times of the day."
A place to stop by
Older, longtime area residents of the predominantly Mexican and Mexican-Amer- ican neighborhood have ventured in to enjoy an
afternoon coffee.
And Austin High School students sometimes stop by after school to play cards and eat a snack.
Students from Texas Southern University have also held poetry readings there and an acid jazz group has taken the stage on
several occasions.
"It feels very familiar," said Mary Helen Rivera, a Heights resident who on a recent Saturday night listened to a cover band playing
country and Latin music. "It's family-oriented, like a place where you can come and enjoy and feel so relaxed."
Martin Gamboa has lived in the East End for more than 40 years and said the cafe is good for the community because it's a place
where parents can take their children, and it's a "family structured and supported venue."
Aside from coffee, espresso drinks and decadent desserts,
"It's definitely very urban in its feel, but it has an earthiness to it," said Sidonie Olivarez, 48.
The small business was put together in the bohemian way, on a shoestring budget.
Sidonie, or Sid, and a family member made the tile-top tables in the cafe with donated tiles.
The curtains are from a dollar store, the walls painted by friends during a painting party, and a few of Sid's paintings are on display.
"Outside of a taqueria, a Jack-in-the-Box or a cantina, there's nothing" like this in the area, said Lupe, a longtime musician.
'The last frontier'
Sidonie Olivarez, who grew up near the Heights, said "all the poor artists were forced to this area" because other parts of Houston
became too expensive.
"Eastwood and the East End has the last hope for artists."
The couple moved to the area a dozen years ago because it was affordable at the time.
They've seen it grow into one of Houston's fastest redeveloping communities — with townhomes sprouting up in the near-downtown
area and ever-increasing property taxes — and consider it "the last frontier in Houston, in the inner city," Lupe said.
Plenty of area artists have stopped by — inquiring about having their art displayed or playing a gig.
Others just say they're happy the cafe is there, and want to support it.
Operating the small business is still a day-to-day struggle for the Olivarezes, but they eventually hope to open up a kitchen that
serves healthful fare.
cynthia.garza@chron.com
Feral parrots, Bohemeo’s
thrive on the Eastside
By LISA GRAY Copyright 2008 Houston Chronicle
Nov. 14, 2008, 7:21PM
Bohemeo’s, the Eastside coffee shop, isn’t really a place for bird-watching, but some things demand attention. On
the patio on a sunny afternoon, Lupe Olivarez, one of the place’s husband-and-wife owners, pointed to a pair of
green shapes wheeling off in the distance.
"Those are parrots," he said. "Wild ones."
And then he was off on a story. Bohemeo’s is, most definitely, a place for talking, and Lupe is a high-level
practitioner of the art.
One day, he said, a lady from the East End Chamber of Commerce brought restaurateur Irma Galvan to see
Bohemeo’s. Galvan told him that she used to live nearby, and that after her pet parrots escaped, they not only
survived out on their own, but thrived.
"Those parrots are tough birds," says Lupe. "They hunt. They swoop down on blackbirds. Sometimes it’s like the
History Channel out here — a World War II dogfight."
Birds escaped not just from any owner, but from one of Houston’s most famous restaurateurs — the Irma of Irma’s.
Tropical birds not only surviving but roughing up grackles, some of the toughest customers on wings? I suspected
Lupe’s story couldn’t possibly be true.
But it was a great story, and not much beats a great story. I was hungry for talk — not enough places in Houston
really foster that simple pleasure — and on that sunny afternoon, Bohemeo’s seemed as rare and unlikely as a pair
of feral parrots patrolling the city skies.
I’d been reading The Great Good Place: Cafes, Coffee Shops, Community Centers, Beauty Parlors, General Stores,
Bars, Hangouts, and How They Get You Through the Day. The book was a minor sensation in 1989, when sociologist
Ray Oldenburg published it. He explained the importance of "homes away from home," places where you run into
acquaintances, places that make cities feel like small towns. German biergartens, Japanese teahouses, African-
American barbershops, Parisian cafes: They all feed the soul.
Such places seemed endangered to Oldenburg 20 years ago, and to me the situation seems even more dire today.
"Where once there were places, we find nonplaces," Oldenburg wrote. "In real places, the human being is a person.
He or she is an individual, unique and possessing character. In nonplaces, individuality disappears. In nonplaces,
character is irrelevant and one is only the customer or shopper, client or patient, a body to be seated, an address
to be billed, a car to be parked."
Lupe and his wife Sid loved those places instinctively. Artistic types, they met when she sang backup for Lupe’s
rock band, The Basics. Married late in life and childless, they hung out at places such as the Last Concert Cafe,
Brasil, Onion Creek and Cafe Artiste — places that seem particularly precious in Houston, places with personalities,
places that, if they disappeared, would leave a hole in their regulars’ lives. (Earlier this year, when Cafe Artiste did
close down, grief counseling seemed in order. For weeks a group of devotees brought their own coffee to the
restaurant parking lot and drank it together outside the locked doors.)
A couple of years ago, as Lupe contemplated turning 50, he began casting about for something more meaningful
than his IT job for a Houston software company. Sid, who’d worked in restaurants and hotels, warned him that it’s
far more fun to frequent a place like the cafes he loved than to run one. But eventually, he won her over.
Now two years old, Bohemeo’s has as much soul as any of its inspirations. Tucked in back of the Tlaquepaque
Market, Bohemeo’s building is painted in hot Mexican colors — bright pink and yellow — but its name is spelled out
with lowercase cool, in a sans serif font that would make a Scandinavian graphic designer proud. Every month or
so, there’s new art on the walls. Every night except Mondays, the Web site calendar lists at least one event —
bands, poetry readings, open mikes.
Lupe and Sid chose the Eastside because, like lots of artists, it’s what they can afford. Their menu reflects their
vision of the neighborhood: Chai, shiraz and soy mayo consort comfortably with burgers, Bud and chicken wings,
and nothing costs more than $7. Premium coffees, like the Antigua Filly Estate, cost $1.50. A "bag o’ cookies,"
aimed at kids, is $1.
Slowly, says Lupe, the place has been developing tribes of regulars. People who come for the bands. Students from
the University of Houston, Texas Southern and Houston Community College. A white-collar weekday lunch crowd.
Kids from Austin High, who he lets hang around even when they don’t buy anything — unless they’re cutting class,
that is, or annoying other customers. But usually, he says, they’re great. And where else are they going to hang
out?
Hanging out, it seems, is a large part of the business model. Lupe and Sid encourage all their customers to stay
long after they’ve finished their lattes. Coffee shops such as Starbucks thrive on to-go orders and turning tables
over quickly, but Bohemeo’s isn’t aiming for high-volume efficiency.
Lupe says he wants it to be a "cool little place." It won’t make him rich. But if it can at least support them, he says,
he and Sid will have "cool little lives."
Can Bohemeo’s survive? Lupe and Sid aren’t sure. They’re tired of working 15- and 16-hour days, seven days a
week, because they can’t afford more help. But even in this lousy economy, when mighty Starbucks is struggling,
they continue to grow bit by bit. Lupe says he wants to work next on developing a weekend brunch crowd. He
imagines professionals from nearby Eastwood, the Eastside’s version of the Heights, reading newspapers and
sucking down free WiFi.
Tlaquepaque Market recently added tenants that might generate more foot traffic — Houston Institute for
Culture/Museo Guadalupe Aztlan, an art gallery, and the EastEnd Urban Market, a weekend purveyor of furniture
and objects from Mexico. Lupe likes thinking of the shopping center, with Thai restaurant Kanomwan, is becoming a
place where Houstonians might walk — walk! — from one spot to another.
Could such a lovely thing survive in Houston? And, in particular, on the Eastside, which is even more car-crazy than
the rest of the city? Can Telephone Road support an artsy place to talk?
"There’s more of them!" Lupe said suddenly. He pointed his chin toward parrots — this time, a whole flock flying
past.
"I thought there were only two," I said.
"Irma’s parrots bred. These new ones, they’re entirely wild. There’s at least 10 of them."
Ten? I was doubtful again, so I counted. As I reached 10, more appeared. Fifteen, I counted. Twenty. I hit 22
before the unlikely birds disappeared from sight — more than I’d thought possible, more than I’d dared to hope.
lisa.gray@chron.com
thrive on the Eastside
By LISA GRAY Copyright 2008 Houston Chronicle
Nov. 14, 2008, 7:21PM
Bohemeo’s, the Eastside coffee shop, isn’t really a place for bird-watching, but some things demand attention. On
the patio on a sunny afternoon, Lupe Olivarez, one of the place’s husband-and-wife owners, pointed to a pair of
green shapes wheeling off in the distance.
"Those are parrots," he said. "Wild ones."
And then he was off on a story. Bohemeo’s is, most definitely, a place for talking, and Lupe is a high-level
practitioner of the art.
One day, he said, a lady from the East End Chamber of Commerce brought restaurateur Irma Galvan to see
Bohemeo’s. Galvan told him that she used to live nearby, and that after her pet parrots escaped, they not only
survived out on their own, but thrived.
"Those parrots are tough birds," says Lupe. "They hunt. They swoop down on blackbirds. Sometimes it’s like the
History Channel out here — a World War II dogfight."
Birds escaped not just from any owner, but from one of Houston’s most famous restaurateurs — the Irma of Irma’s.
Tropical birds not only surviving but roughing up grackles, some of the toughest customers on wings? I suspected
Lupe’s story couldn’t possibly be true.
But it was a great story, and not much beats a great story. I was hungry for talk — not enough places in Houston
really foster that simple pleasure — and on that sunny afternoon, Bohemeo’s seemed as rare and unlikely as a pair
of feral parrots patrolling the city skies.
I’d been reading The Great Good Place: Cafes, Coffee Shops, Community Centers, Beauty Parlors, General Stores,
Bars, Hangouts, and How They Get You Through the Day. The book was a minor sensation in 1989, when sociologist
Ray Oldenburg published it. He explained the importance of "homes away from home," places where you run into
acquaintances, places that make cities feel like small towns. German biergartens, Japanese teahouses, African-
American barbershops, Parisian cafes: They all feed the soul.
Such places seemed endangered to Oldenburg 20 years ago, and to me the situation seems even more dire today.
"Where once there were places, we find nonplaces," Oldenburg wrote. "In real places, the human being is a person.
He or she is an individual, unique and possessing character. In nonplaces, individuality disappears. In nonplaces,
character is irrelevant and one is only the customer or shopper, client or patient, a body to be seated, an address
to be billed, a car to be parked."
Lupe and his wife Sid loved those places instinctively. Artistic types, they met when she sang backup for Lupe’s
rock band, The Basics. Married late in life and childless, they hung out at places such as the Last Concert Cafe,
Brasil, Onion Creek and Cafe Artiste — places that seem particularly precious in Houston, places with personalities,
places that, if they disappeared, would leave a hole in their regulars’ lives. (Earlier this year, when Cafe Artiste did
close down, grief counseling seemed in order. For weeks a group of devotees brought their own coffee to the
restaurant parking lot and drank it together outside the locked doors.)
A couple of years ago, as Lupe contemplated turning 50, he began casting about for something more meaningful
than his IT job for a Houston software company. Sid, who’d worked in restaurants and hotels, warned him that it’s
far more fun to frequent a place like the cafes he loved than to run one. But eventually, he won her over.
Now two years old, Bohemeo’s has as much soul as any of its inspirations. Tucked in back of the Tlaquepaque
Market, Bohemeo’s building is painted in hot Mexican colors — bright pink and yellow — but its name is spelled out
with lowercase cool, in a sans serif font that would make a Scandinavian graphic designer proud. Every month or
so, there’s new art on the walls. Every night except Mondays, the Web site calendar lists at least one event —
bands, poetry readings, open mikes.
Lupe and Sid chose the Eastside because, like lots of artists, it’s what they can afford. Their menu reflects their
vision of the neighborhood: Chai, shiraz and soy mayo consort comfortably with burgers, Bud and chicken wings,
and nothing costs more than $7. Premium coffees, like the Antigua Filly Estate, cost $1.50. A "bag o’ cookies,"
aimed at kids, is $1.
Slowly, says Lupe, the place has been developing tribes of regulars. People who come for the bands. Students from
the University of Houston, Texas Southern and Houston Community College. A white-collar weekday lunch crowd.
Kids from Austin High, who he lets hang around even when they don’t buy anything — unless they’re cutting class,
that is, or annoying other customers. But usually, he says, they’re great. And where else are they going to hang
out?
Hanging out, it seems, is a large part of the business model. Lupe and Sid encourage all their customers to stay
long after they’ve finished their lattes. Coffee shops such as Starbucks thrive on to-go orders and turning tables
over quickly, but Bohemeo’s isn’t aiming for high-volume efficiency.
Lupe says he wants it to be a "cool little place." It won’t make him rich. But if it can at least support them, he says,
he and Sid will have "cool little lives."
Can Bohemeo’s survive? Lupe and Sid aren’t sure. They’re tired of working 15- and 16-hour days, seven days a
week, because they can’t afford more help. But even in this lousy economy, when mighty Starbucks is struggling,
they continue to grow bit by bit. Lupe says he wants to work next on developing a weekend brunch crowd. He
imagines professionals from nearby Eastwood, the Eastside’s version of the Heights, reading newspapers and
sucking down free WiFi.
Tlaquepaque Market recently added tenants that might generate more foot traffic — Houston Institute for
Culture/Museo Guadalupe Aztlan, an art gallery, and the EastEnd Urban Market, a weekend purveyor of furniture
and objects from Mexico. Lupe likes thinking of the shopping center, with Thai restaurant Kanomwan, is becoming a
place where Houstonians might walk — walk! — from one spot to another.
Could such a lovely thing survive in Houston? And, in particular, on the Eastside, which is even more car-crazy than
the rest of the city? Can Telephone Road support an artsy place to talk?
"There’s more of them!" Lupe said suddenly. He pointed his chin toward parrots — this time, a whole flock flying
past.
"I thought there were only two," I said.
"Irma’s parrots bred. These new ones, they’re entirely wild. There’s at least 10 of them."
Ten? I was doubtful again, so I counted. As I reached 10, more appeared. Fifteen, I counted. Twenty. I hit 22
before the unlikely birds disappeared from sight — more than I’d thought possible, more than I’d dared to hope.
lisa.gray@chron.com
THE ART OF TEXAS
NO ONE'S QUITE MASTERED THE ART OF SELF-EXPRESSION LIKE FREEWHEELING HOUSTON
FEEL free to weigh in on this one, but I think a lot more people would go to the opera if they could do so while lying out on the
grass, eating hamburgers and drinking chocolate milkshakes. These are the sorts of things that I found to be top of mind while in
Houston, simply because it is the sort of city where you can do just that.
It was a recent Saturday evening in February. Being Houston, it had been about 80 degrees that day. Also being Houston, you
can get a lot of really good food that is bad for you. Not possessing an incredible length of time in which to eat all of it, I had
decided to do one of those round robin sort of deals, eating a little bit here and there. My plan went awry after an early stop at
local burger favorite Becks Prime. Halfway through a formidable bacon cheeseburger and a thick chocolate milkshake, my
appetite was shot. I flipped on the radio, where a live broadcast of the Houston Grand Opera was about to begin.
Turns out, I'd stumbled upon a free, citywide night-at-the-opera event. The announcer listed a host of venues for those
interested in viewing the simulcast. Being new in town and not knowing the way to either Jefferson Davis or Cesar Chavez high
schools, I was pleased to learn that there would be a big screen out on Discovery Green, a charming downtown park that I knew
how to find. (It's the newest milestone in the local effort to turn the city center into a regional magnet; an effort this visitor
certainly applauds, even if there's a long way to go still.)
On the site of an old parking lot next to the convention center, Discovery Green was full of people, it being a warm evening. The
grass was green, it not being the frozen tundra that New York had now been for about two months solid. There was something
kind of satisfying about sucking down a chocolate milkshake while watching people mill around and socialize in the park, all set to
an opera soundtrack that included the thunderous "O Fortuna," from Orff's Carmina Burana. The evening's program turned out to
be a sort of Opera's Greatest Hits, that some how managed to pair, for instance, Kurt Weill's "Alabama Song" with the "Witches
Chorus" from Macbeth.
That afternoon, I had been driving around the rather scattered and terribly chaotic city, trying to make sense of everything. It
was my first time here. Heading back to my hotel, just a short hop down the parkway-like Memorial Drive from downtown, I
realized that it was best not to try. Seeing as the Grand Opera soon moved into "You'll Never Walk Alone," from Carousel --
which came as a bit of a surprise after "The Chorus of Hebrew Slaves" from Verdi's Nabucco -- this proved to be all for the best.
TEXAS IS A GIFT
A lot of people don't trust Texas. This is understandable. Texans are in your face. Everything in Texas is the best, ever. The
center of the universe, according to Texans, is somewhere southwest of Abilene. (I'm sure I have this wrong and will be duly
corrected by the first Texan that reads this.) Whether talking politics or local beer, it's generally a Texan's way, or the highway.
Personally, I think that Texans are a lot like New Yorkers, who believe the United States of America to be little more than an
attractive nuisance, convenient to Manhattan. I have now come to the conclusion that New Yorkers are more annoying. First of
all, Texas has more land, allowing its citizens not to have to live on top of each other. It also has better barbecue, not to mention
that people wear cowboy hats, which I think we can all agree just look really classy.
Over the years, I have found it difficult to dislike a state that so fiercely asserts its identity. Not in the insecure way that people
do in some parts of this country, as if they were trying to prove something to themselves. Texas has little to prove to itself, and
has long moved on to proving things to outsiders. For instance, the state used to be a separate country. Texans will make sure to
remind you of this at every available opportunity.
It is also hard to dislike a state that provides the traveler with so many colorful memories - many of them involving alcohol,
which comes in handy when trying to discuss the affairs of a state where the Legislature semi-regularly, and apparently quite
seriously, takes up the argument as to whether or not to allow hormonally imbalanced students to legally carry concealed
weapons on the state's college campuses.
What's fascinating about Texas, though, is that it is big enough and broad enough to both live up to all of its stereotypes and yet,
simultaneously, turn the expected on its head. You can spend margarita-fueled afternoons surrounded by cougar ladies and their
silver fox suitors in the bars of Uptown Dallas, but within minutes, you could be sitting at a curious old coffee house with a bunch
of unwashed creatives in the down-to-earth, very creative Bishop Arts District just south of the Trinity River.
Over in Fort Worth, there's room for all types as well - the historic Stockyards are red brick and impressive, but so is Tadao
Ando's Modern Art Museum just west of downtown, an island of Zen architecture in a calm, reflecting pool. This is the state that is
big enough to house both the weird art colony of Marfa and George W. Bush, not to mention his father, who now not only has an
airport named after him, but also a statue erected in his honor on the banks of the Buffalo Bayou, right near downtown Houston.
You learn things in Texas. You learn that German settlement on both sides of today's international border is what gave Mexico its
love of beer, and also why every time you tune into a Spanish language music station it seems as if there is an accordion
involved. You learn that no two Texas towns are ever alike, even if they are right next door. Regionalism often supersedes love
of state. Sometimes, these regions are almost microscopic. This is how you can find a city like Austin, which fancies itself a sort
of embassy of rational thought, just an hour or so away from San Antonio, where not too many years ago they were still
debating whether or not to add fluoride to the city water. Then again, Austin keeps voting down proper transit, so you have to
wonder how much of that progressiveness is just a lot of posturing.
Simply, Texas is endlessly interesting. It is the gift that keeps on giving. You could spend your whole life trying to figure out
Texas - it is simply too big. Every visit brings with it a series of new surprises. I hate waiting too long to go back.
Then, there's Houston. Three out of five Texans no doubt agree with out-of-staters who remain uncertain that the Bayou City has
all that much to offer. There is no great reason for this kind of thinking. Does there have to be, really? It's Houston, for
goodness' sake. People say that the car killed American cities - we should probably take a closer look at its accomplice, the air
conditioner, which is, if you look at it, one of the only reasons there are nearly 5.5 million people living in a climate such as the
one that Houston enjoys.
Then there's the fact that the city is famously unzoned. Seriously. No zoning, pretty much, unless you band together with your
neighbors and make a list of rules, such as they do in areas like the Houston's exclusive River Oaks district. If you or I wanted to
buy a house and operate a bar in our front room, we could, providing the neighborhood association had no laws on the books
prohibiting such an activity.
This is, at least, my understanding. As much as I can understand it, being a life-long resident of northern nanny states. In New
York, we are so conditioned to the idea that the government will have their hands in all of our business affairs. To Houstonians,
this seems downright Canadian.
BUILD YOUR CITY, THE PLAN-FREE WAY!
After a couple of days in town, I was starting to see the upside of letting your city just, well, happen. First it looked nonsensical
and chaotic, but it turns out that letting the people decide on just about everything makes life really interesting.
For instance, you could buy a multi-million dollar home on a shaded street just off of the busy west side thoroughfare that is
Shepherd Drive, and not have to drive any further than the end of your block when you feel like a beef and cheddar sandwich at
Arby's. If you think about it, this is awfully convenient.
Barreling down I-45, the chasm of a freeway that connects the steel and glass castles of downtown Houston with the tattered Gulf
city of Galveston, I am thinking a lot about the city's freewheeling style, which leaves a lot of room for creativity, a lot of room
for things to get downright strange. The longer you're here, the more Houston starts to show off ways in which it shares nearby
New Orleans' embrace of the weird. You realize that it's not just the proximity, the levees, the bayous and the punishing
suburban architecture that puts you in the mind of the Big Easy; it's the live-and-let-live spirit that gives rise to outbreaks of
insanity such as The Orange Show, then proceeds to celebrate them as a vital part of the local cultural heritage.
The late Jeff McKissack created The Orange Show, a hard-to-define curiosity on Munger Street, just south of downtown. The plot
of land on which his celebration of the orange was built was originally going to be a nursery. That turned out to be too much
trouble for McKissack, who had a day job with the postal service. Then it was going to be a beauty parlor, except then it wasn't -
McKissack had inside information that proved beauty salons were a thing of the past. Which is how he came to find an entirely
new use for the land, which buts up against some sort of industrial-looking business in a neighborhood that looks a lot like other
neighborhoods in this part of town. Land that people aren't exactly banging down the doors to move into.
Construction began on the project, which is remarkable in its pointlessness. Within the project, there are elements of an
amphitheater, a museum, a jungle gym and perhaps a failed amusement park. It is not immediately apparent that the visitor is
supposed to take away the knowledge that if one does not drink or smoke, gets plenty of exercise and eats lots of oranges, one
can live to be 100 years old. There is, apparently, a companion book: "How You Can Live 100 Years . . . and Still be Spry." I
have added it to my reading list. After all, the only thing better than living until 100 is having a pulse past ninety.
McKissack seems like a likely candidate as a poster boy for the genre now termed "outsider art." Sadly, he died in 1980, shortly
after completing the project, which is made almost entirely out of salvaged material or found objects.
"I think at that time, they just called them nuts," laughs Beth Lee. Lee is a staffer for the Orange Show's parent organization,
which carries the rather serious title of "Orange Show Center For Visionary Art." The correct term, I am informed, is folk art, but
to my uneducated ear, that sounds like we're talking quilts, which doesn't really begin to describe the experience of visiting a
place that the owner was convinced would one day be more popular than Disneyland or the Grand Canyon.
The crowds have yet to materialize, Lee points out. Still, more than half a million people have dropped by in the past 30 years or
so. The Orange Show is now on National Register of Historic Places, which proves that Houston does care about its history. At
least, when its history is really weird.
BRINGING ART TO THE PEOPLE
While Houston is primarily a car city, it does not engage in car worship the way you might expect in say, Southern California or
Detroit. For example, one of the hottest events of Detroit's social season is a day when people drive their cars up and down a
major thoroughfare of the region for other people to ogle them.
In Houston, they have a similar event, except on the annual Art Car Weekend, Houstonians come together to celebrate not the
perfection of the car, but rather the car's desecration. Car lovers compete to turn their wheels into rolling works of art. A
roadster becomes, for instance, The Roachster: A giant, rolling cockroach.
Now in its 22nd year, the event centers around the now world-famous Art Car Parade, for which about a quarter of a million
people show up in May. So popular is the event that there's now an Art Car Museum, which keeps the celebration going
year-round. Next to a gas station on Heights Boulevard, not too far north of Washington Avenue, where hot restaurants with
valet parking are moving in next to meat markets, taquerias and liquor stores. On the day of my visit, the museum is currently
winding down on their annual, open-call exhibit that invites anybody to contribute anything. This year's theme was "Green Texas."
Not seeing the theme in the mix of paintings, strange sculpture and art cars on the gallery floor, a gallery staffer (who, as it
happens, drives a beautifully painted Nissan Xterra) admitted that it had all been open for interpretation. All the artist had to do,
really, was consider the color green, and the state of Texas. Which explained the pickup that had been transformed into a
"monster" truck, the likes of which you might expect to see in a Pixar cartoon. It was green, said the staffer. Also, it was in
Texas.
The Orange Show Center for Visionary Art spearheads the Art Car Museum and events. Proving that it likes to keep a diverse
portfolio, it presented the next stop on my tour: the Beer Can House. (There's more, actually, but the Beer Can House is all I
have time for today.)
Sandwiched between new condominium buildings on the other side of Washington Avenue, the Beer Can House is the brainchild
of yet another eclectic Houstonian, this time the son of Austrian immigrants, John Milkovisch. The main interest here is the way
beer cans have been integrated into the architecture of a bungalow that is otherwise classic Old Houston; a sensible house of
reasonable size with big windows and lovely wood floors.
Milkovisch, who for the bulk of his career worked as an upholsterer for the railroads, always had plans for his property, which he
worked on as he had time. Once he retired, however, he was able to really give in to his passions, which included not wasting
things (empty beer cans, which he had been saving for 17 years) and making improvements to his house. Today, the home is
entirely sided in flattened beer can bodies, and adorned with curtains made from the tops.
The yard itself is a work of art, utilizing stone, marbles and other bits of salvaged junk. As long as he doesn't start on the inside,
his wife Mary once said.
IT'S A BIG TOWN, DAMMIT
I had hoped to see a lot more of the city's creative side, but I very quickly realized that you can't just jump into Houston and see
everything in a couple of days. I tried, feeling horribly guilty as I rushed through some more of the quirkier stops. In the
traditionally poor Third Ward, there is a row of shotgun shacks now known as Project Row Houses, the focal point of a growing
organization that not only stages compelling gallery shows, but also offers residencies, creates housing for single mothers and
offers a gathering place for the community.
In the historic East End, I found the Tlaquepaque Market, a piece of neighborhood
shopping history that is now being revived as a cultural magnet. Here, local
musicians Lupe and Sid Olivares (a husband and wife team, Sid is the lady) have
opened Bohemeo's, a coffee house/restaurant that's gaining a reputation as a live
music venue,and local art gallery. There's a large outdoor patio where you can sit
and drink coffee and look back towards the downtown skyline.
At one point, I convinced a local contact to take me up to the historic Heights neighborhood to learn more about Houston's
popular Aurora Picture Show, a new media, film and video center housed in an old 1920s Baptist church. It's around the corner
from a donut shop, Shipley's, that makes the most insane glazed donut you have ever tasted. Aurora was closed for the day.
Shipley's was not. Sometimes, it turns out, donuts are as fun as art.
THE FINAL PIECE OF THE PUZZLE
Before leaving town, I make one final stop, a stop I had been avoiding. While the scope and breadth of Houston's art scene may
not be widely appreciated by outsiders, nearly everyone knows about The Menil Collection. Occupying a campus-like section of
the city's Montrose district, the Menil, I expected, would be everything that my previous experiences were not: a serious art
museum.
The outcome of a life of dedication to the local arts scene on the part of French expats John and Dominique de Menil, the campus'
focal point is the simple and yet enchanting Renzo Piano gallery building. Sitting in a sea of grass, it appears to adore the
worship of the bungalow-style homes lined up all around it. Many of them painted in silvery gray which, my guide tells me,
means that the Menil owns them. In Houston, you can never be too careful - preserving your neighborhood is often best done by
buying it up.
The museum is just one piece of the Collection puzzle, of course; a gallery of the work of Cy Twombly, also designed by Piano,
is just steps from the campus centerpiece. Opened in 1995 in partnership with New York's Dia Art Foundation, from here you're
just a short walk from the old grocery store on Richmond Avenue that was transformed into an installation of fluorescent light.
This creates a rather stark contrast with the final pieces of the puzzle, Mark Rothko's baffling Rothko Chapel, which looks at first
glance to be a mid-century municipal power substation rather than the inspired work of a mid-century artist. And don't forget the
Byzantine Fresco Chapel Museum, just around the corner from there. Admission to everything is always free.
It's a Tuesday, and the galleries are closed. I've called ahead, though - I'm met at the southern entrance by Vance Muse, an old
New York hand who used to write for Life magazine. His name may be perfect for someone working at an art museum. Good
humored and effortlessly outgoing, Muse is precisely the opposite of what I expected in a representative of the Menil Collection.
Then again, I had neglected to take into account that this was an organization that found room for Cy Twombly, an installation of
fluorescent light in an old grocery store and Byzantine-era frescoes.
The galleries themselves aren't all that large - at any given time, you'll see a fraction of the 20,000 pieces that are constantly
rotating in and out. Inside, the museum is a blur of oddity, moving seamlessly from antiquities and beautifully presented African
art to a show of drawings by Georgia O'Keefe, Piet Mondrian, Marcel Duchamp and others.
Surrealism is also a strength of the collection, the genre being a favorite of the de Menil family. The stark gallery, the province of
the likes of Magritte and Man Ray, leads to a dark, windowless back room which, Muse remarks looks like it had been ripped
straight out of the British Museum. Oddly, for a museum that offers very little direction to the visitor (The Menil prefers instead to
allow people to respond, as Muse puts it, with their "right brain," or emotionally) everything in this generously-sized closet is
tagged. There is a guide to the show entitled, "Witnesses to a Surrealist Vision."
Tribal art is a focus - the whole thing looks like some sort of twisted fun house. At the center of the room, a life-sized piece of
body armor, covered entirely in nails, sticks out as looking even stranger than what surrounds it, making the fun house suddenly
feel like a weird sex dungeon. A very German sex dungeon.
Muse picks up the booklet that tries to explain everything; the object in question turns out to be called a "Wildman" costume.
Dating from the 18th or 19th century, it is a "two-piece leather suit with wood spikes and iron chain, and metal helmet with metal
spikes." Origin: Germany or Switzerland.
I started thinking, at that moment, that I know way too much about the dark side of the German mind. In addition, it also
crosses my mind the Menil is not really much of a contrast to what I'd been seeing around town. Finding room for both Twombly
and frightening German sex torture costumes, the Menil is as Houston as it gets - laid back, vaguely cuckoo, but always 100%
serious about its mission. Here, the art community simply celebrates art, whether it happens to a house tricked out with pieces of
empty beer cans, or the work of Robert Rauschenberg. (Himself a Texan, of course.)
Suddenly, what I had seen down at the Orange Show the other day - a plaque thanking the people who stepped in to save the
project after its creator's death - made sense. There, on the list, was Domenique de Menil. Along with, why the hell not, those
other pillars of Houston's creative community: The guys from ZZ Top.
For more information about the arts in Houston, visit www.artshound.com. To learn more about Houston as a destination, call
(800) 4-HOUSTON or log on to visithoustontexas.com.
5 COOL THINGS TO DO IN HOUSTON
1) Some fun on the bayou
Under a tangle of freeway overpasses on the north side of downtown, you'll find the Buffalo Bayou, a peaceful respite that
functions as Houston's own mini-Hudson River. Spruced up in recent years thanks to the efforts of the Buffalo Bayou Partnership,
it's now a popular spot for exercise, thanks to miles of trail, the best of which takes you through the pleasant wide open spaces
west of the city center. To get on the water, you can rent a canoe or a kayak. (Or, as we learned on a recent morning, you could
also strip naked and take a bath.) Regularly scheduled boat tours make for a relaxing 30 minutes; in summer, the already
thickly-vegetated banks turn positively jungle-esque. Boat tours are $7; learn more about the Bayou at www.buffalobayou.org.
2) History and mystery
While Houston is as newfangled as you'd expect, plenty of its history survives. Join the Greater Houston Preservation Alliance for
their monthly walking tours for living proof. February's walkabout examined the history of Main Street, which has some of the
city's best commercial architecture, including the Deco marvel that is the JP Morgan Chase tower at No. 712. If a guided tour isn't
your thing, you can also celebrate Houston's heritage like so many others do -- by hoisting a glass of whatever it is you drink at
La Carafe, an atmospheric bar at 813 Congress Street. It's housed in the city's oldest surviving commercial building (1847),
facing what's left of the historic Market Square district. Alliance-led tours are $10; find more information at www.ghpa.org.
3) Resort and the city
Today's Houston can get crowded in places, but there's still plenty of room to breathe, sometimes in the most unlikely places.
Just north of the famous Galleria, the epicenter of one of the city's most congested districts, you can slip down a side street and
into the park-like setting of The Houstonian, a resort-style hotel that also happens to be the site of one of the most desirable
private fitness clubs in town. Staying here is like getting a free pass into the fancy side of Houston - guests have full access to
club facilities, some of the finest in the country. Even if you don't stay over, stop by for a drink at the bar. A recent renovation
has given rather straightforward rooms a much-needed sprucing up, though bathrooms are still miniscule. A weekend Bed &
Breakfast special including tax starts at $285 for a double room. More information at www.houstonian.com.
4) You gotta eat
While the city at first glance may seem impossibly spread out, don't be fooled - that sprawl you're writing off might be the next
hot neighborhood. Take Washington Avenue, for years a nondescript and forgotten thoroughfare running west of Downtown.
Amid an array of older businesses (some of them well-worth checking out) catering to the once largely working class
neighborhood comes a series of very worthy restaurants, among them Catalan, which you might expect to be just another tapas
bar. Wrong. Chef Chris Shepherd's menu is too decadent to be called just another tapas bar. It's also more than a tiny bit aware
of its Gulf Coast location. Go for the cockles with chorizo, or the pork belly on sugarcane skewers (No. 5555). Nearby, a branch
of Benjy's, a popular Rice Village haunt, is reeling in a whole new audience in a sleek space for dishes like incredibly tender
buffalo hangar steak, served with a memorable bone marrow risotto (No. 5922). For extremely casual, gastrodive Max's marries
the high brow (a serious wine bar) with the low (a pleasing pub food menu). If you've never paired a delicate Austrian Grüner
Veltliner with a crock of macaroni and cheese, here's your chance to do so (No. 4720).
5) Into the woods
With a centrally located park twice the size of New York's fabled front lawn, it's no wonder Houstonians like the outdoors a lot
more than people might figure. Even in this dry winter Texas is having, Memorial Park still looks relatively green and beautiful,
an oasis from the clutter of the city. Miles of trail leave you with little to no excuse for getting out of your car and into nature.
Best thing ever: Exercisers can reward their virtue at local burger legend Becks Prime; there's a location right in the park, at the
golf course club house (www.houstonparks.org).
Lindsey Brown
Director of Marketing and Public Relations
Greater Houston Convention and Visitors Bureau
(713) 437-5275
lbrown@ghcvb.org
