This is what we want to become, and one of the first steps in this steep ascent is the revival of the Artists and Writers Ball, that wild and crazy party at the Cuban Club that lives on in the memory of Tampa bohemians of a quarter century ago. Those artists and writers, intellectuals and hangers-on are now the bourgeois and one, Paul Wilborn, is the city's manager of creative industries - a title straight out of the former Soviet Union. So it's no surprise that the new incarnation of the ball costs $85 a head. It's a fundraiser for a good cause, but don't expect artists and writers to be there - unless they have a big-bucks day job.
The really good news is artists throw really good parties for free.
Last weekend we went to one in an industrial park on Anderson Road. It was so far off the beaten track a friend of ours drove over during daylight just to make sure where it was. It turned out to be easy to find, and while the neighborhood isn't pretty - do you think New York's meat packing district is pretty? - inside there was art. And champagne, scallops in the shell and flat bread pizza on a long table from Pane Rustica, where we'd picked up a slick announcement near the cash register a month ago. Two tall, thin women in black who looked like models circulated with trays of seared tuna, shrimp and chicken satay.
The space is usually the working studio of Dr. Doodle, whose company creates graphics and murals and antique faux finishes you've seen around, in Maggiano's, the Palm, the airport. Last weekend it was transformed into a gallery space for Dr. Doodle's premiere as abstract expressionist R. Francis. That isn't exactly his name; it's his first initial and middle name. A friend introduced his wife to me as "Mrs. Doodle," but that was just for fun.
At any rate, the thrice-named artist hung 25 paintings with titles from Tweety, the Catalyst - the first one to sell, he said - to Father, a huge gray and black painting that incorporates nails and priced not to sell at $12,000.
People milled around, eating, drinking and talking. R. Francis was friendly, open and engaging and not the least bit elitist about his work, asking us, as we stood in front of a painting, "What does it look like to you?"
Two weeks ago on a chilly Thursday night, we went to Bleu Acier, in a former commercial building that is now art gallery, performing arts space, print shop and home for Erika Greenberg Schneider and her 8-year-old daughter, Esther. It's on a not-lively stretch of Columbus Drive in Tampa Heights. There are no windows in the front of the building, no sign and at first glance no door, so we drove right past it. It's next to a Pentecostal church, which I knew, so the second time around we spotted it. We directed a young woman driving around lost, who turned out to be a student of Dee Moses, the principal bassist with the Florida Orchestra. He was giving a mini-concert there.
Inside we had good wine - not jug, and a small card that said donations were appreciated. People wandered around talking and looking at the work of several artists, including Erika's husband, Dominique Labauvie. She told us the history of the incredible antique printing presses she brought back from France, and we complimented her on the building renovation, during which, she said, the back wall and ceiling fell down on her.
Dee Moses played several short pieces. A few were his own compositions, two of them written for his wife, dancer and choreographer Elsa Valbuena. Dee answered questions about his instrument, the double bass, and if that doesn't sound dull I don't know what does, but, in fact, it was fascinating.
Erika invited us to stay, drink more wine - and come back next time.
No one rushed for the door.
- Sandra Thompson, a writer living in Tampa, can be reached at tampa@sptimes.com City Life appears on Saturday.
