The last rotten egg 2001 lobbed at me was the death of my friend Pam. We held her memorial service at Northminster Saturday morning, and it was actually the first such event I attended as an adult. When I've been faced with death in the past I usually pull away in heavy denial, go a little crazy not knowing how to deal with the grief. But the few rituals our society has set up surrounding death are there for a reason. Pam's service was so incredibly healing. There was sadness and tears for sure, but there was also laughter while remembering the life of this wonderful woman. I love how quietly supportive my church family is. There are no grandiose gestures, just simple acknowledgement of our loss. As we left the church after the service there was a very soft rain falling.

Sitting at home for the rest of the day was definitely not an option, so I headed over to the Legion of Honor specifically to check out the "Artists' Books in the Modern Era: 1870 - 2000" exhibition. It showcased books from the Reva and David Logan Collection of Illustrated Books, and damn those two know what to collect. I started out meticulously examining each text, but by the end I was wandering around in a daze gasping at every new thing I saw. The book arts is a field that blows me away, a perfect intersection of two of my greatest passions. Standouts of the show included a book of animals by Toulouse-Lautrec, Picasso's simple line drawings of horses, Surrealist works I recognized from the exhibit I'd just seen in London, a delightful concoction by Duchamp, and a frighteningly apt rendering of John Ashbery's "Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror." I was almost inspired to buy a catalogue, something I usually don't do, but even good reproductions couldn't compare to standing in front of the actual books. Not the same at all.

For dinner I went to Fly Trap, where I showed up so embarrassingly early that I concocted some story about being stood up to explain to the nice waitstaff why I was dining alone. Really I was just in the mood for making something up. I perched at the bar and discussed art with my bartender while dining on pan-roasted halibut with green beans, trumpet mushrooms, and soy beurre blanc. Heaven.

Finally I wandered back across the bridge to see Under the Moonlight at the PFA. A part of their "Iranian Cinema: New Directors, New Directions" series, this was a new film by Reza Mir-Karimi that dealt with a young man's crisis of faith. By chance he encounters a group of homeless people living under a bridge in Tehran, and his interactions with them change his life. The film was beautifully done, and it dealt gracefully with topics that are hugely controversial in Iran. I felt privileged to have seen it, but I usually walk out of films at the PFA feeling like that.

Remember Toulouse-Lautrec?
And neo-eiga?