Asked the woman at the box office how to best kill an hour between arriving at The National and when doors would open before the Beach House show. She shook her head.

“Oh, honey,” she said, “There’s nothing to do here. Five or six blocks that way, there’s a bar, and there’s a bar next door. But there’s nothing to do here.”

“Not even a cafe or bookstore?” I asked.

(The National is in the middle of Richmond’s art district, which would indicate, I think, plenty to do).

“Nothing,” she said.

So I walked, and discovered condemned buildings and shuttered stores, barbershops with bars over windows and doors, and several groups of spare changers. But down alleys and behind buildings, off the beaten path, there was the art I expected, undiscovered and unknown, even to women who work nearby.

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