Coast to Coast, or, What To Do With 4 Days You Don't Have
In the end I couldn’t wait any longer. With the end of classes looming and more studying to be done than I cared to consider, I called the airline and changed my flight. Instead of an early morning flight, I hopped the red-eye to JFK last Tuesday.
But first I went to the ballgame. At 7:30 on Tuesday night I met Scott and Louis outside Pacbell Park with tickets in hand. Tickets to seats that were amazing, I might add. We were on the Field Club level, row E. That means we were sixth row back from the field, seated directly between the Giants dugout and home plate. Good seats. We had a couple of beers together, and some very soupy nachos. The Giants played the Pirates and lost, but I got to see a home team homerun before I had to dash off to OAK.
I made the flight and was all settled in with my journal and some Dewar’s. Six hours later I was making my way through the new Airtrain-to-NY Subway interchange. It is a virtually seamless transfer that makes getting from JFK to Midtown easy for someone with a backpack on.
I will always love the Subway/Metro/Tube. I love the clacking of the train and whooshing of air as it rushes into the station. I love having to grab a service map and navigate the route to where I want to be. I love learning about a city’s street system from underneath it. And I love the feeling of walking up out of the destination station onto a busy street that couldn’t care less that I’m there, but welcomes me with it’s noise and bustle just the same. Arriving in London, Paris or Berlin gives me the same feeling, but with different flavors, each unique, each familiar and warm.
New York. Oh my. My last visit was hurried and incomplete and I found myself SO glad to be back. I walked out onto 53rd and Lex and into the heart of Manhattan’s morning commute. You know, here in the Bay Area we are lucky enough to have the stunning physical surroundings that we do. The price we pay is to sit in traffic, squandering these oh so precious minutes of our lives waiting to get from one place to another.
I’m the kind of person who will take the back road, the end run, even if it ultimately takes longer to get where I’m going, just so I can keep moving. The streets of NY are just as crowded and filled and traffic ridden, but the people keep moving, striding and bumping and dodging their way through each other. We’re warmer here in Cali, more friendly perhaps, but there is some sense of unity in navigating the crowded sidewalks of Midtown, beset on all sides by strangers and yet still able to enjoy moments of solitude.
Wednesday was a free day. After all, I wasn’t even supposed to be there yet. I had some idea of what the ensuing 96 hours would bring, but no concept of the tenor those four days would take. So I called Tom to let him know I was in early and then I went and met up with Jane. We walked up the east side, skirting the park and checked out the Guggenheim. Why waste time after all? This is what I came for. To satisfy the thirst and entire semester of the History of Modern Art had given me.
They have a lovely collection, and the facility is quite magnificent. Each floor had something unique to offer, and walking from each exhibit to the next, winding our way up, up, up into the skylit column was an experience in itself. They have a fine collection of Manet, Cezanne, Klee, Miro… Picasso. My goodness, Picasso. Later on we visited the Conservatory gardens in the park. Tulips of countless colors were blooming and the impeccably manicured botany basked in the sunlight of a perfect spring New York morning.
That evening I hooked up with Tom and Lisa outside her place at 71st and CPW. They took me over to Amsterdam to The Dead Poet, this great little bar in split level with the most expensive pay pool table I’ve ever played on. The walls were plastered in black and white reproductions of poet legends throughout history and the world. Jane met up with us later after her dinner, and Lisa knew the bartender so our little foursome was stoked.
Thursday morning I had an appointment with Jane at Christie’s. She had a painting by Wayne Thiebaud in that morning's auction, Post-War and Contemporary art. There were several hundred lots up and hers was about in the middle of the pack. Expectations were high but nervous. We sat right in front. I came to see the art.
Hoffman, Stella, Kline, Guston… Warhol and de Kooning for God’s sake! I couldn’t get enough. Seeing works by these artists in slides and in books is one thing; sitting six feet from a rotating display of their works for two hours is quite another. Couple that with getting to watch the bidding process and seeing how much each went for was frankly, just interesting as hell. We didn’t stay for the whole thing, but we did remain in our seats for a respectable number of lots beyond No. 271.
Jane’s little Thiebaud Cupcake performed quite well. Better than expected actually. In fact it blew it’s top estimate and wound up taking top bid for the morning session of the auction. Incroyable. We met Jane’s friend, Ellen, and had a lovely celebratory lunch in a nearby wine bar called Morrell. Excellent wine list and the food was great.
I did some wandering around for the middle part of the day and then met up with my cultural compatriot and the two of us crossed town and made our way to Pier 54 for a photography exhibit Katrina had strongly recommended. Whew.
Gregory Colbert is something else. I won’t even try to explain the exhibit, it would take too long. The thing took up the whole pier and was designed by this Japanese guy to be completely transportable. The entire exhibit packs itself into the recycled industrial shipping containers that it’s built from and then shipped to ports around the world. Inside was like a cathedral. Ethereal music and lighting, huge silk-screened prints floating midair, suspended from nearly invisible wire and flanking a long, straight walkway. That’s all I can say; I wouldn’t presume to be able to put words to Colbert’s art. His vision has to be experienced to be understood and appreciated.
Coming soon to an abandoned waterfront pier near you.
We were late for dinner. Jane knew I was coming out to NY and promised to make my stay as gastronomic as possible. We had reservations at Nobu, that slick Sushi joint that slings plates as artistic as they are delicious. We gorged ourselves.
Later on, wandering our through the Village, I finally made contact with Kathy. She had graduated with an MA from Tisch School of the Arts at NYU that morning and her voice on the other end of the phone implored us to come meet her and her friends just a few blocks away. We cabbed over, crashed a big formal prom-type dance on the way, and arrived at the bar with our stolen silver and gold balloons. Full effect. I don’t remember much after that….
Friday was dedicated to the MOMA. I had seen Deborah’s photos (my illustrious art history prof.), heard what she had to say about her visit back in February (Christo’s Gates….), and was quite taken aback – but in a good way, by the redesign. Granted I didn’t get a chance to really explore the MOMA in its last incarnation during my previous visit, but the differences were marked. A little cold in the hallways, they’ll fix that; and the exhibit galleries have some arrangement and flow issues, but altogether it works. The sculpture courtyard is awesome. In this perfect weather there we folk in swank black wire chairs lounging in the sun and chatting beneath the unmoving sculpture.
I gave it a good four hours and covered the rest of the semester’s material that the Guggenheim just didn’t have. ‘Nuff said about that really. It was completely fulfilling. Go see it.
That evening I hooked up with Azarel over at the new Lincoln Jazz Center, where she works. What a place. They were hosting the top 15 schools in the country who were there because they beat out 125 other schools in a national Jazz band competition. Az gave me the grand tour and then introduced me to Wynton Marsalis. ‘Nuff said about that. Then we had a drink across the street at The Coliseum and caught up.
Saturday morning seemed to come too quickly. I had an early evening flight so I stowed my bags and wandered up and down Madison and Fifth. The stores there are incredible. This one place, Shanghai Tang, has clothing for men and women that is just so unique; incorporating color, figure and form reminiscent of the stuff you see in Chinese opera. Barney’s is just great. Impractical and overpriced, yes; but great. The last dip was into the Neue Gallerie up on 90-something. A small gallery, the restaurant on the ground floor is perhaps more well known, but the two floors house a killer rotating special exhibit, and the house exhibit featuring works by Klimpt, Schiele and many other wonderful German artists. The Hoffman furniture is especially outstanding. The upstairs exhibit was devoted to Photo Portraiture. Many of the subjects were artists and writers. It is one thing to enjoy the wonder of a beautiful Klimpt woman; but it made it more enjoyable for me to see Klimpt himself, caught on film, dancing around his garden in a huge, stylized nightdress designed by his then-wife.
Alas the time came to get back to JFK. I know I’ll be back, and that, soon. They say you need to live in NY for at least eight years before you can call yourself a true New Yorker. If that’s the case I don’t think I’ll ever fit the bill. But I tell you, I’ve got her number now, and I know she’ll answer me every time I call or come to visit. She’s just that kind of City.
But first I went to the ballgame. At 7:30 on Tuesday night I met Scott and Louis outside Pacbell Park with tickets in hand. Tickets to seats that were amazing, I might add. We were on the Field Club level, row E. That means we were sixth row back from the field, seated directly between the Giants dugout and home plate. Good seats. We had a couple of beers together, and some very soupy nachos. The Giants played the Pirates and lost, but I got to see a home team homerun before I had to dash off to OAK.
I made the flight and was all settled in with my journal and some Dewar’s. Six hours later I was making my way through the new Airtrain-to-NY Subway interchange. It is a virtually seamless transfer that makes getting from JFK to Midtown easy for someone with a backpack on.
I will always love the Subway/Metro/Tube. I love the clacking of the train and whooshing of air as it rushes into the station. I love having to grab a service map and navigate the route to where I want to be. I love learning about a city’s street system from underneath it. And I love the feeling of walking up out of the destination station onto a busy street that couldn’t care less that I’m there, but welcomes me with it’s noise and bustle just the same. Arriving in London, Paris or Berlin gives me the same feeling, but with different flavors, each unique, each familiar and warm.
New York. Oh my. My last visit was hurried and incomplete and I found myself SO glad to be back. I walked out onto 53rd and Lex and into the heart of Manhattan’s morning commute. You know, here in the Bay Area we are lucky enough to have the stunning physical surroundings that we do. The price we pay is to sit in traffic, squandering these oh so precious minutes of our lives waiting to get from one place to another.
I’m the kind of person who will take the back road, the end run, even if it ultimately takes longer to get where I’m going, just so I can keep moving. The streets of NY are just as crowded and filled and traffic ridden, but the people keep moving, striding and bumping and dodging their way through each other. We’re warmer here in Cali, more friendly perhaps, but there is some sense of unity in navigating the crowded sidewalks of Midtown, beset on all sides by strangers and yet still able to enjoy moments of solitude.
Wednesday was a free day. After all, I wasn’t even supposed to be there yet. I had some idea of what the ensuing 96 hours would bring, but no concept of the tenor those four days would take. So I called Tom to let him know I was in early and then I went and met up with Jane. We walked up the east side, skirting the park and checked out the Guggenheim. Why waste time after all? This is what I came for. To satisfy the thirst and entire semester of the History of Modern Art had given me.
They have a lovely collection, and the facility is quite magnificent. Each floor had something unique to offer, and walking from each exhibit to the next, winding our way up, up, up into the skylit column was an experience in itself. They have a fine collection of Manet, Cezanne, Klee, Miro… Picasso. My goodness, Picasso. Later on we visited the Conservatory gardens in the park. Tulips of countless colors were blooming and the impeccably manicured botany basked in the sunlight of a perfect spring New York morning.
That evening I hooked up with Tom and Lisa outside her place at 71st and CPW. They took me over to Amsterdam to The Dead Poet, this great little bar in split level with the most expensive pay pool table I’ve ever played on. The walls were plastered in black and white reproductions of poet legends throughout history and the world. Jane met up with us later after her dinner, and Lisa knew the bartender so our little foursome was stoked.
Thursday morning I had an appointment with Jane at Christie’s. She had a painting by Wayne Thiebaud in that morning's auction, Post-War and Contemporary art. There were several hundred lots up and hers was about in the middle of the pack. Expectations were high but nervous. We sat right in front. I came to see the art.
Hoffman, Stella, Kline, Guston… Warhol and de Kooning for God’s sake! I couldn’t get enough. Seeing works by these artists in slides and in books is one thing; sitting six feet from a rotating display of their works for two hours is quite another. Couple that with getting to watch the bidding process and seeing how much each went for was frankly, just interesting as hell. We didn’t stay for the whole thing, but we did remain in our seats for a respectable number of lots beyond No. 271.
Jane’s little Thiebaud Cupcake performed quite well. Better than expected actually. In fact it blew it’s top estimate and wound up taking top bid for the morning session of the auction. Incroyable. We met Jane’s friend, Ellen, and had a lovely celebratory lunch in a nearby wine bar called Morrell. Excellent wine list and the food was great.
I did some wandering around for the middle part of the day and then met up with my cultural compatriot and the two of us crossed town and made our way to Pier 54 for a photography exhibit Katrina had strongly recommended. Whew.
Gregory Colbert is something else. I won’t even try to explain the exhibit, it would take too long. The thing took up the whole pier and was designed by this Japanese guy to be completely transportable. The entire exhibit packs itself into the recycled industrial shipping containers that it’s built from and then shipped to ports around the world. Inside was like a cathedral. Ethereal music and lighting, huge silk-screened prints floating midair, suspended from nearly invisible wire and flanking a long, straight walkway. That’s all I can say; I wouldn’t presume to be able to put words to Colbert’s art. His vision has to be experienced to be understood and appreciated.
Coming soon to an abandoned waterfront pier near you.
We were late for dinner. Jane knew I was coming out to NY and promised to make my stay as gastronomic as possible. We had reservations at Nobu, that slick Sushi joint that slings plates as artistic as they are delicious. We gorged ourselves.
Later on, wandering our through the Village, I finally made contact with Kathy. She had graduated with an MA from Tisch School of the Arts at NYU that morning and her voice on the other end of the phone implored us to come meet her and her friends just a few blocks away. We cabbed over, crashed a big formal prom-type dance on the way, and arrived at the bar with our stolen silver and gold balloons. Full effect. I don’t remember much after that….
Friday was dedicated to the MOMA. I had seen Deborah’s photos (my illustrious art history prof.), heard what she had to say about her visit back in February (Christo’s Gates….), and was quite taken aback – but in a good way, by the redesign. Granted I didn’t get a chance to really explore the MOMA in its last incarnation during my previous visit, but the differences were marked. A little cold in the hallways, they’ll fix that; and the exhibit galleries have some arrangement and flow issues, but altogether it works. The sculpture courtyard is awesome. In this perfect weather there we folk in swank black wire chairs lounging in the sun and chatting beneath the unmoving sculpture.
I gave it a good four hours and covered the rest of the semester’s material that the Guggenheim just didn’t have. ‘Nuff said about that really. It was completely fulfilling. Go see it.
That evening I hooked up with Azarel over at the new Lincoln Jazz Center, where she works. What a place. They were hosting the top 15 schools in the country who were there because they beat out 125 other schools in a national Jazz band competition. Az gave me the grand tour and then introduced me to Wynton Marsalis. ‘Nuff said about that. Then we had a drink across the street at The Coliseum and caught up.
Saturday morning seemed to come too quickly. I had an early evening flight so I stowed my bags and wandered up and down Madison and Fifth. The stores there are incredible. This one place, Shanghai Tang, has clothing for men and women that is just so unique; incorporating color, figure and form reminiscent of the stuff you see in Chinese opera. Barney’s is just great. Impractical and overpriced, yes; but great. The last dip was into the Neue Gallerie up on 90-something. A small gallery, the restaurant on the ground floor is perhaps more well known, but the two floors house a killer rotating special exhibit, and the house exhibit featuring works by Klimpt, Schiele and many other wonderful German artists. The Hoffman furniture is especially outstanding. The upstairs exhibit was devoted to Photo Portraiture. Many of the subjects were artists and writers. It is one thing to enjoy the wonder of a beautiful Klimpt woman; but it made it more enjoyable for me to see Klimpt himself, caught on film, dancing around his garden in a huge, stylized nightdress designed by his then-wife.
Alas the time came to get back to JFK. I know I’ll be back, and that, soon. They say you need to live in NY for at least eight years before you can call yourself a true New Yorker. If that’s the case I don’t think I’ll ever fit the bill. But I tell you, I’ve got her number now, and I know she’ll answer me every time I call or come to visit. She’s just that kind of City.
posted by Peter at
3:22 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home