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Published: January 20th 2019
We had an easy morning, only getting out to a bus after 11:30 to go the
Frick Museum. The interior was a great surprise – the Frick's home in the
Gilded Age: gilt- trimmed everything, even the portraits in gilt frames had gilt molding around them on the wall. The greats had been collected in profusion: Gainsborough, Whistler, Reynolds, van Dyck, Rembrandt, Goya, and even El Greco. Two Turners faced each other – Dieppe Harbour and Cologne, which had hard lines compared to other Turners I have seen. In a Velázquez portrait, Phillip IV of Spain looked imperious indeed. The abiding impression is of high confidence, both in the poses of the subjects and in the paint strokes, whether the colours were soft or sharp. One charming object was a Barometer Clock from 1690, reminding us of the age of technologies that is one of the foundations of our own age. The grandeur of the setting, more suited to a museum than a home, piqued my anticipation of the next Julian Fellowes series,
The Gilded Age, set in the US.
We walked on Fifth Avenue almost forty blocks to the
Museum of Modern Art, a place I regretted not visiting on my previous visit to New York.
Temple Emanu-el 1929
Reform Jewish, Romanesque Revival architectureThanks to Karen’s pass, we got in free, although not without a courteous warning that the pass was no longer valid for MoMA. (At the Guggenheim, under the same circumstances, they unsympathetically asked us to pay.) From the outside, the building was a large rectangular glass building, anonymous if it weren’t for the large sign. Inside, the lobby opened up into a wide light-filled marble hall teeming with people coming and going. A special
Rauschenberg exhibition had just opened, and Karen decided to stay and see it with me. We both loved the painting featured at the entry, washed in shades of blues with figures tenuously balanced in the foreground. After that, my lack of knowledge failed my appreciation for many of the works. In fact, it was more interesting to read the attached narratives, to understand how he had developed such bizarre works. He created 3-D paintings, which for me were intriguing but not emotionally or aesthetically moving.
When Karen left, I decided lunch was next. The café on the fifth floor was busy, with a quickly moving line. Of course, the prices were outrageous; however, my open-face salmon salad sandwich was delicious. The waiter had an odd
manner and kept calling me “young lady”, which put me off considerably. Even so, the distant view of buildings and rooftops made up for everything.
Refreshed, I moved on to the main collection – so many stunning paintings, many very famous. The room of Picassos was punctuated by a small cubist painting by the respected Sudanese artist Ibrahim El-Salahi. Below the notes was a statement that this artist would not have been allowed into the US under the current immigration restrictions against certain countries and that the hanging of this painting and others was to emphasize the necessity for openness in the arts. I thought it was an effective juxtaposition of the relatively unknown with the extremely well known. Stepping beyond the gallery, I happened to turn back and notice that Les Demoiselles d’Avignon by Picasso took on much greater beauty with the perspective of considerable distance. Having seen this effect also at the Guggenheim, I tried photographing it through the obstructions of other people in order to record the much-improved view.
I was delighted to encounter their very large Jackson Pollock, that let me walk very close and be immersed in his special kind of chaos that
stirs my mind without consciousness of the causes. Also delightful was the discovery of The Dream and The Sleeping Gypsy by
Henri Rousseau, attributed as an influence on Picasso, who was an admirer. Around two small
Frida Kahlo paintings people were clustered trying to take their photos in the framed mirror that is part of her self-portrait. This was a gift to her friend and was meant to keep them together even when they were apart. A Diego Rivera travelling
fresco was nearby, and the description was interesting explaining how he devised this travelling format for his US debut, enabling his preferred format and style to move to galleries.
Eventually my brain couldn’t absorb any more ideas, even though I tried to look at a couple other special exhibits. Down in the lobby I remembered the enclosed outdoor sculpture garden, where I was happy to see a café. An expensive coffee and cookie restored some energy. Still, my mind couldn’t appreciate the sculptures either.
Out on the street I took a few moments to visit the 53
rd Street Public Library branch; it occupies part of the main floor and two lower floors of a new office
tower. On all three L-shaped floors, the shelves were against the walls, and tables, some with computers, took up the open areas. The children’s area was on the lowest level, just a long open program space. Connecting the main floor and the next one down was a wide staircase; a few people were sitting on provided cushions, so I assume that it functions as a theatre at some times.
Although Karen had given me a metro card and instructions to take the bus, I had enough time to walk fifty blocks (about 2 ½ miles) to her place. I joined the throngs on Fifth Avenue - dazzled or confused tourists flowing by harried business types. Famous stores such as Dolce & Gabbana and the Gap lined the street. The swanky window displays discouraged non-purposeful shopping. Trump Tower was on the other side of the street, protected by concrete barriers and portable railings. The design was a cascade of edges, reminding me of our guide’s comments in Chicago about a designer providing lots of corner offices for those who sought the trappings of power. Two people were demonstrating on my side of the street, the closest protesters are allowed to
be.
Arriving at the long stretch of Central Park helped me appreciate the green relief as much as New Yorkers do. Life was more casual here. Unfortunately, the choking traffic turned the air quite foul, at least on the edges. Probably the park as a whole helps keep the air as clean as possible in such a gigantic city.
Just before 6:00 we went to a author reading at the local independent
Corner Book Store. Karen had just finished reading a biography of Proust, and author,
Benjamin Taylor, was promoting his own autobiography,
The Hue and Cry at Our House. Wine and peanuts were offered, creating a jovial admiring audience. He read very well, with emotion and humour, focusing on the day of the assassination of President Kennedy. Listening to the questions and his answers, I realized the depth of the scar this event had made on social consciousness in the US, especially for those who experienced the political trauma.
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Isabel Gibson
non-member comment
Many cities in one
Art galleries aren't my chosen way to spend a day - or more - but I'm glad you found so much to delight you. It's another reminder of how many ways there are to appreciate a huge city like New York.