It started with a Cappucho! And the two finest chocolate croissants ever produced by a New Yorka. In the words of Louis Vuitton, it was in the bag.
The wind blew us steadily uptown and before we knew it we could see the park. All of the mannequins in the oh-so-chic New York shops kept us company, some even asked for my number.
I was so excited to see some of my favorite stores, including H&M, Zara, and Tiffany's
My eyes lit up when we walked past Juicy. What else can I say?
At the corner of Eloise’s hotel, I thought the glass triangle of Le Louvre had moved to New York. Looking closer I realized it was the same architecture, but instead it was a square and home to the apple.
We looked in on Monsieur Trump and just to make us feel better we fired his doormen.
We faded from 5th Avenue but couldn’t find a freakin’ Starbucks! Fortunately, saving all of those New Yorker clippings finally paid off for my dad. We immediately entered a 17th century, the Frick mansion. Who would have thought that the best museum ever was hidden in some dead white man’s crib?.
Before agreeing to pay the cover charge, Dad made the cashier sign an affidavit promising a minimum of three Vermeers.
Our tour guides were well dressed but curiously silent. Some didn’t even look at us. In one palatial parlor, we met Rembrandt’s bill collector. His intensity captured our full attention as well as that of the former call girl in the adjoining room. Good thing Whistler’s mother was away in France; she would have been aghast. The large rooms of the mansion reflected a specific personality. Every painting was a keeper; each dying to tell you a story.
Hunger drove us back to the 21st century in a mostly northern direction.
Hidden amidst upscale retail, a noisy Greek restaurant invited us loudly to dine. Even before ordering, we knew we were in a genuine Manhattan restaurant. As Dad and I discussed what we would order, the nearby New Yorkas quickly pointed out which plates had to go back.
We hop-scotched through the dog shit all the way to Thomas Crown’s playground, the New York Metropolitan Museum.
We joined Americans in Paris, missing Gene Kelly, but encountered Mary Cassat, the Sargent, and Homer. Throughout our visit through the Met, we were compelled to compare it to the atmosphere at the Frick. Even as we sat in front of the Vermeers, we felt a little disappointed. They didn’t evoke the excitement we felt earlier. The Frick’s Vermeers burst with storylines and possibilities. The offerings at the Met were nicely framed.
Before long, the personality of the Met emerged. They want to help but there are limits. You can take photographs but not with a flash. You can speak REALLY LOUD but not on a phone. Their large three story museum brims with old masters and new attempts at mastery. Three of the galleries we visited were occupied by a living person who brought his easel, tube paints, brush collection and a large helping of courage.
I can’t imagine what Simon Cowell would have said if he were to walk by.
One of the painter/copyists passed on that lining up permission is not too tough. He returned to his ipod and added another bad brushstroke. All in all, the museum is right to accommodate the fellows we saw today. Their work has little chance of ending up where it started even if they had used flash and cell phones.
It was a long Frickin' day!
1 comment:
let's meet on top of the empire state building tonight... if i don't show up, i was probably in a terrible car accident that left me a paralyzed.
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