Summer Fridays/Weekends 2010 - Part Five

Despite the ravages to my system that have been ongoing since early June, I have still been determined to go out and enjoy my summer Fridays and weekends. Whether that meant enjoying the view out the train window as I travelled through Westchester to the doctors office yet again, being awestruck at the forcefulness of Mother Nature's wrath on the forest near Caramoor, or enjoying a rare, humidity-free, evening concert by Christopher O'Riley in the Spanish Courtyard, I've been busy.

Luckily my friend Christine and I did manage to find a date when her busy Festival schedule was clear so we could head to The Metropolitan Museum to see the exhibition called American Woman: Fashioning a National Identity.

I think Christine and I have known each other too long. We hadn't discussed wardrobe, but I found myself grinning when I came around the corner at Grand Central to see her in a white dress. Why? Because I was wearing a black dress. We hadn't even planned it. We're of the school of thought that you still make an effort to dress appropriately when visiting cultural institutions, whether it be a concert or a museum. Plus, we were going to see some fancy dresses, so why not respect the art we were going to see?

On our way to that special exhibition, we got sidetracked into the Picasso retrospective. Much of the art on display was unfamiliar to us, although I was familiar with the Harlequins and the portrait of Gertrude Stein. We also saw the Picasso that had recently been repaired after an altercation with a patron, now displayed under glass. The linoleum lithographs were wonderful, although you did have to wonder about Picasso's perceptions of women in his later years.

Here's my one decent photo of Christine in front of a lithograph. While you could take photos in the Picasso exhibit, I wanted to experience the art, not document the art to experience later.

After marvelling over the craftsmen(woman's?)ship of the dresses from the Costume Institute (no photos allowed there -- but check out the YouTube clip in the link above), we found our way upstairs to the Big Bambu installation. It was disgustingly hot and humid heading up the stairs to the roof, and the bright sun was unrelenting. However, under the shade of the bamboo it was quite refreshing, especially with our over-priced, but much needed beverages and salty snacks. We snagged a bench and admired the views of Central Park.

Apparently you can have a guided tour on the top of the installation (via these stairs -- Stairway to Heaven anyone?), but there are limited tickets and you have to be at the Met at a certain time to line up to get them. Maybe later and not in a dress and sandals ....

After we came down from our bamboo high, we wandered around various exhibitions, looked at European masterpieces, mocked the fashion choices of our fellow museum goers*, took in Italian sketches, gossiped, were almost stampeded by a herd of Italian testosterone-filled teenagers, had pity for hard-working security guards who had to constantly police the "no-photos" policies, marvelled at the wealth of people who could afford porches and courtyards like these,

roamed through the Byzantium, Greek, and Roman eras looking at the craft and artwork of millenia past, with a sidetrack through King Tut's burial goods in Egypt, and finished by wading through a lobby full of tourists to get to the ever-important gift shops.

We were wise to start early and to narrow our exhibit preferences because by early Sunday afternoon, as the heavens opened and the rains came through the City, the Museum more closely resembled an international airport terminal than an institution dedicated to art. We escaped onto East 85th Street before the deluge started and wandered around the East Side for some lunch and some people watching.

[*Ladies, please take Christine's advice. If you are wearing a white dress and rain is in the forecast, buy AND CARRY an umbrella. Like she did. Because she is smart. Or wear black and have a slicker, like me! Don't hope that you can make it to the subway, home, or an awning before it starts to rain. The Upper East Side is no place for a wet dress contest. All of the patrons at our diner felt bad for you, but really -- it's New York in the summer and we've had storms like every day. How did you not know it was going to rain! (And yes, your dress was as see-through as you thought it was.)]

I was envious of the owners of this brownstone. This climbing vine was so beautiful in the rain, though you just can't tell from my photos.

I need to spend more time exploring the streets around the Museum. You can see hints of the Gilded Age of New York. Just check out this apothecary shop. The best part were the roundels in the arched windows that swivelled open for circulation.

The day was also filled with other fleeting "only in New York moments" that I experienced but didn't photograph: from looking up at the corner of 82nd and Museum Mile to see one of the famous red-tail hawks circling around his/her swanky NYC nest, to crossing paths with a celebrity and her family and friends en route to somewhere on a Sunday morning while Christine and I tried to cross the street, to me heading down to my train in Grand Central at the end of the day to see a bridal couple walking up past the Oyster Bar with their wedding photographer. Many "congratulations" rang out through the tunnel for the happy couple while other commuters and tourists looked on nonchalantly. I'm just glad they were taking pictures at that location and time on a Sunday and not in the middle of a week-day evening rush hour. The contrast between the bride's white ball gown and the beige terrazzo and the brick/cobblestones of the Oyster Bar Passageway must have looked even better on film than it did in real life.

It's always fun spending time with Christine and seeing priceless pieces of art. However, I do have to say that it's always the unexpected and the odd little things that crack me up when we are together.

Things like this, which I call

Priceless Impressionist Masterpieces vs. Aging Dude Trying Too Hard

*Dude. Here's a hint. If your shirt says it, then there's no way you actually are a Prepster. Sorry.