Classicly New York

When I was in London, playing "abroad" yet again, I had a lot of free, alone time, something a post-college grad is not used to. However, my love of literature and my lack of education (yes, I missed class), brought me into the North Kensington Library one stormy day. Somewhere along the way from my flat to the library, I realized what I needed in my life was romance. I wanted to be swept away into the romantic classics that scholars quote and students begrudge. My take out that day consisted of 'Wuthering Heights' and 'Lady Chatterley's Lover', both of which I devoured. Thus began my journey into the classic novel.


My literary appetite has not subsided since moving to the Big Apple, but I did want a sense of old New York to be played out in a novel. And so, I picked up 'The Age of Innocence' by Edith Wharton. Archer, Madame Ellen Olenska, May Welland - I fell head over heels into their world of stifled desires, muted agonies, and fear of making a scene in New York Society. This gilded age of New York City society filled my imagination as I walked fifth avenue in present day, picturing the characters in their overcoats and dresses, making their way to the theater or to a dinner invite. The power of status, of family name, was so strong it killed any chance for excitement and drama. Yet, below the surface, we see our main character, Archer, flaring with emotion and fantasy, clenching his teeth as his mind whirls into romance and freedom.

I read this book feverishly; Edith Wharton paints a beautiful scene of these societal woman and their unspoken thoughts, their stubborn refusal to face harsh realities, and their absurd fear for causing any sort of scenes within this tightly knit play on life. As the last sentences left me in Paris, I drifted into a nostalgia reminiscent of this life.

The Gilded Age

It was pouring down sheets of rain as my Mom and I made our way onto the 6 train to head up town. Rain slogged our shoes, wet umbrellas paved a slippery path on the subway car, and a dreary emotion permeated the city. With the economy weighing heavy on everyone's mind and bank accounts, New York was showing its weary lines of stress. And the week of non stop rain didn't help.

Emerging onto 70th street, a large structure came into view, with detailed architecture and a sense of solidarity. Making our way into the foyer entrance, shredding ourselves of wet umbrellas, we emerged in a spectacular, mesmerizing, and awe inducing home. Suddenly, the glorious past was at our fingertips and a historic tranquility lifted our spirits.

The Frick Museum, built during the Gilded Age by Henry Clay Frick, is a true New York City gem. The museum itself, once home to Mr. Frick, speaks of a decadent age. Walking through the connected rooms, with high vaulted ceilings, painted panels of cherubs and maidens, adorned with famous Old Italian Master Paintings, one truly feels the pull of the past. The entrance hall, with a large gold plated organ in an alcove next to the stairs, the stairs, wrapped in a decorative iron gate, and the tile floors echoing our soft steps, we imagined being summoned to a dinner at this glorious home. Quite the entrance guests would have experienced.


The artworks themselves were chosen with perfection, in line with the regal and almost religious upstanding of the mansion. From the wispy, angelic pastels by Fragonard, to the elegant portraiture frames of aristocrats by Gainsborough, to the tumultuous and fiery nature landscapes of Joseph Mallord William Turner, I sank into each painting as if I was reclining into a worn in, overstuffed chair. Among the old Masters, the seriousness of Titian & Piero della Francesca, I spotted a wonderfully playful Manet, "The Bullfight". And again, was delighted to find a watery Monet landscape. Although most of the collection spoke of a pious past, the collection also played on the lighter strings of angels, and mischievous woman.

We sauntered through the Mansion a second time, carefully eyeing the descriptive details within the framework and furniture. After, we spent a long time in the museum shop, flipping through books on Mr. Frick, stories of a past exuberant life, and relishing the tales of the Gilded Age.

Can I Be Your Edie?

It was a muggy, rainy Wednesday night and a select group of us from MoMA were trekking down to Brooklyn for a studio visit. This being my second time to Brooklyn since living in NYC, I wasn't thrilled about the prospect of being in Red Hook - the most industrial edge of the borough. Walking along scrap metal junkyards and deserted warehouses, under a massive bridge being constructed slash renovated, we found ourselves on a shady side street, devoid of any life, either human, plant or animal. Eerie, yes. Kind of off the beat, this could be cool, most definitely.


We knocked on a large, grey steel door...and waited...and waited. Finally, a skinny, Brooklyn-ite hipster from the depths of the warehouse emerged bleary eyed, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He motioned us in, and we followed him up two sets of wide stairs, with neon lights blazing our way. Then we entered the Space. It was as if I had stepped through a time portal and landed in the Warhol Factory of the 60s in Midtown Manhattan. I felt calmly at home amongst the paint speckled floorboards, the art work half finished on canvases against the walls or sculptures scattered across the floor. The group, a mix of grungy yet beautiful artists with cigarette boxes rolled into their t-shirt sleeves, skinny jeans hanging from their lean frames, and tied up boots - a look that spoke of nonchalance but still, a 'look'. Only the one who led us in did any talking. The rest floated around the different large rooms, drinking PBRs and smirking at our preppy and inquisitive group.

Their Mission, although a bit hard to articulate, revolves around a dead white man, Bruce, who died on September 11, 2001 but NOT in the terrorist attack. He just so happened to die on that day. His large, plastered face hangs ominously above one of the rooms, like a demi-god dictating their thoughts behind the brush strokes. The group is dedicated to "preservation of the legacy ogf the late social sculptor". Okay, so I guess I can buy into this...but what I really appreciated was their re-appropriation of art history. The other part of their mission is to "resurrect art history from the bowels of despair" hence the crass and crude image to the left of Picasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon. Another large work was of Velazquez’s greatest and most intriguing work: Las Meninas which was reappropriated by Picasso in the late 19th century and now here again, by the Bruce High Quality Foundation. The folding and intermingling of artists and eras is fascinating.

Overall, I left feeling a bit Dazed & Confused, but very, very intrigued. So much so that I was tempted to hang back, observing the artists in their natural, free spirited environment, wishing I could drink the Kool Aid with them. And of course, re-appropriate the Muse herself, Edie Sedgwick.

Take a Walk on the Wild Side

On the humid fall September evening, I made my way through the throngs of people, dressed to impress, with cocktails in hand and eyes all aglow. A festive spirit infiltrated the air with a serious undertone nodding to the expansive and expensive nature of this exhibition. Riding the escalator up to the 6th floor, my heart thumped with a new-school day excitement. I found myself among the flourish of colors and urban abstractions and female interpretations, mixed with sculpture and black-and-whites, squeezed into museum walls bursting with conversation, eyes and hands furiously pointing, staring, in awe of a master, my mind buzzing with the excitement of it all; I had fallen down the rabbit hole.

Welcome to The Museum of Modern Art's "de Kooning: A Retrospective." The rooms flowed through his time line of themes starting with '40s figurations, black and white compositions, then to the female idol with my personal favorite, "Woman I" and into landscapes, finally swooping into more abstractions and a focus on paint strokes. Sculptures also dotted a few rooms, speaking to his expansive pallet of materials. I was in utter awe. I attempted to read the curator's summaries at the start of each room but with the mass of members moving in waves, it was hard to concentrate, so I gave in to solely enjoying the flow of colors and lines.

Paying tribute to this modern master is no small feat. He wrestles with the figure over the years, expanding the boundaries of abstraction, and teasing those trying to define him. His shuddering lines and acid colors stir something in the viewer that only a mastermind could do.


It is surely a show that requires time and studious observation, but the opening shrouded the show in luxurious admiration. Luckily for me, I will be blessed with a curatorial walkthrough in early October. And I plan to eat up every moment I have alone in front of his mesmerizing works.

American Classic

After a wonderful weekend out in the Hamptons, complete with bbqs, Wolffer Vineyard visits, a park softball game, afternoons on the beach, a Southampton Social club appearance and a bonfire to end the summer, I made my way back to the city for a baseball game. Leaving our house for a final Twice Upon an Overpriced Bagel stop and a final vegetable hoarding at the Farm Stand, we missed the parking lot traffic on 27 and cruised right into the Bronx. Thanks should be given here to the 3G iPad for navigating our way. Now, being a Massachusetts girl, I have found myself between a rock and a hard place when it comes to being a sports fan: Boston vs. NY. This infamous, ongoing, and brutal battle between the two cities has become quite a point of conflict for me. Growing up with a sports fanatic brother and dad, I had no choice but to root for the Red Sox, cheer for the Bruins, holler for the Patriots - and I loved being a Boston/NE fan. However, I was no sports fanatic and couldn't list a roster. So when I moved to NYC and was inundated with Rangers, Knicks, and of course, Yankees fans, my Boston cheers were silenced. And I must be honest, when I am asked to a Knicks/Rangers/Yankees game, I won't turn down an invite because I love, love going to sports games. Everything from hockey to football to baseball, I want to go and I want to be part of the crowd and cheer for a team and bask in the American glory of it all.

Needless to say, my loyalties are slowly switching. My brother, father, best friend since I was 10, and basically all my high school friends will not greet this transition well. I am prepared for that. Yesterday, while sitting a few rows back from third base, sipping on a cold beer, basking in the sunlight, and cheering for Montero's first home run, I couldn't help but grow an attachment to the Yankees. Plus, B has season tickets and he won't let me within two feet of them if I pledge allegiance to the Sox (same goes for Rangers, and I am sucker for hockey players). Sorry I'm not sorry - New York is becoming my home now and the cheerleader in me wants to root for the home team. As I sang "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" this Labor Day, sitting next to the NY Fire Dept crew wearing memorial 9/11 Tshirts, among fans boasting their navy and white, I felt overwhelmed with a sense of patriotism and pride I hadn't felt in a long time. Baseball truly is an American Classic, no matter who you're rooting for.

On our way back to the car, I made a street purchase, bought myself a navy hat, and wore it proudly into the bustling streets of Manhattan.

Pumped Up Kicks

Last Thursday, I awoke to one of life's simple joys: Calendar Reminders! Only this time, instead of reminding me to send an email, cancel an appointment, or call the damn landlord again, I had a reminder about a concert that I had bought tickets to back in May. After a long, cubed up work week, I was ready to play with my inner hippie and sway to the good beats of Cut Copy & Foster the People. Then I noticed something - this concert was in Brooklyn. Prospect Park to be exact. I must admit now, I have not yet made it to Brooklyn (unless one very stressful Ikea trip counts) but the idea of an outdoor concert in hipster Brooklyn sounded like an ideal Thursday night. As twilight fell across Manhattan, I made my way with three girlfriends across the river and into the hip, up and coming, wildly talked about borough.

The park had been roped off into a smaller area and the lines for beer were of course, ridiculously long, but it was a sight. Faint sunlight filtered in through the shady trees casting a glow across all the happy hipster faces. And then I heard the sweet tunes of Foster the People (the real reason I came to this concert) and I was enchanted. If you have not pleasured your ears with their new album, Torches, get on that. Better yet, if you have not joined the Spotify user database, do that first. My obsession with this new application has made cubelife painless (well, almost). Ever since the Corporate Crackdown, the likes of Pandora and Grooveshark were rudely taken from me. So, Spotify.

Anyways, Foster the People, their cool, subdued sound brings you back to another era. The beats create a spark of energy through your body so that first you're tapping your foot, rolling the shoulders...and then BAM! You are full body concert dancing. The pleasure is all in the music. They are fabulous. Cut Copy, as always, are a solid act bordering on the techno genre. They are more of a mood band where as Foster the People, you can stick them in your pocket (i.e. ipod) and wander the city feeling enlightened by their sweet voices and cool notes. Into the night we danced, mouthed words we didn't know, and watched the sun glide into twilight and slip quietly into darkness....

My advice: for a summer twilight experience, go see a concert outdoors and let the music and the fresh air revive you from all those office AC freezers.

Grab Your Wii, Save the World

While lounging around on a lazy Sunday, flipping through my July issue of Elle Magazine, I came across an article that grabbed my attention. I am talking "I see new fall boots and chunky sweaters in my path" kind of attention, "Hunger Game trailer & Cast" kind of attention, and in this day in age, that's pretty legit attention. So when Jane McGonigal's profile was suddenly in my reading path (yes, I like to read magazines from front to back, no detail is spared on me) I sat up and really started reading. Note: Usually Fashion magazines are meant for perusing the latest looks, ripping out items to covet, and overall aesthetically please me - EXCEPT for Vanity Fair which I will argue always has great news stories that are truly informative (Plus, Little Gold Men Blog, what's not to love?). Anyways, I digress, let's talk about Jane's ridiculously amusing slash rather persuasive theory - "Gaming Can Make a Better World"

I kid you not - this woman is arguing that video games will ultimately teach gamers and therefore society how to overcome disastrous scenarios such as Hunger, Poverty, & Lack of Resources (check out her latest gaming feat 'World Without Oil'). Yes, the video games you watch your little brother playing endlessly engaged in some kind of epic war battle or all important football game, those are the games she is referring to. Video Games. Xbox, Wii, Playstation. These machines that have sucked the life out of boyfriends for hours and pimply teenagers in basements, they are going to save us all from our self destructive path in REAL life.

So what did I do mid article? Well I of course ran to my iPad, lightly touched my TED app, and immersed myself in her 15 minute speech about why this theory works. Why playing video games turns gamers into highly motivated, self confident, trusting individuals who make strategic decisions in confined environments. The more I listened, well, the more I believed.

But check it out yourself. Meanwhile, it's time for me to buy that Wii since it will eventually teach me the skills to survival in a world with dying resources. Jane McGonigal - I am a believer.

Book Club in the City

Book Club: Tuesday evening at Enoteca I Trulli in Gramercy. The wine begins to flow as our few members take their seat at the big wooden table, decorated with fresh focaccia bread and a bottle of Rose. After graduating from college, my friends and I found ourselves yearning for a bit of an academic experience. We all enjoy a great novel so why not read the same one and be able to discuss and debate literature over appetizers? Sounds like a great post grad plan to me. And so began our book club...

Our fourth book was Freedom by Jonathan Franzen and if you've read this book, I highly recommend the above link to an NPR interview with Franzen. The book, as well as the novel, as been hailed by many critics as "a masterpiece of modern post 9/11 literature". Written after the terrible attacks, it took Franzen 9 years to finish this novel and it is laced with the anger and grief of the after math. However, the anger is only one side and the character's personality pools are deep and dark, filled with their complete self. As my friends and I chatted about each of the main personalities, Walter, Patty, Richard, Joey, we found ourselves so invested in each on, almost as if we could argue their point of view in any situation. Franzen's character building is his literary gift.

When I began this book, my first read on my ipad (I just couldn't pay $30 for a hard cover edition when my ibooks offered a luring $12 price tag. I STILL prefer a real book to a screen.). Anyways, I was a little hesitant. I wasn't sure what to expect and the first fifty pages or so, I just allowed myself to be carried along, not thinking too much into the story. However, as it dove into the details of their everyday life and the emotion of love swooped in and tormented, captured, strangled, freed, and fulfilled the characters, you are left with a pessimistic view of love. Sadly, my friends all agreed that true love is never found among the pages. More of a compatible love, a picture of marriage as a working relationship, a "companionship" as one of my more skeptical friends described it. As we self-reflected on one of the most powerful human emotions, I was sad to hear that I out of every one at the table was the only one who strongly believes in true, everlasting love. Call me a hopeless romantic, I want my fairytale. And I've seen it happen before.

Franzen eloquently commented in his interview that this novel is a "microscopic narration of petty seeming emotional difficulties" yet it strikes a line between the reader and the weighty portraiture of fictional humans as we tend to recognize these traits in ourselves. Whether or not we will come to terms and admit this is another story. Another interesting facet of the novel are the strong political views of mostly Walter. With "FreeSpace" and the Warblers and the Mountain Top Trust Fund, Walter seems to be a man of passion and fierce devotion to nature and especially birds (the portrayal of domestic cats near the end is sadly true - and makes me despise the creatures, except of course for my clawless Bode - RIP). Even Joey gets caught in the tangles of political and economical forces, although money is his golden goose. The men in this book couldn't be more different, with Richards constantly tormented by his fame and recognition, and Walter struggling to love a depressive and unfaithful wife, and Joey chasing after money signs and carrying Connie along in the background. However they all carry a bit of anger and a sense of want, whether or not they can identify this want, is debatable. And then there is Patty. She narrates most of the book and her story is rather blackened by her upbringing and sadly, she is lost among the woods of middle class America. Patty, Patty, Patty, I have to shake my head in frustration. The woman just couldn't get a hold of things. Until.....

Just read the book.


In the end, I finished and was left feeling empty. A few of my friends were left with the same traces of emptiness. After diving so deep into the characters, their personalities and intricacies, and then to be left, thrown back into reality without these thick and evolving characters. We finished off the Rose, flushed and satisfied with ourselves for a true literary talk, and quickly moved on to our present social culture - Twitter, True Blood, Fire Island, & Fracking. Ah, 2011.

Sway Your Hair & Twirl

Since I am on the topic of art, I need to digress into one of my absolute favorite art forms: Music. Every since I was little and Reading Rainbow guitar sessions entered my world, I was hooked. I have to give a lot of credit to my Dad who loved his records more than anything - some dads have their lawn, some have their golf, mine had records and "Parkersonic" mixtapes. Saturday afternoons, especially during the frigid Massachusetts winters, he would put on his old records and my brother and I would dance around - but absolutely NO jumping (causing the record to skip). Even then I was a little trouble maker and would attempt a quiet jump without getting caught, stealing a glance at the record player, tempting it to try and skip.

As I got older and really began to have my own taste in music that, let's be honest, Top 40 hits became my world (I love you Brit Brit!!) but I also kept my ears in my dad's music world that contained gems such as Morcheeba and the Fun Loving Criminals (if you have never heard of them, GROOVESHARK and enjoy). There is nothing like a great song, the kind that sings to your soul and lifts your spirits - a kind of high that only a song can produce. Recently I have been hooked to "Skeleton Key" by Margot and the Nuclear So-and-So's (what a name) and really anything by Portugal.The Man. I finally saw Portugal in concert a few weeks ago at Webster hall and let me just say, it was soulful and euphoric; I fell in love. Again.

And then there was Governor's Ball. An island right off the tip of Manhattan, a 7 minute ferry ride away, Governor's Island is a bit of a ghost town. Still not sure what actually goes on out there....but on June 18, all the Brooklyn Hipsters and City Yuppies made their way in troves, drunk, stumbling, high, and rolling to engage in most of the most basic human activities: listening to music. It was beautiful. Honestly, out of all the negativity, depression, failings, and slumps going on in the world right now, it was absolutely heavenly to be there, sharing the experience. I won't get all hippy-dippy on you, but next time you're feeling blue, go see a concert. Let the music move you. And be free.

The Economy is Failing, The Art Market is Rising

Despite the floundering economy, the unemployment rate's continuous rise, and lack of leadership from DC on how to get out of this deep, dark 2012-is-almost-upon-us hole, it's refreshing to know that money is still being spent on important things: Art. Both Sotheby's and Christie's recent auctions raked in millions for the usual bread-and-butter artists including Picasso, Cezanne, and of course, Warhol. While the two auctions houses report record sales during their Post-Impressionist and Modernism auctions recently, it's sad to watch Museums and galleries floundering for funds. As member of the MoMA, I know it isn't cheap, but it's the least I can do to keep New York's art scene thriving. I think there is a direct correlation between the price of art rising (and being bought by eager bidders) and the diversity of creativity in the art world. Like many, I long for the golden ages of art movements such as Impressionism and Cubism and the Renaissance. Many art critics, such as those who attended the latest Art Basil show in Miami, felt the art work was lacking a sense of originality. As if each work was built out of a kernel of nostalgia for an artist's work. Sounds a bit Inception-y to me, but I believe it's true. Although I am not a huge fan of modern art, I think it's refreshing to be confronted with something unique and different. Which is why I must recommend "Francis Alÿs: A Story of Deception" at the MoMA. His unique sense of perception is quite uncanny - watching him kick around a large block of ice on the streets of Mexico until it melts into a puddle...well, it's almost frustrating. As in, what's the point? As you move through the exhibit, viewing similar projects, you suddenly hear this massive WHOOSH. And that's when you find Francis video taping himself running into mini tornadoes in the desert. And that's about the time I started to enjoy his odd sense of art. Then again, if you prefer the old art, scoot right out and fall into the vibrant and depressing German Expressionism show.

A Muted Social Scene

Last Sunday, slightly hungover, but eager to feel the sunshine after weeks of cold, bitter, almost but not quite over winter weather, I grabbed my friend on 57th and we made our way uptown to the monumental and imposing Metropolitan Museum of Art. The Met was showcasing a series of Cézanne masterpieces from the 1890s - the Card Players. These oil paintings were created on his family state in Aiz-en-Provence in the South of France. Now, I must admit I never made it to 'Aix' as us American abroaders like to say, but I did get down to Nice. And the thought of being able to languidly paint while overlooking the sun burnt fields, wind blowing softly through the trees, and the sounds of the city nonexistent, well, I curse my non-artistic genes. Cézanne's works were displayed in a room to the right, nothing fancy, and plainly lit. Yet, when you walk into the space, his works are like muted gems, glowing and alluring like gems among the sand. The half finished look along with the muted colors, slight imbalances, and his real life labor workers' as models, made the whole thing seem like a rather casual undertaking. Yet, upon closer look, you are hit with a gust of that warm southern breeze, speaking in French tones of tavern occupancies, such as card playing and smoking. As my friend and I chatted admiringly about the works, but a little unsure of why we were so enamored with the colors and subjects, we found ourselves conducting a mini seminar, for the personal luxury of art talk among a master.

Leaving the exhibition and hitting the gusty spring New York city winds, I felt as if I had just visited the countryside. And I yearned to be back in his comforting scenes.

The next night, at an intimate viewing at the MoMA, I visited another master of the arts - Pablo Picasso. This time, instead of oil paints and sketches, I wandered among a different medium - that of collage, and more specifically, Picasso's paper and sheet metal guitars. Now with this crowd, conducting nerdy art convos in front of the canvas would have been out of line. So instead I mingled and sipped sparkling water with the other members, entertained by a business man (of sorts) who traveled to Europe a lot, and wore a bright pink shirt and his nose high in the air. His interest in art I am still figuring out. Another group of well dressed young women welcomed me into their chatty circle, where talks of Chanel brocades and Burberry scarves ensued. Typical. Then again, I had purposely changed out of my work clothes (I despise them, I'm sorry Jcrew/Banana Republic/Ann Taylor, and I don't have the funds for you Theory/Vince, but still, no thanks) so I was more of a casual viewer. I will thank my Burberry linen scarf for the invitation to that circle.
After a brief curatorial explanation by a slight, blond woman - whom apparently caught the eye of a few men in the crowd - we were left to wander among Picasso's silent and fragile guitars made between 1912-1914. These delicate creations, made of paper, string, sheet metal and wire, reassembled thoughts of sculpture. They were supplemented with other paper collages that used sand or Le Journal clippings or free hand drawing along with some photographs. Picasso was surely a man of many talents and this small, but important, exhibition speaks to his mixed medium messages. I wandered alone after the curatorial talk, soaking up the rough and bland colored framed pieces. However, being an admirer of Picasso, these certainly weren't my favorite works, but his guitars brought out a subtle silence that stirs conversation. And only a genius of his stature could conjure up a muted oxymoron.

The Graphic Impulse

Slightly tipsy and flushing with excitement, I wandered into eyesight of an Ernst Kirncher painting so vibrant and so full of life, I literally lost my ability to breathe for half a second. His paint strokes bring life to the canvas itself, not necessarily the subjects, and force the viewer into a kind of color shock frenzy. The objects are carved out by an outline of color that seems to cut the figures into flat paper dolls.

Welcome to “The Graphic Impulse”, the MoMA’s latest spectacle of the German Expressionist Artists. Last night, as a newly joined JA Member, I attended my first event: a preview of this exhibition complete with candlelit cocktail bars and Manhattan’s artsy and social crowd. Upon entering the grand atrium of the MoMA, I was completely overwhelmed by the swarms of people, mingling, drinking, talking, and perusing below a large Andy Warhol teal and black Flower print. I was smitten.

We grabbed drinks at the teeming bar, shouldering with a diverse and eclectic crowd, making our way to a large square cushion to rest after a run through the hail – yes, it was hailing in NYC in March. It was superbly unamusing. While a classy looking DJ played a mix of cool jazz and a dim red light cast over us, I let my people watching skills go to work. Spotting a Girl Interrupted character look-alike, a frizzy haired artsy type, and the sharp, socialite types, I let my sidelong stare (a la GG) capture the moment.

Finally, we made our way up to the 6^th floor, sans drinks, and began our tour of the vibrant and unique German Expressionist works on display. There was a clear theme of urban experience and a preoccupation with the female, or more specifically, the prostitute. What's more urban than that? I lived near the Place de Clichey in Paris, I get it. The rooms really captured a wide variety of artists: Erich Heckel, August Macke, Oskar Kokoschka, Emil Nolde, and one fabulous Kandinsky. Being partial to Kandinsky, I really stalled in front of the “Picture with an Archer” (much to the annoyance of those faster art goers) and allowed myself to be swept away in the breathing color palette. Kandinsky was part of the Blue Rider group in Munich, which spoke to his popular depiction of horse & rider, which represented a movement beyond realistic representation and into the flurry of the abstract world.

Germany was the epicenter of Expressionism, starting at the beginning of the 20^th century, where artists sought the meaning of "being alive" and the emotional experience, ignoring reality. Groups such as Der Blaue Reiter and Die Brücke (meaning Bridge) were influenced by a wide variety of sources including Van Gogh (how can you NOT be influenced by this guy), Munch, and African Art, creating a vast and unique artistic story among the many canvases involved with this movement.

As I perused the selections, some of the works really grabbed me, like an invisible sun pulling me into an orbit of color, emotional angst, and general beauty. A few of my favorites:

Emil Nolde’s “Young Couple” brought out an unspoken tension between the sexes that prickled in the air.

Needless to say, not only did I fall in love all over again with this museum (drinking among the greatest talent tends to produce a euphoric affect), I highly recommend all you city girls make your way, post-brunch of course, and get your cultural fix for the weekend.