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.