I can do this! Sort of. 

Central Park: seals on a rock?  

In the afternoon I stopped by the Frick Museum. Now THAT was a real place of escape for me when I was fewer than half my current years. Back in the early seventies, I’d take a notebook, scoot over to the Frick cloister, sit on a stone bench and write (amidst artwork that I occasionally looked at).

Today I did not write. I’m not even sure I still know how, given my addiction to the keyboard. And I am certain there’s no wireless at the Frick. They don’t even permit flashless photos let alone machines that don’t fit in your pocket.

But I did spend some time in front of a painting that I’d always felt perversely *proud* of: the Polish Rider by Rembrandt. Yes, it pained me when, not too long ago, critics claimed it could not have been done by the great master. But now I hear we’re back on track: that gorgeous Slavic face was almost certainly painted by Rembrandt. And what beyond the face may be attributed to Rembrandt? No one knows for sure. At the Frick, they tell you that the canvas is among the most beloved in the collection, possibly because of the aura of mystery that exists about it. It is a simple painting and it is surrounded by tremendous canvases done by Bellini, El Greco, Renoir, Titian Gainsborough, Degas, Millet, Constable, Vermeer, and more. All good, all wonderful, but none depicting those classic features of a face that belongs to people from my neck of the woods. Brushed onto a canvas by a seventeenth century master. Maybe. Almost for sure.

Rembrandt? the face for sure; probably not the skeletal horse. 

A frog for the mantle

Poland is currently in the midst of its biggest international film festival, celebrating notable achievements in cinematography (read about it in Polish here; I can't help it if the NYT chose to stay away). It may be the most passed-over film festival of all time and yet it is, I think, an intriguing event. It includes workshops and screenings, where directors, cinematographers, actresses and actors view movies together and engage in discussions on film production. Is it geared toward students of film? To an extent. But this weekend you'll also find the likes of Oliver Stone and Charlize Theron in Lodz -- the city hosting the Festival. Unfortunately, Lodz is no Cannes or Venice (perhaps for this reason, Stone had to be coaxed and cajoled into making an appearance). Is this reason enough to avoid broadcasting the awards ceremony where cinematographers receive gold, silver and bronze frogs (yes, frogs -- it works in Polish) for their work? An Oscar from Hollywood, a Frog from Lodz -- it should be every filmmaker's dream. For the record: Ocean applauds the ceremony and offers full support for Polish frogs.

New York is a collage and I am in the middle of it

I would never say that NY is a city of bright colors. (Neither is Warsaw – let’s be truthful here.)
But during a holiday season all cities stray toward the pink and red and gold. Suddenly I have flashes of eternally beautiful brightness everywhere around me.

I was lured into taking a walk across town past all the top department store window displays. A NYorker will tell you that this is a big thing: lines form to check the Lord &Taylor or Saks windows. Add to it Bergdorf’s and Bloomingdale’s and you’ll have a nice quartet, displaying (often, but not always) quite the creative flights of fancy.

Window glare and sidewalks teeming with people make photography nearly impossible. But sometimes the glare-related double-imaging works to your advantage. Could it not be that Santa (courtesy of Saks) is navigating his sleigh in and around Rockefeller Plaza?

in the realm of the fantastic 

gold and glitter over a sea of people 

Lord & Taylor has the moving characters – playful, so playful; I especially like this one girl because she is holding that airplane with an exuberance and joy that is fitting for someone who associates planes with flights of imagination and adventure. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but she appears thrilled with her dreams and games…

up, up and away 

My closing shot is of the cursing chestnut guy who did NOT want me to shoot pictures. At least not after the first handful. Too many! He told me. Too many! Does he not know that it takes at least five bad ones to come up with one that is decent enough to post?

a lightbulb over chestnuts 

Choices

You’re in New York. You have 48 hours left in the city. The air is crisp, the skies are blue, the day is young. Anyone in his or her right mind would be on a subway zipping to some far corner of Manhattan to check out a gallery, or a place for brunch. Not me. I need to write something first. Insane? No, I have developed a blogger’s conscience.

New York can wait. Bright days are laughable anyway: they impose too much pressure on you to Take Full Advantage of them. I’ll wait ‘til the shadows settle in on the city. A comfortably oppressive darkness is far more consistent with what I expect from this place. In the meantime, the computer is open, the connection is good, I can read and write.

They're talking about her over in Britain

Ann Althouse and I began blogging about the same time (I beat her to it by a handful of days). We’ve each developed our own styles and we cling to our interests and slants sometimes with a fury. But I have said this before: Ann is a gracious blogger and she always shares in her tremendous success. While Ocean has remained small, almost flaunting its ridiculously expansive name, Althouse has grown and prospered (I don’t know if Ann herself has prospered yet, but her blog is bringing in readers by the thousands and so it’s only a matter of time, I’m sure, before you’ll see corporate giants vying for ad space in her margins). Today she is profiled over across the ocean, the real ocean. Here, I just want to add my own wee little congrats …and thanks. I’ll sign off with a photo of a corner of a MoMA painting.

finding the familiar in one small corner of a large canvas 

Out and about

The nice thing about living in a city is that on any major holiday or special events day, many will choose to go outside rather than sequester themselves inside their homes for the course of the day.

…So that rather than facing empty streets, you can always encounter crowds enjoying a walk in the park, or along any of the avenues. True, today’s temps (in the mid sixties) may have played a role in the push to be outside, but I think that even if it were below freezing, there would always be those who need to go out and pace for a minute or two, making the streets forever pleasantly crowded.

There are good reasons to stay indoors on a November late-afternoon, but there are also good reasons to go outside...

Let's hang out on fifth and do some people-watching 

A threatening day turns mild 

Taking to the streets 

After the high-brow comes the low-brow

In the late misty (try rainy) evening, I went with a two enthusiasts to watch Macy’s prepare the giant balloons for tomorrow’s parade. Forget mustering up excitement for the march down Central Park West on Thanksgiving Day – it’s all in the process of getting the show up and running.

Start with good instructions. And then, turn on the hot air. These may be the only characters in the world who are adored for the blast of air that makes them rise to the top of the world. Or at least to the top of CPW, and eventually Broadway.

You don't know how to blow up Ronald? You start with the head... 

Are we talking about balloons or politics? This guy got in front of my camera and ruined the balloon photo. Can I sue? I don't know, he's the mayor of NY, he may have connections...

Kermit, still groggy after a year in seclusion 

The foot, the worker trying to make it even bigger, and the sponsor 

A fifty-third street rhapsody, part 2

Too much! It is, indeed, too much!

The new MoMA is overwhelming! It is a combination of Getty and d’Orsay and who knows what else. Matisse, Miro, Magritte, Hopper, Dali, Klee, Pollock, O’Keefe, Monet, Warhol, Gaugin, Van Gogh, Rodin, Picasso – stop! Stop already! This concentration of magnificent art, all under one roof, just cannot be.

My immediate reaction? I think there are more Picasso paintings here than the man could ever have possibly painted.

I bought tickets for MoMA ahead of time. The Museum just reopened this week after years of renovation. I was sure there would be crowds. There were. They stood in line, I did not.

The space, take a look at the space: from how many angles can you catch the Waterlillies?

Alright, no more words, let me run through my photos – be prepared! I can’t cut out too many, it was a fantastic visit!

On the very top floor you can check out special exhibits, such as this one... 

But there are many levels. And they intersect in wondrous ways.

The crowds naturally congregate around the Starry Night 

Maybe if one looks at Matisse from this angle...

And what do you make of the Demoiselles d'Avignon? Hey dude... I've no idea... 

A professorial type will always read the notes and then stare endlessly at the painting... 

The Broken Obelisk and the perfect Waterlillies 

Dear little one, we're in a museum... see the color red? It's a painting... 

Over the river…

Holiday food shopping at Grace’s (of Balducci fame): $2.59 for a small bunch of parsley? – I say under my breath. What? – asks a curious rich thing next to me. Oh, nothing, I’m just remarking at the cost of parsley. It’s only $2.59 today, she responds reassuringly.

tight aisles, stuffed shelves, pushy shoppers, great food 

Why not go to the flagship Whole Foods on Columbus Circle? As of Sunday, the wait in line was estimated at an hour minimum.

On the way home, carrying the loaded bags of food for the next days, I am persuaded by two shopping companions to buy another holiday item: a small tree for the NY apartment. Which one? The cheapest, a real loser. The sales guy smiles and tells me : “Charlie Brown ain’t got nothin’ on this one!”

New York: a fifty-third street rhapsody, part 1

Destination for today: west 53rd street. I have such fond memories of west 53rd street. Between the ages of 10 and 13 it was probably the most frequented by me block in the entire city (apart from my home on east 46th and my school on east 70th). When I was not acting cool and walking with my transistor radio through Central Park, I was on west 53rd, spending hours there, mesmerized by the offerings.

A reader, thinking her(him)self to be a savvy New Yroker, is likely to be nodding in agreement (and at my precocity). Yeah -- that Museum of Modern Art is fantastic, isn't it?

In truth, I hardly ever went to MoMA. My place of worship and wonder was the building across the street: a branch of the NY Public Library.

I read every teen voulme on the shelves. It got to the point that the librarian would see me coming and look the other way, knowing that I would be disappointed to find nothing that I hadn't already digested, many times over. Precocious indeed -- in reading teen trash.

Once a Clark Kent, always a Clark Kent

The plane lands, I make my way to the phone booth for the great transformation. Goodbye sweet demeanor, hello metal-twisting, people-punching ms. fast-mouth, pushing her way to the front of the line.

Well, not exactly. First, what's this about a "sweet demeanor?" Not too long ago I was at a restaurant in Madison where my eating companion and I engaged in a joke before a poor, gullible waitress (I didn't start it, I swear!). When she found out that it was a tease, she displayed such hurt and bewilderment that we left with tails between legs, each blaming the other for being the meaner of the two. My only regret? That we didn't fully pull it off. Not too sweet, is it?

As for the metal-twisting, people punching bit-- not true either. When I land at La Guardia I am flooded with such effervescence that the immediate recipients of this ebullience, the cabbies, wish I would just shut up and stare at the decay around me. There's nothing worse than a chippper passenger straight off a flight from the Midwest to make 'em want to slam that little Plexiglas window between the front and the back-seat rider. With a bang.

What I like about being in New York though is this: no one stands out. Everyone is as weird as the next. If I limped along with a reptile wrapped around my neck no one would even notice. Complete anonymity in small doses is a good thing.