Red Okra

Okra sure does have pretty flowers, pretty enough to paint. The vegetable? Well that has been a journey. I first tasted it as part of a school lunch, where it rated right up there with soggy spinach. Blech! Then I tasted fried okra, not bad but not exactly healthy. Okra in a gumbo? A definite improvement. I only ever knew of green okra, but then Kevin took a picture of an okra flower in Pennsylvania, posted it, and I got curious. Okra is related to hibiscus and cotton, full of essential minerals and antioxidants and comes in several varieties, including a red one, or burgundy or purple depending on how you see it. The almost dagger-like fruit looks primitive, dangerous and very questionably edible. The plants look like they could be part of a barricade. But the flowers are gorgeous! This acrylic painting was born from all the contrasts.

Picking Blueberries

Nearing the end of July, I go out to pick blueberries in the front yard. It is not hot yet, but so humid that my glasses fog up immediately. Within minutes I am pouring sweat. Not my favorite time of year here in the South, but I have muffins to bake.

As I pick, memories flood back of summers spent in New Hampshire. First with Aunt Mary and Uncle Len; I would go with her to a U Pick place and we would pick enough blueberries for pies and muffins. For me this was an exotic trip as we had no such thing back home in Atlanta. Those were some good memories with Aunt Mary and she sent me a lovely book after Eamon was born called “Blueberries for Sal" which became standard bedtime reading for both he and Olivia. Later I would come back as a camp counselor at Camp Merrowvista. So many great memories of that place from the three summers I spent there. The younger campers looked forward with anticipation to hiking to the rocky ledges of a nearby mountain and picking blueberries from the scrubby bushes that grew there. Though some were , of course, eaten on the spot, we saved most for the blueberry ice cream we would make that night. Each tent group had one night a week scheduled for this. After dinner several campers would go off to the kitchen to retrieve the old fashioned crank ice cream maker, salt, ice and vanilla mix. With many hands to crank the churn, we added the blueberries and in almost no time had a delicious dessert! I can almost taste it! The ice cream never reached a complete freeze but it was sticky, sloppy fun and the everpresent mosquitoes loved us afterward. It was a camp tradition, and as the campers grew older and spent most of their time gone on strenuous trips, it was always something to look forward to and rarely skipped, even by the oldest girls.

We have five blueberry bushes in our yard and they are full of ripening berries. I have a new recipe for muffins that calls for sour cream. It is Kevin approved and I'm sure the kids will like it too. Despite the heat and sweat, I enjoyed this morning's picking and the memories it brought back.

Redfin

https/www.redfin.com/blog/ways-to-create-a-more-peaceful-home/

So glad to be able to collaborate with Redfin, they have so many ideas for adding tasteful touches to your home!

Night Fisherman

Lately I have been into doing contemporary art and feel myself developing my own distinct style more and more. This has been years in coming and influenced strongly by the women artists who I read about in Ninth St. Women by Mary Gabriel. Lee Krasner, Elaine De Kooning, Grace Hartigan, Joan Mitchell and Helen Frankenthaler were the post war contemporaries of male artists like Jackson Pollock and Willem De Kooning, who never really got what they were due as artists in their own right. Stories about the male artists always pictured them as not much more than helpmeets who were drawn into often dramatic lives of their artist mates.

The undercurrent message was and, to my amazement in 2021, still can be that women can't paint. Supposedly our lives are so dominated by housework and jobs and children that we can't muster the all encompassing devotion necessary to be a “true" artist. This is, of course, horseshit. But it it is still trumpeted by the likes of Georg Baselitz, who is famous for painting people upside down. He is entitled to his perspective, of course, but it could be part of the problem.

Add Some Color

When I was fifteen, I painted my bedroom taxicab yellow and painted geometric designs on my shades using a similar palate to the one below. That was my nest, my refuge and I loved it. Though the years have somewhat tempered my love of intense color, every once in a while it still flares and inspired the painting below, “Placental Accomodations”.

With the pandemic being reasonably corralled around here, I am ready for some unbridled joy. I see it in everyone I meet. The smiles, the relief, the visible relaxation. Things will never be the same again, imprinted as we now are with the politics of the last four years, the nearly 600,000 deaths from Covid and our continued challenges, but we are now at last able to move forward, breathing more easily. So grab some color, be some color and put it out there!

Picasso at The Frist

In spite of his misogyny, Picasso has always fascinated me. I love his boldness, his use of color, his departure from the every day way of looking at things. Put a breast on a back, distort the ice cream on top of a cone into a triangle, make a foot come out of a head; all with a genius balance that captures attention.

Kevin and I decided to make a quick trip to Nashville this past week to see the exhibit before it closes early in May. Pandemic precautions are still in use and we have each had one shot, which made us feel a bit safer. Entry is timed and the exhibit, which is quite large, well attended. The old downtown post office was remodeled to make the Frist Museum and I can remember using the post office a few times back in 1985 when I first moved to the city. The building has beautiful old marble and art deco fittings, black and silver.

Woman in Beret and Checked Dress

It can be hard to come to terms with your favorite artist, writer, musician or actor being an asshole of a human being. Their works take your breath away, make your mind sail, bring you to tears and yet you find out that they liked to kick their dogs. Or worse. To say that Picasso had a complicated relationship with women is like asking if the Pope is Catholic.

The Supplicant

This painting of a woman is full of anger but still intriguing. Her mouth snarls, her teeth are animal-like. Her nails are manicured but claw-like. Her breast hangs out of her dress as if she wants to be suckled, but given the ugly pacifier of a nipple he has painted for her, he is obviously finished with her, no longer attracted. To top things off he appears to have painted her anus on her chin. I could paint an ugly picture of the worst of my exes but I wouldn't dare. Picasso dared.

Many of the paintings are sexual in nature, like Figure at the Seaside.

Some of the others are less provocative in nature. All of them make for a stellar exhibit which I would highly recommend. I may not “love” Picasso but his art is something I can't stop looking at and I am sure that is exactly what he wanted.

Hopeful Times

I don't think I have ever been so happy to see spring come! After weeks of cold wetness, blue skies and sunshine erupted yesterday and are back again today. Lucy and I went to Seven Islands Wildlife Sanctuary yesterday. Many people were there, many families, many with their dogs, all smiles. The wetlands area near the river was filled to the brim with frogs, an orgy of croaking, almost deafening. Up on the ridge, completely in the open, was a herd of deer.

Lucy on the bridge over the Pigeon River

The deer are well camouflaged so enlarge and look closely.

“Never yet was a springtime when the buds forgot to bloom.”

— Margaret Elizabeth Sangster

Come November : A Story Comes With This Painting

I brought “Come November” home from the Member's Exhibit at the Emporium today. In the last year I have turned more to watercolors for expression. As I traveled twice to the Georgia Coast, I found them to be easier to pack and not as messy as I was staying with family. Sometimes you have to be practical.

2020 was such a worrisome year. Come November is born out of that worry. A road unknown and untraveled, rough, full of pitfalls. So many of the roads I traveled as a nurse this past summer were like that. So many of the roads I traveled emotionally last year were like that. And our country stood at a crossroads the likes of which we had never seen before, culminating in the November election.

So I abstracted a road. You can't see around the curve. Would there be Covid, job loss, a loss of life? Another four years of Trump? The greenery is kudzu, poison ivy, poison oak. The dirt is red. With blood? Is the blackness doom or a snake? The viewer gets to decide.

Peonies in Delft Vase

I have kind of a thing for the Netherlands. My one visit to Amsterdam via Calantskoog was not nearly enough. I hope I get to return there and do some more exploring.

Back At It

Last day of January 2021. What a year! What a 2020! What keeps hope alive? Another gray, cold day. Rain and snow in the forecast. Trying to get motivated and stay motivated.

I don't feel I have spent this time well. I should have learned another language by now or a least perfected my French. Should have painted a masterpiece. Should have regained my girlish figure. On and on we go.

Yet every time I leave the house I wonder is this the day I get infected. I am at a low level of anxiety all the time. That and boredom. This has gone on so long and new strains threaten us. There isn't enough vaccine. Things like that tend to suck the life out of creativity. I should cut myself some slack.

I remind myself of what is positive. I didn't go through with the divorce. I have a solid roof over my head. Rather than being angry with each other in isolation, Kevin and I are getting along. Our children are doing well. We got to spend Christmas together. I had work and some adventures last year. My candidates won. It hasn't all been bad.

So I get up every day , drink coffee, get something to eat. Put on woolly socks. Let the dog in and out. Check the local Covid report from the health department. Try to plan something good for dinner. Walk and go to yoga when I can. And on we go into February.

March First Friday 2019

This was my 3rd show at the Emporium in Knoxville, TN. I’d spent the last 8 months getting ready and with a last minute rush (and a lot of wiring and schlepping help from Kevin) was able to put up 13 pieces. One, the Daffodil, has already sold. There was interest as well in several other pieces. I have finally gotten my act together and have both business cards and this website, so was able to send interested folks away with a means to get in touch with me. The Emporium has become a very popular venue, so traffic was great- this is definitely one of the places to be on a Friday night! The Tennessee Theatre and downtown movie theatre, as well as Market Square are within walking distance. Many good restaurants and shops to check out , too. A family favorite is Babalu. We also like Cru and Emilia, though I have yet to have a bad meal in any of the restaurants we have been to in the area. My art is in the Atrium and will stay up thru March with the gallery open Monday to Friday 9am to 5 pm. Come check it out!

Spring Flowers on the right and my New York City Q train folks on the left.

Brushy Mountain

Several years back I used to drive to the hinterlands of Morgan County, TN to care for patients at a nursing home there. The county seat, Wartburg, is a very small town and one of the first things I noticed driving through it were some inmates working at a garage. Rather than wearing the typical orange jumpsuits common in Knoxville, these prisoners were clad in STRIPES, black and white caps, pants and tops, just like in cartoons and old movies. I was taken aback by this but soon found out that prison is one of the main employers in Morgan County. Many of my co-workers at the nursing home had spouses and family employed at the regional medium security prison. I had heard years earlier of Brushy Mountain Prison, famous for housing James Earl Ray, which was in nearby Petros, TN; I passed the road to Petros every time I drove to work. The ancient prison had been closed in favor of the modern new facility and sat empty.

Fast forward a few years and some enterprising developers decided to turn the old prison into a museum, moonshine distillery and cafe. This sounded absolutely crazy to me at the time, but it has been surprisingly successful.

After many months of saying “we should go check it out”, we finally decided on a day, October 30th, 2018. I wondered if the local dead moonshiners weren’t turning over in their graves at the thought of moonshine being made at a prison…

It was kind of a cool day with a beautiful clear blue sky when we took off. We drove through Oak Ridge, then Oliver Springs before turning up a sizeable hill onto the Cumberland Plateau. Not much had changed since I was there last, the land largely empty but dotted here and there with modest houses and trailers, the occasional gas station, mom and pop restaurant, abandoned old buildings. Autumn was late this year so the leaves were just beginning to turn color.

When we turned onto the road to Petros, we came to a small village of houses. Halloween decorations were up, small bikes and trikes were scattered in yards; this was where the prison workers lived with their families. Driving around another bend, we came to the prison. A large ridge of mountain was it’s backdrop, and when we parked and got out of the car, we could feel a cool wind blowing down from the summit.

We went inside the reception area to get tickets and found the moonshine bar, cafe and gift shop. A line was already starting for lunch, so we went ahead and got in it. The food was decent; burgers and barbecue freshly prepared, and they even served beer. We skipped the moonshine bar altogether since it was the middle of the day and I don’t even like moonshine. They had all of the very popular flavors like cinnamon, apple pie, butterscotch, cherry, etc., all made there onsite, but it just is not my cup of tea.

We made our way over to the prison itself and went in for a self guided tour. The entryway was dark , cold, narrow and tunnel-like, immediately oppressive. I had only been inside jails twice before for work related issues, never because I was in trouble, and this was creepy. We followed arrows on the floor to a dark , windowless room where a film was being shown on the history of the prison. It was interesting but also horrific, some of the crimes committed by the inmates were described and were stomach turning. Brushy Mountain had been built from the start to be maximum security, for the “worst of the worst” back in the later 1800’s. Inmates built the original wooden structure, and then the brick and the structures made of locally mined stone that still stand. The inmates also mined coal on the property, a dangerous and dirty occupation for anyone but multiplied in spades for them since the authorities likely paid little attention to their safety.

Some adjoining rooms were devoted to prison culture. There were exhibits of shivs, handmade weapons, even parts of handmade guns that had been confiscated. Prisoners used to make knives out of the metal supports under their mattresses using guitar strings to carve them out. A lot of drugs were also smuggled into the prison and distributed through the pipes and sewer lines. Of course all these things had to be hidden from the guards, so there was also an exhibit of the ingenious ways implements and drugs were cloaked. Inmate art was displayed on the walls of the room, some of it showing remarkable talent.

Former guards and prison workers are employed to help show the visitors around. Kevin, being Kevin and inclined to talk to anyone, started up a conversation with one of the old guards. This led to us being invited to join a small tour group through the prison by the guard. I really wish I could remember the man’s name because he had a wealth of knowledge and was an excellent storyteller.

A native of Petros, he had started working at the prison right out of high school. He knew many of the inmates well and was also witness to a lot of very bloody violence. When some of the inmates backed up the plumbing in one of the buildings, he still had to deliver food and look after them when they proceeded to live in their own waste and excrement. He said it was indescribably bad. The inmates finally ended the standoff by agreeing to clean up the mess after several weeks.

Another aspect to Brushy Mountain is that it is haunted. We heard a brief clinking of chains and some voices on the floor below us while there, and there have been so many reports of paranormal incidents that it is now possible to book a night time paranormal tour of the place. I do not plan to go.

We had an fascinating trip to Brushy but I am unlikely to go back. If you are in the vicinity of Knoxville and have some time, I think it is worth the trip. The look back at history and a dismal and unfortunate culture should make us all grateful for our blessings.

Back to Atlanta

The last couple of weeks in Knoxville have been cold, rainy and dreary. We are preparing for Christmas and awaiting Olivia’s arrival from Haiti for a visit. Rather than ask Santa for more “things”, I decided another excursion was in order. After my NYC trip, I got curious about what was on display at the High Museum in Atlanta, a much closer option. “Infinity Mirrors” by Yayoi Kusama, a Japanese artist, was showing. Now I had never heard of this artist before, but it turns out she was very cutting edge back in the 60’s and 70’s and is still active in her 90’s(so inspiring!).

Getting a ticket was not so easy, but I finally scored one on Ebay. It was for 6:30 pm on a Thursday evening, which was a bit awkward, so I tried to find a place to stay for the night in Midtown. The Artmore Hotel was right behind the museum on West Peachtree, not too pricey and very comfortable. I decided to round out the trip with a lunch date out in John’s Creek with Holly Ozsan and her friend, Rick, before returning home the next day.

Driving in Atlanta is not for the faint-hearted. I frankly dread it. It takes something special to get me to go. Art show, theatre, music? That will do it. Visit with friends? That too. Add on a trip to the Dekalb Farmer’s Market and watch me pack!

Google Maps came in handy again and I found the Artmore Hotel with relative ease. It is dwarfed by the buildings surrounding it, Spanish Stucco and looks like it was once an apartment building. I am glad they have preserved it! I stashed my car with valet parking, checked in and stretched out for awhile. Around 5:30 I changed from my usual jeans and sweatshirt into black pants, a velour tunic and suede booties. I even put on a bit of make-up! Had a Cosmopolitan and some goldfish crackers in the hotel lobby, put on my winter coat and headed across the street for the short walk up to the museum.

Folks were already lining up for the exhibit and we had a while to wait, so I did some people watching. I was glad I had made the effort “to dress” because most everyone else had, too. An artsy crowd for sure! Lots of boots, some seriously fancy and seriously high heels, furry and feathered hats, elegant hairdos, red lipstick and retro eyeglass frames. Sequined dresses, short skirts and men looking dapper in suits, vests and caps.

There were 5 “stations” in the exhibit which you had to stand in line to wait for. You and 2 other people were let into the rooms for 30 seconds with the doors closed while you experienced the exhibit. All had mirrors, so your image surrounded by the art was reflected back to you. One had hanging strobe lights, another star-like lights that seemed to go on forever. Outside in the common areas were paintings and sculptures by the artist, some in paper mache, some in cloth. Kusama favors primary, cheerful colors.

Yayoi Kusama loves dots, dreamed of dots, hallucinated dots. She was also obsessed with penises (yes, I said the word penis) because they frightened her. As a child, her mother forced Yayoi to spy on her philandering father having intercourse with his various girlfriends. She would attempt to address the resulting fears by stuffing penis shaped pieces of cloth and adorning chairs and canvases with them, hoping to rid herself of the problem. She also uses a lot of tentacle shapes, shapes of microbes and gourd shapes. These are usually covered in precise patterns of dots.

The last two stations featured one area with enormous floating balloons that were covered with more dots. The last room, “Obliteration” allowed you to cover the white walls and furniture with more colorful dots before you exit.

Intriguing canvases and paper mache sculptures!

Microbes, bright colors and lots of dots!

The penis shape covered chairs and canvases.

Me reflected in the middle of a sea of guess what?

Cloth covered tentacles with dot patterns- I really liked this one!

The “Obliteration Room”

After the exhibit, I wandered out to Peachtree Street and saw these beautiful, light-wrapped trees. Across the street in Colony Square, I had a great supper of shrimp and grits at 5 Church: many were out celebrating and the restaurant featured both a Christmas tree and a menorah.

The next morning I woke up to rain. I drove out to the Dekalb Farmer’s Market by 10 o’clock, again using Google Maps. It is an enormous market and feeds a lot of people. Many immigrants shop there (and also work there). It used to be a regular destination for me to get products I could not easily find in Knoxville, but that has changed over the years. I found a big bunch of dill to share with my mother, a slab of onion foccacia to share with Kevin and duck breasts that I am going to cook later this week.

My last stop was with Holly Ozsan and her friend Rick. We had a very relaxing, almost 2 hour lunch and great conversation! Until next time, Atlanta!

Sixty, Clothed and Unafraid in New York City

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My visit to New York City in September 2018 was soul satisfying when I needed it the most. I had to have a break after losing my job in July, something to help me start building a new life and get some self confidence back after getting knocked down so brutally. The city is, after all, my birthplace, though relatively few people in my life know that. I have lived the major portion of my life in the South but made trips back to New York as a child, teen and adult. I have always loved the energy, the buzz, the soul of the place! Yes , and strangely, the grime, too.

I was born during a blizzard in February, 1958, at the French Hospital on Manhattan, Mother transported by limousine because the roads were so bad. The building is located in Chelsea and is now an apartment house. I first went home to an apartment in Brooklyn near Prospect Park and before I turned two, my parents, sick of winter weather, congestion and New York accents, moved us to South Florida. What was left of my mother’s family stayed around New York, though there were visits back and forth every year.

I remember a visit to Brooklyn when I was about 5, staying with my mother at the apartment of a cousin in Greenpoint. Stefan was a bachelor and lived several floors up, no elevator. His open windows fronted on the street. What great fun it was to people watch from those windows! So different from our Florida home (single story, mango tree and swing set in the backyard)! Of course, as I was watching, others were watching from their windows, too- men in their undershirts, grandmas in printed house dresses with flabby underarms. Colorful laundry hung from lines strung between the buildings. There was talking, singing, arguing in the street,yelling from windows, kids riding bikes, playing ball, cars fighting for parking spots, honking, sirens. The smells of meals cooking wafting from the windows- garlic , cabbage, meat, strange spices!

Out on the street, Uncle Stefan would take me to taste my first fruity Italian ices or we would pop into a corner market for more milk and I would marvel at the narrow aisles and stacks and piles of everything from fresh vegetables to dry goods and the smells of nearby butchers, bakeries(my child eyes had never seen such assortments of cakes, pastries and cookies!) and stinky fish shops. We shopped at Publix once a week at home, wide aisles, big shopping carts and perfect hygiene.

So we come to my latest trip. Kindly invited by Emily, who is the mother of my great-niece Isabel, to stay at her apartment in Flatbush, Brooklyn many times, I finally decided to take her up on it. Found a fairly cheap midweek flight from Knoxville to La Guardia, packed one bag and my small backpack and off I went. Trepidation? Honestly, yes. I had found the subways and buses very intimidating on previous trips, almost to the point of being paralyzing. Last visit I walked myself to the point of serious foot pain that lasted long after I got home, all because of that confusing subway. I could have just said, “No more New York for me!”, but could not stay away. I fretted over which shoes to take and finally used an old pair of Merrell’s I had worn in Europe and bought some new Doc Marten’s canvas oxfords to alternate with.

Two innovations changed this trip, Uber and Google Maps. I had learned to use Uber on a trip to Oklahoma City earlier this year, so activating it to get a ride from the airport was easy. 40 minutes or so later, I was at the door to Emily’s building. I called her superintendent, John, who kindly let me in to the apartment. I met Pippi , a lovely blue-green eyed cat, who was rather confused about my identity but friendly. Found keys and instructions on how to get to the subway. Lunch I bought at a fragrant local Indian restaurant, Ayurvedic Plate: curried chicken, eggplant and spinach, fresh tandoor bread brushed with garlic butter- a very tasty first meal and not my last there.

On to my nemesis the subway! Emily had given me great directions to the Brooklyn Museum but I also plugged into Google Maps so I could learn to use it. The subway station, a rather dilapidated Art Deco style structure, was only a half block from the restaurant. I bought a seven day pass from a machine and descended in the direction of Manhattan. Waiting for the train has always been exciting for me, tinged with adventure, kind of like a dog going on a car ride. Looking down the tunnel for the light, listening for the screech of the brakes, waiting for the gust of wind as the train displaces air from the tunnel…so cool! Of course, this is nothing to New Yorkers, who have on their headsets, are reading books or texting on their phones, completely oblivious. And naturally I stand out as a tourist because I am looking at everything around me both on and off the train, but no matter.

I went to the Brooklyn Museum looking for a display of Georgia O’Keeffe paintings that I’d read was there; apparently that was LAST year. Of course when one is in a world class museum, there are many wonderful works to see. An exhibit dedicated to the color blue with porcelain, china, jewelry, weaving, and paintings from cobalt and lapis, to turquoise and sky blue and back again was very stimulating to my brain. Rob Wynne’s “Float”, made up of swirls of mirrored glass, was displayed in a room full of wonderful old Roman style marble statues of women and they provided the perfect foil for each other. Nona Faustine’s semi nude self portraits on the grounds of the Lefferts House were stark and told me a story I needed to make room in my brain for: one, that Brooklyn had once had farms, and two, that these farms had slaves.

And then there was Judy Chicago’s “Dinner Party”. I had wanted to see it for many years and finally had my chance- it was breathtaking! The exhibit also made me want to take up embroidery again. I made my way around the table slowly, trying to let every symbolic detail, sultry color and stitch sink in.

The afternoon had gone by quickly and I could see that it was raining outside. Rush hour was approaching, so I dashed across the courtyard (had forgotten my umbrella) to the subway entrance and made my way back to Flatbush and the apartment. Emily arrived home from work after a time and we decided to have dinner at an Austrian restaurant, Werkstatt. Emily is mostly vegetarian but likes the fried fish at Werkstatt and I never turn down a properly made weinerschnitzel. She decided to drive her car so she could move it to another spot, a system I am unused to. She has to move it every week, and also drives an older, beat up car because she never knows when someone might dent it.

Soon we were at Werkstatt, sipping cool rhine wine and catching up. Emily is a kindred spirit if there ever was one and we would have many great talks during my visit. For a change, I ordered the vegetarian schnitzel, which was made with slabs of celery root. This turned out to be pretty good and definitely not something I could find at home, another one of the pleasures of travel.

Back at the apartment, we went to bed, both of us tired. It was Emily’s first week back at the transfer school where she teaches. The weather was mild, so the windows were open and we settled into sleep. Then the noise started in the street. A party on Wednesday night courtesy of some kids across the street. It went on and on. I finally, wanting to be a good guest, put in some earplugs and fell asleep. The next day, Emily was furious. This had apparently happened several times before and the kids had been warned. They were part of a gang. She didn’t want the police called because she was afraid the kids would be mistreated, like many of her students were, and started on the road to jail.

When I woke up in the morning, Emily was already gone. I grabbed coffee at the corner deli and headed for the subway. I was not prepared to be entertained by acrobats. The train was not very full when several young African American men came on with a boombox and announced they were going to put on a show. They proceeded to take turns spinning, jumping and flipping around the safety bars, sometimes just inches from the passengers. They were quite good at it. Other people came on as well, making their way from car to car through the connecting doors while the train was moving and proclaiming their hard luck stories before passing cups for spare change. There was even a violinist who performed.

I got off at Times Square just to look around. I had been there on many occasions before, even during the years it was full of sex shows and porn. Hungry by this time, I stepped into Cafe Europa for an early lunch: egg salad sandwich, linzer cookie and sparkling water. I took my time. Outside was full of tourists, congestion and loudness, here was a little oasis. When I stepped out again I was in a sea of people hawking boat rides around Manhattan, rides on the triple decker buses and tourists. I looked for the Naked Cowboy but did not see him. It was hot and I wanted away from Times Square. I decided to walk to Grand Central Station knowing it was not far away.

It was hot, the sun had come out and I found myself walking up a hill. Not steep, but a hill nonetheless, in a place I had always thought of as flat. Hordes of people making walking a challenge, and then Grand Central Station. So many memories here. Meeting my Uncle Joe, my mother’s older brother, under the clock. Meeting my dear friend Scott, who had moved away to Connecticut when we were in high school; we took the train back and forth many times to his home in New Canaan. Taking Aunt Lucy to lunch at Cipriani Dolci with my family when I finally had enough money to take her out for a meal. Her hair was a bright, furious red with henna, which shocked Kevin and the kids, but she enjoyed herself so much. The view of the Grand Concourse from the restaurant made us all feel elegant for just a little while. I love the ceiling there with its turquoise hue and depictions of signs of the zodiac. When I walked in this time and looked up, I was right under Pisces, my sign, and it seemed a good omen.

Another thing I like about Grand Central is the shops. I had once bought a lovely little black Japanese ikebana vase there and some peridot earrings to take back to Tennessee. Today I wandered and saw that most of the shops were now chain stores. Not needing anything except water, which I found at a fountain, I made my way out again into the heat and crowds.The sun was out again during what was mostly an overcast visit. I made my way back to Times Square and down to the subway where I caught the Q train back to Brooklyn. That night Emily had plans, so I made do with a burger and fries in her neighborhood and had a look around.

This part of Flatbush is a mixture of apartment buildings and large, often Victorian style single family homes that used to function as summer homes for wealthy folks from Manhattan. Of course they are now very expensive homes but they have small yards and trees which I had not expected to see. People in this neighborhood don’t hang laundry lines between the buildings.

The commercial part of the neighborhood has everything necessary: several grocery stores, a hardware store, doctor and dentist offices, hairdresser, barber, delis, liquor store. Also there are several restaurants and the ones I ate in were very good. There was even a dance studio with the door open to the evening air, so I looked in and watched some adults taking a salsa lesson. The people in this neighborhood are from everywhere: Latinos, Pakistanis, Jamaicans, Haitians, Caucasians. You hear quite a mixture of languages. Lots of strollers with babies and toddlers.

I went back to the apartment not long before Emily got home and we were able to visit for awhile, drink some wine and watch old episodes of “Parts Unknown” with Anthony Bourdain.

The next day was Friday and I wanted to hit some more museums. Of course I always go to the Metropolitan. Going in to see the Impressionist Collection is like seeing old friends. To my surprise they had arranged a three day pass to all three of their museums, the Main, the Breuer and the Cloisters for the price of one ticket. It was quite crowded and many people were at the relatively new exhibit “Heavenly Bodies: Fashion and the Catholic Imagination”. I had seen photos from the last Met Gala boasting Rihanna in a bedazzled bishop’s mitre and wanted to see what all the fuss was about. There were both standing and suspended mannequins in solid colored couture clothing encrusted with symbolic embroidery, jewels and crosses, crowns made to look like enormous haloes, dresses with priest’s collars. Fantastic capes with standing collars, floating angels, lots of gold, silver, stars and colors: scarlet, dark and light blue, royal purple, black and white. Widow’s weeds, shrouds, amazing trains in sumptuous satin and velvet. Religious organ music accented the feeling of being inside a church.

After this I decided to go outside and found it to be sunny and hot. I grabbed a fresh fruit smoothie from a nearby food truck and headed for Central Park. From a bench I considered my next move. My google map showed Neue Gallerie a couple of blocks away. I knew I had heard of it before so I looked it up. Klimt! One of my favorites!

I sat and absorbed the Klimt paintings to my heart’s content, then heard the clinking of china in the downstair’s Cafe Sabarsky. Finding that the line was not too long, I decided to have lunch there. A tall cold pilsner, grilled sausages with riesling sauerkraut, potato salad and bread- I had really gotten into an Austrian carbohydrate vibe on this trip without really knowing why but the food was good and filling and I was walking a lot.

Emily and I planned to meet at Prospect Park in the evening and I realized that my phone battery was getting dangerously low. I had not brought my charger(a mistake I won’t make again) but a quick text to Emily advised me to find a Verizon store nearby and go there to recharge. One turned out to be about 3 blocks away and they were very accomodating. After a quick juice up for me at Papaya King, I was soon back on Madison Avenue making my way towards the Met Breuer.

So here I was walking around the Upper East side of Manhattan which definitely had cleaner streets and sidewalks and doormen in front of apartment buildings. Children out for walks and strolls with their usually darker skinned nannies. Manicured shrubs fronted the buildings.

After walking along Madison Avenue, I came upon the Johnny Was store. Knowing it was expensive, I went in anyway. I’d learned about this brand on the internet and wanted to see what they had. I walked out with a lovely wine-colored tunic heavily embroidered with blue, purple and ivory flowers.

I found the Met Breuer and the exhibit I wanted to see, which was Picasso and Egon Schiele (who was a contemporary of Klimt). Had to hurry though because Emily texted she was on her way to the park. Where had the afternoon gone? I made my way back to the subway which was by now quite crowded and stood all the way back to Brooklyn.

I got a little lost but managed to find Emily at the edge of Prospect Park. She had already finished her bike ride so we sat for awhile and talked, and as it started to get dark, we walked back to the apartment, crossing the parade grounds in a shortcut. This could be a neighborhood in so many places with people playing soccer, riding bikes, out to walk their dogs, just getting home from work. We came across a street where there was some filming going on and Emily said this wasn’t unusual and generally was a pain in the neck because the streets were blocked. We had to watch our feet walking over miles of yellow cable on uneven side walks, passing bright standing stage lights, and never did see anyone famous. Back at the apartment we opened a bottle of wine and watched some more Anthony Bourdain.

The next day was Saturday and Emily had some piled up chores to do around the apartment, so I set out for the East Village. I had reserved a ticket to see “Stomp!” at the Orpheum Theatre (where it originated in the US). “Stomp!” has been around forever now but I had never seen it. Emily had mentioned a restaurant that she and her family were fond of, Veselka, which turned out to be one I had eaten in several years ago. It is Ukrainian, with dishes very similar to Polish, and I decided to have lunch there. I ordered a pierogi ”sampler” (what’s not to like? Beef, mushrooms, onions,cabbage and potato) and raspberry lemonade to drink at my table outside, while I indulged in some more people watching. I had just enough time to window shop a little before heading to the theatre.

The Orpheum is small, dark and old and “Stomp!” is nothing short of fantastic. By now many people have seen it all across the country, but I found it special to be able to see it where it sprouted, like an oil spattered daisy in what used to be the grimy, infested East Village. Garbage can lids used as instruments, a broom used to set the rhythm, garbage used as props. No dialogue but plenty of expression and meaning exchanged between the actors and the audience. After all these years, the house was mostly sold out.

After walking around the East Village a bit more, I headed back to Brooklyn. I definitely want to go back to the East Village some time for more exploring. Cooper Union, NYU, St. Mark’s Place, lots of art history- I have only scratched the surface, but got a healthy bite.

Sunday found me at the Met again, this time taking all the time I wanted to explore the painters, Impressionists and others. That was a rare treat- to be able to sit down, stroll, compare and not be hurried along. I ended the afternoon at a French bistro with steak, frites, asparagus vinaigrette and a lovely glass of cidre.

Monday, after an eclair and cappucino for breakfast, I discovered more of Lower Manhattan. Eventually I ended up at the San Gennaro Festival in Little Italy. There was so much food! Also a lady hawking meatballs,”Get your Hot Balls here, the best in town!” Each restaurant had set up outdoors on the street and there were were dozens of food carts with everything from Italian sweets to enormous fried artichokes. There were so many people milling around, I got a little nervous about pickpockets and made my way over to Chinatown (very close it turned out) and just wandered among families doing their shopping on the narrow sidewalks. Several stores sold whole fish, whole squids and octopus on beds of ice in open storefronts. It was smelly and wet and I had to watch my footing. I eventually walked back to Little Italy to one of the restaurant and had some eggplant roulades. I was serenaded by a man playing an accordion. I was in heaven!

Tuesday was my last day- I was to head out in the late afternoon from LaGuardia. Emily and I said our goodbyes. She had mentioned the New Museum on the Bowery as being interesting so I headed there. A huge pair of Kinky Boots adorned the lobby! Most of the other exhibits were being changed so I was a bit disappointed but went to the basement to see a couple of avant garde installments. Neither spoke to me. But I will go back to see what else is there next trip. The Bowery is still gritty and has a lot of kitchen supply stores. It began to rain in earnest as I headed back towards uptown, so I pulled out my umbrella. Then it began to really pour, then storm and I went into a little hole in the wall Japanese restaurant where I enjoyed a delicious bowl of beef broth with beef, vegetables and sprouts while the storm crashed about outside.

I received a text message not long after that my flight was delayed, a blessing really since I was able to take a direct flight back to Knoxville. Uber picked me up as scheduled and we began the trek through all the various neighborhoods of Brooklyn and heavy traffic to the airport. I will be back, New York!

‘

S

A few of my favorites, this one is Henri Matisse

A Picasso !

Asparagus vinaigrette and cidre.

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The gates of the festival

San Gennaro himself with offerings of money

Eggplant Roulade at the San Gennaro Festival

Serenaded by accordion

Human Chain decorates a building on Bond Street

The “Kinky Boots” at the New Museum