For instance, I was walking to a gallery and passed a young woman on the sidewalk, talking into her phone. Her eyes were focused on a point that wasn't in the space she occupied, and her face was stained with tears. She was in her twenties, I'd guess, really just embarking on her adult life, full of possibilities that I don't even bother to imagine for myself anymore. And all I could think at that moment was how great it is to be past that age and in this one instead. That was a good moment, since I am often thinking of how much time I've lost, of the dreams that have fallen out of my pockets along the way.
I had a list, and a couple lucky accidental finds, looking at the art. I hadn't been in Chelsea lately and was impressed with the work I found. It felt a little strange though too: such a rarified world. I'm an artist, I've had work in Chelsea and I hope I might again sometime. There are careers, and then there are Careers. I think a lot about that.
I helped another young woman figure out how to get her rented bike out of the rack into which it was locked. It was my first time seeing the new rentable bikes, and her first time using them, and as I stopped to look at the machine, she asked me if I knew how it works. There were no instructions; I wonder how many people feel mystified and then a little silly, because really it's not hard, it's just a motion that isn't the first motion one tries.
Here's a photo I took later, after dark, of the restaurant where I had dinner with my husband and the dealer who gave me my solo show in the 1990s, before Chelsea had really taken off. That gallery shut down years ago - it was a dead end, not the first of many steps, as I'd hoped it might be. I happened to eat at that restaurant with friends some months ago. I didn't tell them that it was my first time back since that October night.
Anyway, after Chelsea I was in midtown. I'd been carrying my raincoat and an umbrella all day, and the day grew warm; I regretted the extra weight, as the weather was perfect. Near the end of my agenda, I was in Peter Blum Gallery, enjoying the paintings by John Zurier, remembering other shows of his work, and visits to his studio, sorry I hadn't gotten one of those watercolors way back when, thinking about how it felt to run into him recently, and that I'd left San Francisco but here he was in New York. [The photo in this Lagoon post features my recent watercolor, using some very special paper I purchased from the Italian factory, entirely because of a visit with John and his watercolors. He never got the share I bought for him, but I've hoarded this treasure for years, and bring it out when it is the exact material I need.] The gallery space has beautiful proportions, (I would say Palladian, without knowing the actual measurements), with a full wall of north-facing windows which flood the room with sublime light. I was reading the lovely poem (transcribed below) after which John's show is titled: "A spring a thousand years ago." The gallery attendant said "Uh-oh" and pointed out the window, to the downpour out in the street. I told her it made me happy because I'd been pointlessly carrying my raincoat around all day. But when I left the building, the rain had passed. I felt lucky two times over then - I had my raincoat when it rained, and I didn't need it.
|Marca-Relli, in Washburn Gallery|
Having seen the art I went there for, I was finally having a rest and some food around 6 pm. I learned something: If I am hoping I might see a friend in addition to a whole lot of art, then I need to arrange for that to happen on the front end, because by the time I'm finished with my list, I am pretty drained, both physically and mentally. Sometimes I meet friends to visit the galleries together, but often I really like to look at the art by myself; it's work afterall, and I work best in solitude. I think next time I'll try to get in there earlier and see if one of my friends can have some time with me before I start on my list. I'm polite, and always concerned my choices and my pace won't suit another, but I do like to visit galleries with friends too. Since months might pass before I get back, I usually am trying to get as much ground covered as I'm able, in one neighborhood at a time, if possible -- although much is determined by what shows are imminently closing. It's a feast for the art-addicted in NYC. I miss things all the time.
Finally, I'm resting, eating, drinking tea, gathering the energy to get home; and I'm thinking about how nice it would be to hear some live music. By the time I finished, it was after 7 - it seemed too late to get to a concert - and I was exhausted and hadn't found anything listed for tonight anyway. So I made my way back to Chelsea where my car was parked, and as I approached the garage, the light was beautiful, I could see people walking on the highline, and I hadn't been up there in a long, long time. I went up, and it is so verdant right now, all the plants look happy because of the light and the rain and the temperatures we're having. I walked and enjoyed it, I saw Spencer Finch's piece there, and walked some more, and then I came upon a place under some structure, with a man tenderly playing Bach cello suites from memory, eyes closed. There were chairs and I sat there for a long time, probably an hour. It was dark. I gave him my bottle of water and threw some money, more than a little, into his case. The serendipity of it was marvelous.
Throughout his performance there were bursts of traffic noise, and people walking through the area, some deep in conversation. Several stopped to listen a moment, or longer. I observed the exact radius of the space listeners skirted, as they walked to his case to drop in some coins or a bill; it was as though his concentration created a bubble no one wanted to prick. I watched the interior lights of the buildings brighten as the sky dimmed. I thought about how serendipity sounds like serenity, with a doodle or a dance attached to it.
it's kind of beautiful, how heartbreaking
it's heartbreaking, how beautiful
|I should have gotten his name|
* * *
The Night Shed Its Blue Tears
The night shed its blue tears
on grass and woods
and the earth grew cool and deep
beneath my feet
and I felt for a moment
as though a pallor struck my breast
and my bones were rotting
and I was seized by fear.
Then I thought I heard a low whisper
like that of a closing flower:
You are a spring a thousand years ago.
Stefan Hörður Grímsson
[from the book On A Clear Morning, by Stefan Hörður Grímsson
translated from the Icelandic by Hallberg Hallmundsson,
Útgefandi, Reykjavík 2005]
~ with my thanks to John Zurier
and Peter Blum
and the unknown Cellist of the Highline ~