Fine and Dandy

It being the New Year already (if one happens to run on Japan time, as I have recently), I thought that I would say that although this year was one of much disappointment in terms of people (though I should really know better), that it is over and done with and out with the old, in with the new.  Everything else until the clock rings in the new day here in New York is merely pretend, play time, and a round or two of cocktails and then the quiet that precedes the storm that is Change.

Well, I am sure that I will have plenty more to say and announce this year, in due time.  In the meantime, I share an image of some new ties and bow ties that Other Half made (using cabbage/left-over material I bought in Scotland as well as some dollar scrap from nearby). Dressing down is always a bad thing, at least in my book.   It's always fun to dress up, the dressier the better- because each day should be a celebration, no?

Happy New Year.

Inner Fire

What is there to say, really, except that there are always better things surely to be done?

A while back, I saw some interesting scrolls at the Met, the theme of which was some Japanese myth of which I was not aware (and, when told to me, seemed pretty crazy to put it mildly), but the hand drawn depictions of mystery and of flames captured my attention for a quick second.

As the year ends, and things change, slowly but surely...

Ho Ho Ho'd

Christmas is over, as it is, as it is always is, as it always will be-a day that comes and goes, and brings and carries away with it the memories of times past, present and maybe even the future. There are many things that could be said about it- things that are sentimental to the extreme that could bring tears of joy and sadness, things that have no place to exist, things that should not be thought of, things that should be dreamed and lived in reality, things that evoke Marcus Aurelius.  Who knows?

It'll come again, with all its joy and all its sadness, of old friends becoming acquaintances and then strangers, and of strangers becoming acquaintances and then fast friends- and it'll be Christmas once more, a phoenix rising from the flames of the dead past.

triple dog dared.

is there?

ho ho ho.

real and/or fake, it's over.

Ambition, Empire and Then

It being the holiday season, and today being Christmas (not that it really means anything in my book), I thought that I would just say some quick words in the quiet time when tourists do not plague the streets and only the real inhabitants remain (and those abandoned or stranded here prowl)- that New York has always been and always will be for me a city (the city) of dreams, a real city of ambition, and a place that I with infinite sadness but even greater joy intend to turn my back on.

An Early Present of Sorts

Last week, on a pleasant but dull sort of afternoon, I wandered into one of my favorite bookstores and saw on display a copy of the book Le Corbusier Le Grand, that massive sized tome (13" x 17" x 3" book along with smaller accompanying book of materials translated from French, both encased in a hard sleeve) on the display racks.  Now, this has been on my "to get" list for a while now,but the sheer size of it has prevented me from doing so (asides from being large, it weighs over 14 pounds).  I quickly flipped through for a price check (the book retails at 200 dollars, and the best price I saw was half off, but I could not bring myself to carry it home that day and when I returned it was gone) and saw it was going for 75 dollars.  My partner in crime (well, my partner) said that it could be my Christmas present, and I thought, no, even better, I would do my usual "clean up clean out" and exchange some of my unloved books for it.  So, asking the fellow to put aside the book, I continued on my way and promised to be back the next day to do the trade-off.

It was a little difficult, not exceedingly so, to find some books to get rid of, but the weight (mental, not physical) of books recently has gotten to me, so I got rid of a few more that would have stayed if I was more stable.  Fortunately, a friend picked me up so I wouldn't have to lug that bunch of nonsense over to the store.  A few minutes later and with a small exchange of small talk, the Corbusier book was in hand (and also the biography of Proust by Tadie, as there was some more store credit in which to use up, and it is infinitely easy to use up store credit at this well curated store)

I was looking through it yesterday on my dining table (it being the only surface besides my bed and the floor large enough to accommodate reading it), and it is a superb book chock full of pictures of the master and his many works.  If only Phaidon were able to do a similar version for Mies, that would be masterful.

Worlds inside of Worlds

Over a decade ago, I was sent to fetch some model supplies at a store which I had never heard of and which after I went there could not recall the location nor the name of.  In this city where shops rise and fall faster than the reputation of a politician, I had thought it was another one of those that were gone with the wind.  So, it was a bit of a surprise the other day when I walked down one of those unfamiliar (but recognizable) streets in midtown and heard the sound of a rail whistle announcing its presence (as it is located in the basement of an otherwise nondescript office building, you would have to know of its existence were you to want to buy something).

Needless to say, I went down there and checked out its many wares.  A rather medium to large store filled to near the brim with items related to rail and with unfortunate commercial nods to such things as the USS Enterprise (the Star Trek ship) and the Batmobile, it is a treasure for those who are into constructing minature worlds.  I did not pick up anything, although I was seriously thinking of doing so- mostly because it requires space and a weekly (if not daily) cleaning so as to avoid the ever ready accumulation of dust.

I was happy to see a young man in his 30s, visiting from Europe, bring along his family and ask the incredibly knowledgeable owner about some of the train sets.  It was obvious that he (unlike myself) was going to buy a slew of things.  A throwback to an earlier time, these rail sets have a luster of nostalgic and quiet joy that can hardly be found along the crowded and noisy aisles of a place such as Toys R Us, no?

these small fellows are my favorite part of these constructions.

Disassembled Holidays

Taking a little holiday shopping detour into the tourist packed craziness that is Rockefeller Center at Christmas time, I tried to avoid the throngs of people by dashing left and right, but was still caught in the trap.  While avoiding the crowds, my generally curious nature got the better of me once again as I went into the Lego store.  For a while now, I have seen young boys carrying around Lego bags and wondered if they were from a large toy store- having forgotten altogether that a Lego store had opened a few months back, but because of my half baked interest in it, I never made a real note of it.  Well, the other night, despite the place being packed, I went in and checked around.

Now, before you ask- no, they did not stock the new Batman series.

A relatively small shop (on two levels), it was fun to walk around, but perhaps it is best visited after the holidays, should you want a Lego fix. There are large scale models of Rockefeller Center (and some of the nearby sights, such as the Atlas statue), as well as some little dioramas and built models of what was on sale (including Mies van der Rohe's Farnsworth House, which looks "cute" but does not have the force of the real thing by far)

Hopefully, next time I drop in, it will be less New York City and more Gotham.

close up of the army of little men that make up the Lego sign.

the Lego sign.

Mies Lives.

Winter in the Park

Days can (and do) go by in a wickedly fast fashion, and with the holiday season looming ever viciously and marvelously over me (and many others, if the maddening rush at the stores today is any indication), there may be even less time to relax and meditate on oneself.  Over the past few days, though, I have both the quiet euphoria and the deep sadness associated with the holiday time, a kind of post-holiday depression which is actually pre- and during the holiday, but that is more to do with my own character than anything else. For this reason and that reason, I have been unable to make much progress on the Guermantes Way, which hopefully I will finish strolling along soon enough to be flung into Sodom and Gomorrah (or, by its more poetic name, Cities on the Plain, but which does not reflect the original title).

Infinite digressions aside, today I dropped by an indoor park in my next door neighborhood of nolita (pretty much my number one roaming grounds these days, second only to my Madison Avenue adventures).  An indoor park- fake foliage, gigantic wall sized photographic prints of the park/outdoors, park benches, artificial grass, free coffee (at least today, when I was there- although with the heat, it should have been ice cold lemonade to support the summertime idea!).  Best of all, there were no bums, no rats, no low-life elements, no teenagers, no kids (except one or two, but who were well behaved), no smokers (although I realize smoking is now banned in parks), no music, no trendy bicyclists, no joggers, no garbage on the floor, no street musicians, nobody talking on their phone, no sound of cars honking in the distance, no view of gaudy apartment buildings...indeed, many things not there which I did not think of at the time, but which really make me dislike the park atmosphere in general (at least when I am in New York City)

A pleasant time indeed.  I'll probably go back again, although next time I fully intend to win the bean bag toss game which I lost 2-1 at today.  I promise.

Still Gone, Still Here

Some people prefer to remember those who have passed away by celebrating their birthday, while others (like myself) prefer to remember them by the day that they physically left the world.  I have always thought it nonsensical to hear that "today would have been so and so's 180th birthday" or some such statement- as if they would have lasted that long, but I surely understand the mentality behind it.  Most people do not want to face the possibility of their own deaths, and try to push that of others into the depths of forgetting.  But, as most people (myself included, most likely) are not even "living" (if that means really doing something of value, of merit, for the present, for the future), is there really a difference?

There are people in my family who were related by blood for whom I expressed either no emotion or care when I heard they died, because of the very reason that they in their lifetimes have had little or nothing to do with me (nor I with them), so they are but strangers. Then there are those who I never met, and could never meet (their being gone long before I was born), but whom I remember in my way- through their work in different genres (writing, music, film, et cetera but which I will categorize as "Art")-

Among these people, among these Familiars- is the late Japanese film director Ozu Yasujiro- who was born and died on the same day- today (December 12th), after living on this earth for five cycles (a cycle given as 12 years on the Japanese horoscope).  Among all filmmakers who I find inspirational, (a short list which includes the aesthetic and spiritual giants Andrei Tarkovsky, Robert Bresson, Ingmar Bergman and Michelangelo Antonioni), Ozu stands as the absolute.

I visited him (or, at least his gravesite in Kamakura) twice- once with someone who is no longer in my life, and once by myself.   I will keep what  thoughts I had and have about the subject to myself to keep my prayer to Ozu Sensei as pure as can be.

Nothingness.

At the Workshop

I heard about the so-called Lady Gaga Workshop at Barney's a little while back, but did not have any intention of stopping by.  But, I fooled myself because I had to pop in the store a few days ago, and I thought as I usually do that I should check it out in case I missed anything.  Such is my usual way of thinking- the sort that occupies my mind and time with such hectic activity when I could be well better off reading (or finishing) the Proust- of which I am now still along the Guermantes Way (or the third book, for those who do not know the chain of order)

Anyway, back to the meat dress daughter of Madonna- it was a full floor of in your face material stuff.  I am not quite sure what Gaga contributed to the "workshop" besides her name, but there were a lot of shoppers, gawkers and possibly curiosity seekers such as I, and there were so many objects to buy that any real (or even minor) Gaga fan would have felt they entered heaven or a wicked materialist plot to drain them of their hard earned money.  Even I thought of buying some things, and I have only about .1 percent interest in her (maybe even less, if I add it up properly).  Fortunately, my common sense prevailed and I left there empty handed- as if I needed a kit of press on nails, a pair of sunglasses which I would probably trip over everything with, and that easiest of purchases (a t-shirt), as well as a tube of lipstick and other things.

One fun bit, although not designed particularly well, was a limited edition of some of Roald Dahl's books which from the sticker insert inside I found to have been influential for Gaga. They were quite predictably Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (although I suspect it is more the film than the book), James and the Giant Peach (again, probably the film, which I also liked better than the book) and Matilda (which even in its hollywood version was fun to watch).

Now, if she had the courage or good sense to select Henry Sugar...

Inside Outside or

Took a few hours out from a not so busy day to take in a film at the theatre, the new version of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.  Having missed out on its London engagement a few months back due to my having left town a day or two early, I have been eagerly anticipating its release, and this morning found me in a room almost jam packed with moviegoers (the majority of whom were older, not senior citizens, but likely many who saw the original television version when it premiered in the late 70s).  There were two bits that stood out in general- one of which were the previews (loud, brash, nonsensical hollywood fare) had absolutely nothing to do with what we were about to see and during the film, old woman yelled to an old fellow to "get the hell out of there" (for using his phone, most probably texting or some such, and which emitted a bright light)

Anyway, I will not give away anything except to say that the wait was worth it, and there was hardly a dull moment (except for the addition of a very minor subplot featuring romance, which is often an afterthought if not entirely unnecessary).  This Smiley was similar to the old Smiley (that played by Sir Alec Guinness years ago and which will probably be regarded as the definitive version), except this new one seemed to have an even more sinister layer.  In the original one, it was perfectly clear which side he stood on.  In this one, as with most of the characters, there was really no knowing.

Surely a welcome way to usher in the weekend, and I may dive back into the old novels of Le Carre once again.

No Place like Home if Home is a Place

I had to go to midtown for something or other yesterday, but one of the stops that made my otherwise dull visit worthwhile was the jewelry store Solange on Madison Avenue, which showcased a limited engagement of Dorothy's ruby red shoes from the Wizard of Oz.  It is the last stop on a promotional tour before they go up for auction later this month for those who still have the wallet as well as the love for that classic (now probably quickly getting forgotten film)

What struck me, as would most likely strike anybody who saw the film, is their color.  They are not as red, they do not shine, and in fact, they looked like any old pair of shoes.  Perhaps this was because of where they were shown (not exhibited) and because of my own half baked interest in them.  I am sure that a combination of other factors contributed to my lack of enthusiasm, but they were fun to look at just as an icon of culture.  But I suspect that were it something like, say, Glenn Gould's scarf and gloves, I would be there in awe at those everyday items.

But it was still fun- and may be the first and last chance to see them before they disappear from the public eye (and into the hands of a private collector)

inside reading "#7 Judy Garland"

"There's no place like home"

Glass Acts

Taking a look at the glass bottle display at the Metropolitan Museum, in an in-between section which is more of a walk through space than anything, is a quiet and colorful thrill in itself.  How these very many bottles came to be gathered here, all in impeccable condition, is a wonder indeed.  It helped that the display was set up so that the sun could shine through and illuminate the hidden colors that would otherwise not be obviously visible were it in a dark but lit glass case.  So, sometimes, museum exhibition designers actually do get it right.

Also part of the display were two inkwells, which upon first glance I could not recognize- myself never having had the opportunity to use them when I was a student.  Of course, that age is long gone now, but in fact I did buy an inkwell (a contemporary version) as well as a pen and set of nibs- to draw, not to write, but it really was not my thing (i think) and it has been gathering dust for about a year now.  Nonetheless, I have infinite admiration for specimens of good writing- which reminds me of my father's penmanship, which was always so clear and clean- but that is just a side-note as the rain falls down harder and harder.

Heartbreaker

Today I was busy uprooting, and decided to pop in the new Adele at Royal Albert Hall on DVD, and, boy, is it ever some good stuff.  Over the years, I have lost most of my interest in music in general with the exception of some classical repertoire and the Master (Loren Connors) and in pop music in particular (for good reason, of course, as anyone with ears can attest to), so it is rare that someone known and loved by many happens to affect me in any way.  Mary J. Blige comes to mind, but often her songs are so confused by the many unnecessary and bad sounding musical accompaniments and guest "artists" who stink up her game.  Adele, on the other hand, in her two albums so far, shines and shines and shines. And shines.

Seeing the visual and hearing her tell stories, jokes and the like, though, bring her even closer- and only a damned fool will not think, damn, she's really really really damned great.

Glorious, glamorous and just plain great.

Invisible Visible

Even for those who visit the Metropolitan Museum on a regular basis, there are so many things that can easily escape one's view.  Popping in there the other day to take a look at the Christmas tree as well as some of the newer exhibitions, I was most delighted to find the area known as "Visible Storage" (located in the American wing), and which is still undergoing construction.  Although it has been around for over half a year, my usual strolls through the museum do not bring me into that area, but my wandering eye brought me there and I was rewarded countless times over with any number of interesting and new works.  For lined up one next to another, and in glass cases facing one another, I was able to walk and admire some of the many works which did not have pride of place in the main collection (or, perhaps were waiting for their moment in the spotlight).

Among the work which stood out was a portrait of what is clearly a society lady- very mysterious, indeed, with an air of melancholy.  Just how so, and how ethereal and not just a little eerie was this walkthrough view- that one could easily imagine being a ghost among ghosts here.  Here is my photo of the beautiful portrait, as if I had disturbed her reverie.

Facing the Wall

There's a brick wall that I walk by all the time and often have one or two thoughts about.  Its method of construction or some such has affected the way that it has stood over the last two hundred years, and one gets a certain disorientation when walking alongside it because it has an obvious tilt and bending.  Yesterday, on an almost rainy time, there were few people walking about- I, of course, never caring about the weather a la Bloch, an exception- and I thought of how lonely this wall seemed.

Then, I thought about the sheer intense isolation of the city life and of probably about fifteen years of built up desire to leave the city once and for all.  But, will the non-city life (I cannot call it the country where I am thinking of going, whether real or imagined) be any different in terms of anomie and anonymity?

Time will tell, or won't it?

Lined up and ready

There is no better sign of the holiday season than the arrival of the real christmas trees for sale in various parts of the neighborhood, in part because of the scent that it brings with it.  Walking through it with eyes closed, one can easily be transported out of the city- if but for a few seconds, which may be enough to stimulate the mind and heart.  As you know, I am forever talking about the need to escape the city- and I am sure that my time will come soon, and I don't mean in a wooden box.

Over the past few years, I have not bought a real tree as I found it a bit of a hassle to lug it back home using a little pushcart of sorts (myself being of the no car no driving not interested in cars nor driving variety) and it seems sad to see it wither away.   Lugging it to the junk pile was an additional turn off. So, I have had to make do with a fun little plastic white tree, a half sized number, but the truth is that I like it ever so much more- perhaps it reflects the growing unreality of the Christmas spirit.

Colorblind but Full of Color and Not Blind at All

The American holiday of eating and shopping for nonsense being over, I can now get back to the original program and write on in my way about those things that occupy my idle time.  After the Muppets film last week, I popped into the Dorian Grey Gallery formerly occupied by Giant Robot in the east village to see the show on the illustrator/artist Jim Flora.  Now, his name may not be as well known, but for collectors of jazz on vinyl and those with an interest in retro graphic design, he has been on the periphery of vision as has been the case for me.

Alas, in my many years of collecting records, I have never come across any of the discs that bear his unmistakable drawings on the cover.  One had to suffice with the three volume of books featuring his work, of whose author is the curator of this exhibition.

While there, the gallery representative told us some good tidbits- after some of my usual hundred questions that I ask whenever I am interested in something.  It turns out that his Estate (Mr. Flora having passed away several years ago) wants to clear his Estate, for probably the usual reason$ and general lack of interest- although one piece I was interested in was not for sale (which I found depicted the first five years of his life).   But selling things off in general comes as no surprise, of course, but what was is finding out the Mr. Flora was colorblind.  Now, looking at his work, which is often an explosion of very contained and "colorful" color, it does not look it at all.  In fact, it is often those who are not colorblind in art who are not only incompetent in the use of color but in general aesthetically blind as well.  If one needs a case in point, one can go into any museum (and it need not only be in contemporary art, which is a given, but also modern art which may also be a given depending on one's preference, and also in the pre-modern).

Anyway, there are so many works on display at the Jim Flora show that I have to go back there on some repeat visits- to look closer at them, for each one of them is a map of joy and fun.

Wocka Wocka

This late morning, I found myself (again, after much expectation) at the movie theatre- which, for me, is a rare enough thing.  But, the return of the Muppets to the cinema was an occasion that I would not miss for the world (although the world as it is now is not worth that much, is it?).  Now, although I did not grow up with them, having chosen the path of other things now thrown away and quickly forgotten, I have over the past year or so found myself watching and enjoying many of the old Muppets films.

In particular, Fozzie Bear is my favorite, although, honestly, after watching this film and their triumphant return, all of them shine so very bright.

a very good night indeed.

no words necessary once you see this scene- it is incredible.

Checkmated

A few days having passed, but not without thinking of what to post here. The reason really being that there was nothing going on, at least for me- until today, when after a week of waiting (and not without much anticipation and expectation), I trekked up to the nowhere land that is up-uptown (190th street) to the Cloisters (that marvelous place which, because of its mere geographic location I find incredibly difficult to visit lest there is some spectacular exhibit).

Now, you may remember that ages ago (actually, only two months now but what seems more than two eternities), I was in London town.  But, on a particularly knackered (that is English speak for "tired") day, I found myself in the British Museum but could not bring myself to see the Lewis Chessmen.  The only reason I even knew about them was because it was one of the many publications issued by the museum on their holdings, and the cover drew me in.  Honestly, though, even though my feet were killing me, maybe even having killed me, I should have made an effort to go see them.

Adding more gasoline to the fire, I did not see the remainder of the Lewis Chessmen (there being only two places which own them) when I was in Scotland- but, this time, the reason was because I could not make it- having needed to catch an early train.  That, too, was a mistake.

Fortunately, the Cloisters (through the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the source of much joy in my life over the years) brought some of the Chessmen to town, and indeed I was able to see them close-up (behind glass cases, but that is all right), and they are every bit as fun and delightful as the pictures. If anything, they are even more joyous, and they are definitely worth a repeat visit or a number of repeat visits.

Alas, it was not permitted to take photographs, but I was able to take photos from outside the gallery itself- but perhaps that is enticement enough to make one visit.  After all, what is an hour on the subway compared to six or seven hours on the plane to London or Scotland and then some?  Although, I wouldn't mind going to those places again, either.

where hidden magic resides

A session with Rikyu

No more Dear Marjorie, as you have returned, and brought with you a memory of Japan and what is to come.  As in the film we just saw, the end of something is the beginning of something else, yes?

Rikyu, when it first played in the cinema in 1990, was something that I had wanted to see, but for some reason or another, I was unable to.  When it was finally released on DVD, I guess that my interest in it had waned- or, was clouded over by non-essential things that have long been discarded or even forgotten.  But, over the years, I have tried unsuccessfully to find a copy, as it was out of print, and the library's sole copy was stolen by some degenerate.  Luckily, I was able to finally lay my hands on a version, which occupied the space of some time last evening.

After viewing it, I thought of the many years that had passed- again, I know this is a common thought of mine, but seriously I wished (of course, it does not matter one way or the other) that I had seen it that many years ago, in my early years at the university, especially when I was immersed in the study of political science- which I have and have not abandoned, depending on how one looks at it.

There is an inherent aesthetics in power as well as a power in aesthetics, and which of the two shines more brightly is a matter that can be weighed over a cup of tea.