A date with Monet.

This past weekend, a few friends and I ventured down to NYC to visit the Monet Water Lilies Exhibit at MoMA.  Since taking a class on Modernism and Postmodernism in college, I've been fascinated with Modern and Postmodern art (well, that sounds rather redundant).  I've found that it's difficult to appreciate some of the pieces unless you actually know a bit about this specific art movement, so my parents didn't really understand my appreciation of this:

One: Number 31, 1950 

Jackson Pollock

(photo by me, after people actually stopped walking in front of my lens)

I love Pollock's work.  While I'm especially fond of his drip paintings, my research for a term paper left me baffled by the fact that his earlier work looked completely different.  I love studying artists' lives and how the events going on with the artist influence their artwork. I have a special spot in my heart for artists (and anyone, for that matter) that have suffered from depression, as Pollock did.  I guess it's a way of relating to the art and artist, and even empathizing, on a completely different level that a lot of people can't understand (and I hope that they never do, because depression is not a fun thing).  I digress...

The trip was absolutely fabulous.  We started out at MoMA, visited the top three floors, had lunch in their fabulous Cafe 2 (although I didn't think their seating strategy was all too wonderful), then viewed the galleries on the second floor, as well as the sculpture garden.   It was pretty crowded, so there was an overabundance of people walking in front of you as you were trying to look at a painting.  My favorites were the older ladies who either a) wandered in front of you while viewing a painting and stopped altogether, forcing you to move, or b) tried to push up against you as close as humanly possible (which is absolutely not socially acceptable) so that you'd move away from the glass case displaying rare sketches by Picasso.  I found myself locked in a battle with a pushy lady who may or may not have had a cane and was placing her grubby hands all over the glass.  I could tell that she was expecting me to do "the right thing" and move aside so she wouldn't have to *gasp* walk two steps to the left to pass me.  I was there first, and she was totally going against traffic!  She was pretty desperate to see how Picasso's deconstruction of a Minotaur screwing a young lady was progressing (oh, that's not the real title of the sketch series, by the way), so maybe I should have yielded to her nagging persistence, but... I was there first!  I stood staring at the same sketch for at least ten minutes before she huffed her way past me and let me get to the last piece in the series.  Whatevs, you old bag.  Again, I digress.

I was really impressed by how many famous paintings and sculptures they had in the museum.  At one point, I entered a gallery room and saw a flash of blue out of the corner of my eye.  I thought to myself, "Is that what I think it is?"  I turned, and it was this:

Isn't it perfect with its golden frame?  
My flash totally went off as I was taking this picture and I almost died as the guard gave me a stern look.  
At least he could tell that I was mortified and on the verge of becoming physically ill from my stupidity.

There's something so surreal about looking at an original painting by an artist you love.  It's very difficult to verbalize, so I'm not going to attempt it.  I can't even imagine how it must feel to be in a place like Rome or Florence.

Before I get to the Monet, one of the most interesting parts of the day was the special exhibit of performance artist Marina Abramović.   We first encountered her in the atrium, where she was sitting at a table, staring blankly ahead of her.  Audience members could actually go and sit across from her and have a "staring contest" or, more artistically speaking, a meditative moment of connection with the artist.  I toyed with the idea, but chickened out, as usual.  We then found the exhibit dedicated to her lengthy career and were met with warning signs about nudity, no photography, and no children.  At first, I was really uncomfortable, because there were lots of nude performers, but once I got over that initial discomfort and realized that everyone else was looking at naked people too, I became more relaxed.  One of the things that relaxed me the most, was when I noticed a really pervy looking man creeping closer and closer to one of the nude performers.  As he did so, I could see security inching their way in, ready to pounce.  I thought that was kind of hilarious. (Although, this article just came out yesterday which makes me cringe a little for the performers.)

I didn't understand the meaning behind a lot of the work, and I will admit that I didn't really read a lot of the plaques that were positioned around the exhibit, partly because I was a little uncomfortable lingering.  In retrospect, I realize that they probably would have given me more insight into some of the performances, which included a naked woman suspended on the wall, sitting on a bicycle seat, another naked woman lying underneath a skeleton, two people with their hair tied together, and two more nude people standing in a small doorway, forcing people to squeeze between them (I decided to walk around to the other side of the gallery to avoid this installation in particular).  The exhibit contained actual video footage of many of her previous performances.  Some of her performances were utterly disturbing, like the one in which she's repeatedly walking into a wall, the sickening sound of her naked body hitting it again and again (with force), as well as the one where she's standing nude, with a skull clutched in her hands and her hair brushed forward over her face like Cousin It, repeatedly slamming the skull into her chest (again, with force).  Upon reading more about her life, performances, and the meaning behind them, I grew a greater appreciation for the exhibit as a whole, and really wish I had read more about it before going... (If you're interested, a quick google search brings up tons of info.)

The Monet exhibit was a lot smaller than I thought it would be.  The collection consisted of six paintings, two of which were enormous, wall-size paintings.  I took the most photos in this gallery for some reason, and I was pretty pleased with the way that most of them turned out.  One thing I will say is that the gallery lights were horrible to the colors of the paintings in the photos, so I bumped them up a bit with an editing program to give a better representation of what they looked like in real life.

All photographs by me.

not to toot my own horn, but I'm super in love with this last photograph.  I love how you can see the cracked paint and brush strokes. (click on it to enlarge!)

I think that the photos speak for themselves, but it was a really amazing exhibit.  It's unbelievable when you stop and actually think about the fact that he created these masterpieces with debilitating cataracts impeding his vision and color perception. 

There was also a really good Picasso exhibit showcasing his printmaking skills and creative process of deconstructing things on paper (the one in which I had the stand-off with "the old bag").  This was one of my two favorite pieces from the exhibit:

Head of a Woman No. 5. Dora Maar.

Pablo Picasso, 1939

All in all, it was one of the best days I've had in a very long time.  There's something about art that just relaxes me completely and gives me that "everything is going to be ok" feeling.  Plus, it really helped that I was there with some very good friends.  Very therapeutic. 

We ended the day with some shopping at Rockefeller Center and a carriage ride around Central Park.  Perfection. 

While art is different for everyone, I highly recommend MoMA to anyone who is remotely interested in modern art.  It's definitely worth a visit. 

And, Central Park in spring is just lovely...



sorry for the long post.  i toyed with the idea of chopping it in two, but could bear splitting anything up...  i guess this makes up for my month-long silence, right?

New York State of Mind, Part II.

On day two of our New York Minute, we met up with a friend of mine from college and headed down to Battery Park for some wintry, tourist fun!  It was frigidly cold outside, and we obviously picked the colder of the two days to go on a boat ride out to Liberty Park and Ellis Island.  Genius.

It was a really fun and interesting trip, but I did feel bad for my friend who is not from New England and was not used to the cold weather like we were. 

After seeing the Statue of Liberty, we decided to get something to eat before heading to Ellis Island.  My friend and I both got french fries and over priced Statue of Liberty water bottles, while James decided that he wasn't hungry.  The place was packed, so we decided to take our food outside to wait in line for the ferry.  This would have been a great idea, had we not run into a pack of hungry (and very, very ferocious) sea gulls.  They began to circle us, and as soon as my friend murmured, "If one of those birds tries to take one of my fries, I'm going to..." Bam!  Sea gull foot in her fries.  As I was standing off to the side laughing at her, a sea gull dive bombed me and landed on my head, trying to get at my fries.  Meanwhile, our chivalrous escort, James, was walking as fast as he could in the opposite direction, looking back at us the whole time while we threw french fries into the wind, trying to appease the angry mob.  It is absolutely repulsive (and humiliating) when a sea gull lands on your head, especially when his foot gets caught in your hair as he's flying away.  Trust me. 

None of us were looking forward to Ellis Island.  I forced everyone to go, however, because I knew it was something that shouldn't be passed by, no matter how boring you think it will be, or how dirty you feel after being mauled by a sea gull.  Everyone was thankful that we went, in the end, because it was the most interesting part of the day.

We took the subway back to our hotel and stopped at Gray's Papaya (corner of 8th & 37th) on the way to the bus station.  Don't let anyone tell you that Gray's Papaya isn't worth a visit.  It was the best hot dog I've ever had.  Plus, it was really inexpensive, and their fruit juices are very tasty. 

We did some other things, like shopping J. Crew at Rockefeller Center, walking around the Upper West Side, and a nighttime stroll around Time Square, but we didn't get to do a lot of the other touristy things, like a carriage ride around Central Park, the Empire State Building, The Met, H&H Bagels...  The great thing about New York, is that it's such a huge city that it would be nearly impossible to see and do everything in one weekend, or even a week, so it gives you a reason to keep on going back for more.

Anyway, I was feeling a little reminiscent of our trip and realized that I never shared any of the photos....

P.S. I hate not having a camera. 

Speechless.

I have spoken of my love for Italy before. I don't really know why I have such a strong need to travel there, but it's on my list of things I "Must Do Before I Die." (hopefully sooner)

With that being said, ever since seeing the Passport to Europe episode of "The Amalfi Coast," I have known that I need to go there. Need. Seriously, Need. Glad I've cleared that up.

With great thanks to Natasha, of She Left on a Monday, I came across this tonight and almost died. (sorry... I've been watching a lot of Rachel Zoe lately.) So much beauty, it literally took my breath away. Ugh. So, go watch the video. It's amazingly simple, yet intricate at the same time. I Loves It.

photo from here, since I haven't been to Positano to take my own lovely photos...

An Afternoon in Rockport.

Yesterday afternoon, I skipped out of work a bit early so James and I could venture out to Rockport for the afternoon. It was a beautiful afternoon; the weather was warm, but not sweltering, the humidity was practically gone, and school was back in session, so there weren't a lot of tourists. Neither of us had been to Rockport since we were kids, so it was fun to go back and see what we remembered. I remembered nothing. James remembered a lot, but it had changed a bit since his last visit, so there were some new things to look at.

Our afternoon was amazingly uneventful. Approximately 75% of all the shops in Rockport are art galleries. I don't have anything against galleries, but it got a little ridiculous after a while, and we weren't in the market for any sailboat paintings. Luckily, there weren't any shops that drew me in (except the really fabulous food store where I bought Italian blood orange juice and miso powder), so I wasn't tempted to waste my money on shore-town trinkets like I usually do.

The main reason for our journey was that James' first significant food memory happened in Rockport. His parents and grandmother used to take him and his siblings there when they were little, and they always went to The Fudgery (a bakery/fudge factory... haha). The first time they ever went there, they asked him what he wanted, and he was mesmerized by these gargantuan pastries called Elephant Ears (there's a blog write-up on The Fudgery here). After tasting and immediately loving it, he said, "I'm going to go home and make these." So, the next day, he searched through all of his mom's cookbooks to find a recipe, made them, and hasn't stopped cooking since. For a professional chef, it's a pretty significant memory, so I was happy that he got to go back there and experience it again.

Here are some pictures I took along the way (minus, of course, the Elephant Ears, because I suck at life and don't realize the significance of events until after they've passed):

james totally made fun of me for taking this picture of mailboxes, but it happens to be one of my favorites. So there.

We only ended up spending about two hours there, then we took the back roads through Essex and Ipswich to get to Newburyport. I didn't take any photos of Newburyport, for which I'm now kicking myself, but this is what it looks like:

image from here.

Newburyport has been a regular fixture in my life since childhood, and it's the perfect place to go when you want ocean, good restaurants, shops, and history. It's picturesque, quaint, beautiful, yadda, yadda, yadda, and I love it. Anyway, we went to Michael's Harborside to have dinner, and almost immediately left when we realized how much the place has gone down-hill (we ordered an appetizer so as not to cause a scene). It was dirty, and the menu had been downgraded to grossly overpriced fried seafood platters and boring appetizers. It's such a shame, too, because it's one of the only restaurants in the area that has a deck over the harbor. Discouraged, but laughing about it, we went to Mission Oak Grill, which was a pleasant surprise. I had the best Tuna Tartar that I've possibly ever had, and I highly recommend it. I also had wasabi crusted, seared tuna with a jasmine rice cake and seaweed salad for dinner (I was on a tuna kick), while James had porcini dusted scallops with a rock shrimp and ham risotto and broccolini.

Most of the time, James and I exude lameness and don't really go anywhere outside of our usual hot spots (aka home), so this was definitely a nice change. I wish that it had been a bit cooler, since I tend to appreciate things much more when the temperature is below 70 degrees, but all in all, it was a much needed respite from our daily grind.

Venice Beach is for Weirdos and Sunset Lovers.

Last night, we ventured over to Venice Beach to meet up with some friends. It turned out to be quite an ordeal (what else, right?), but we managed to get there in one piece. My sister isn't really the greatest when it comes to her navigational skills. Ignoring this glaring reality, I let her navigate, since she reassured me that she had been there, "A million times! I know where I'm going!!!" People change, right? So, we drove through Beverly Hills and Santa Monica (the scenic route, because I love that kind of stuff, and am afraid of driving on the freeway after watching Clueless too many times.) Anyway, we get there, and I can tell that she has no idea where she's going, as she keeps telling me to, "turn right. No! Stay straight! Don't ask me where we're going... I know where we're going! Turn right here! No, keep going... You're stressing me out!" I'm stressing her out?

I didn't care, though, because we were at the beach, and it was a whole lot cooler there than it was in West Hollywood (it was 90 degrees all day and my sister's air conditioning might as well be non-existent... I don't enjoy the heat much.) So, we parked and headed out on our way. We quickly realized that we were going the wrong way, when the third person we asked (the first two people had no idea where our desired destination was), laughed and said, "are you trying to get to where all the people go? Well, that's a hell of a long way that way," and pointed to the direction from whence we had just walked a half a mile.

We finally made it to "the place where all the people go," and there were definitely people there. Crowds and crowds, plus street vendors, street performers, and every weirdo you could ever imagine. I've never actually seen so many people completely stoned out of their minds in my entire life. Venice Beach is a treasure trove for useless (well, useless to me, at least) items and knicknacks that will probably break within three hours of ownership. There are a lot of tattoo parlors, t-shirt vendors, smoke shops, henna stations, and palm readers. I made the mistake of stopping to hear someone's hip-hop music, and realized after I had said that I liked it and would take a cd that it was going to cost me $10, and attract every other "hip-hop" artist within a five mile radius. "We've got a live one here, folks." The two guys I bought the CD from were genuinely nice, even if they were Yankees fans (but we were on neutral grounds, so I gave them a free pass.) After spending $15 and walking away with a CD and a generous donation to a man so he would stop breathing on the back of my neck, we finally speed-walked our way out of there and arrived at our destination:

It was an open-air Biergarten, which I loved. I don't love beer, but I do love anything that's on the beach and slightly German (including Arnold, who is actually Austrian and used to pump himself up on Muscle Beach.)

There were lots of people here... many, many "hippies," or bohemians (whatever they're called these days), and lots of drunkards. I think that the great thing about places like this, is that when you go, you can't really be in a bad mood... it's nearly impossible. Everyone around you is having a good time, and they want you to have a good time, too. The table next to us was ragging on their friend for bringing his girlfriend golfing with them, so we obviously joined in on the debate. By the time we left (only five minutes after we started the debate), we were fast friends. Obviously.

Anyways, who could be angry when you have a view like this:

I still haven't (and probably will never) get used to the debilitatingly laid-back lifestyle out here, but I can embrace it in a Biergarten for a few hours.

Why flying to California is bad for my mental health: Part II

We finally boarded the plane, and the person I sat next to was really nice. I was relieved. We took off on time, and the captain announced that we would be arriving in California earlier than scheduled. I started reading Julie & Julia, resting assured after the captain also announced that we would be hitting little to no turbulence, and had already gotten through a good four chapters, when the screeching started. A little boy (13 months, as his ignorant mother proudly proclaimed at the end of the flight) decided that it would be a grand old time if he screeched at the loudest and highest levels that his little vocal chords and lungs would allow, intermittently throughout the whole flight. The ignoramus that birthed him only shooshed him to try to quiet him, and left him in his carseat while she slept. This kid was annoying. I do feel a little bad berating him on a blog, but I have no tolerance for lack of parenting. The child would play with his transformer for a few minutes, then throw it in the aisle, toss his blanket, then toss his bottle. The mother had the audacity to actually ask me to get out of my seat and get his bottle for her, which wouldn't have been an issue, had she actually coddled her child during the flight. Needless to say, after a good 4 hours, the angry man sitting in front of them (who had tried to be patient even when his seat was being pounded from behind by the act of said 1-year old trying to jam his tray back into the upright position) turned around and told the kid to cut it out. At this point, the mother, now quite horrified that someone would *gasp* scold her child, deftly scooped up her kid and held him to quiet him down. Eureeka! He stopped shrieking when his mother actually held him! I think she deserves the mother of the year award.

We also experienced moderate turbulance, which made my stomach a little queasy at times. When I arrived at the airport, my sister wasn't there, because he bus was running late, so I got off the plane, grabbed my luggage, and boarded the shuttle to the car rental place. I had to hold back the tears as I was riding on the shuttle bus, because I was so completely frustrated that nothing was going well for my first time traveling alone. After waiting in a short line, I paid for my rental, and headed over to the garage to get my car, complete with my best angry face. I don't know if it was my angry face, or the universe just saying, "Ok, ok, we've given her enough shit for today," but here's the silver lining in it all: by the time I got to the car rental place, there were no more available "Intermediate" sized cars, besides a Chevy Cobalt, so I was upgraded to a Prius for only $5 more a day (when it usually would have cost an extra $80/day). Bonus. So, it wasn't a complete bust, but it definitely wasn't a fairytale like I had expected it to be.

I can't wait to do it all over again! :o)

Why flying to California is bad for my mental health: Part I.

image from here.

I haven't been on an airplane since 2002 when I went to my cousin's wedding in Virginia. That all changed when I woke up at 4am to trek to Logan Airport for a 7:35am flight to LA. What started out as a rather smooth morning, (and by smooth, I mean that I got out of bed with only one smashing of the snooze button) soon turned into a gigantic boondoggle (I'm really into using that word lately...). First of all, my flight was booked on Alaska Airlines. I went to Terminal A to the Alaska Airlines check-in (because I continually received error messages every time I tried to check in online, of course), and was promptly told that I needed to be in Terminal B for American Airlines. What?





Well, that was easy enough. Then, I awkwardly checked my bag (and almost forgot to tip the baggage check-in guy until he was all, "Is there anything else you want to give me?"), and nearly sprinted to the nearest Starbucks for my much needed caffeine intake. Great. Grand. Wonderful! Everything was going smoothly again, until I hit security. Everything was at a grinding halt, and security personnel were briskly walking around the security checkpoint on walkie-talkies. It was a little daunting. So, there we were, standing in line to go through security. This would usually make me an absolute ball of nerves, but I had my coffee and $5 bottle of all natural Fiji spring water (yeah, $5 -- wtf?), so I was relatively cool and collected. Until they told me that I had to chug my venti and chuck my unopened water before I could pass through. Here I was, thinking, "I am so prepared! I have all of my liquids in this nifty ziplock bag, I have minimal metal objects in my bag, magazines galore, and my coffee." I thought I was all set. The thought of actually having to chug my coffee and throw away the grossly overpriced water left me completely flustered. Let's just say that I usually like to approach security, pass through the metal detector unscathed, and walk away, very much under the radar of all onlookers. It did not turn out this way at allllllll! I had to take off my flip flops (bare feet at logan == incomprehensible grossness), put everything into a bin, and I still set off the detector because I forgot to put my phone in with all my shit! The security man barked at me to go to the back of the line and put my cell in a bucket. I was mortified. People were giving me dirty looks. I felt like Hester Prynne. I had failed a smooth security check-in. I made it to my gate (finally), and guess what was located not even a hop, skip, and a jump away from my gate? A Starbucks. I bought my much needed grande to soothe my shaking hands, and everything was good.





Until I boarded the plane, which I will save for Part II. Are you on the edge of your seat? Don't worry, friends... I wouldn't be either.