Category: New York Story

Wave Hill, a Treasure Box

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It’s a best-kept NYC secret, bustling with life. The bustling is done by the Cabbage White Butterflies who never got the memo that summer’s officially over now that school’s started. No, the butterflies don’t know. They flit in Riverdale on September 11th at Wave Hill, an easy-going, beautiful, educational, art/nature place.

All the things you love — art AND nature — wrapped into one FREE afternoon — Yes, free! The kids and I arrived at 11:55 am, just in time to discover that the center is free until noon on Saturdays. (Should I mention that the free morning is thanks to Target? Yes, I will because they also support the bustling hip, trendy MoMA Friday nights! Thanks, Target!)

The family art sessions are always fun. Always. I did wonder as we stepped into the big, dark cottage and saw all the toddlers and elementary school kids wielding glue sticks whether my three (freshly pressed) middle schoolers would still dig the magic of family art and the loose and loving guidance on some funky crafty nature project. But hooray, they still dug it! (H. did mention, “I never want to come back here in my entire life.” But rest assured, he’s big on hyperbole and I, who am also given to exaggeration, stayed strong. I replied, “We’re coming every Saturday for the rest of your life.”)

The first assignment for the family art session? Friendly and gorgeous Ilse instructed, “Take a walk around and collect dead nature specimens. Then, return to the cottage and make little accordion books that will fit neatly into your little decorated nature treasure boxes.”

I remembered around Thanksgiving one year at Wave Hill, we made corn husk dolls, taught by young Native Americans. Another time we looked at pictures of Matisse’s cut outs and tried to cut out flowers likewise.

The leader then was a lovely guy named Noah, who Ilse informed me retired in the Spring. He was always gentle and enthusiastic and welcoming. Ilse said, “I’ll send your regards to Noah.”

But I don’t think he specifically knew me or my kids. I think he was just one of those souls who treat everyone like a long-lost friend. (Any way, Thanks Noah!)

The new staff, Ilse, is, like Noah and wonderful Martha Borrero, who is still there, welcoming, glad to see you when you walk into the space.

As usual, we pushed the boundaries of time. Martha rang a bell to let us know that it was 1 pm and family art time was ending. We were still creating, gluing, drawing, cutting out shapes, filling our little nature boxes. We finally tore ourselves away.

We ate at the café outside. I love museum cafes. Museum cafes are a bit pricey but delicious. And eavesdropping is so much fun. The guy behind us was saying, “I have time. If I don’t find a girlfriend right now, it’s fine. I have to pay my bills, get out of debt, become more responsible.”

The kids talked about whether burning money is a federal crime. I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers. As my 4th grade teacher used to say, “What am I? A walking encyclopedia?”

We departed by way of the gift shop, where we bought local honey and honey sticks, the kids’ favorite sweet treat.

September 11th is a very tough day for people like me who love New York City. The reason we love and live in NYC is that there are magical gems throughout the city — places like Wave Hill, full of butterflies and breezes, views of the Palisades and the Hudson River. What’s not to love?

Next year’s 9/11, the 10th anniversary, is going to be hard. I’m already planning to take the kids to Wave Hill again. If you want to go with me, let me know.

http://www.wavehill.org/gardens/

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My Beautiful Bridge

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I saw a performance piece “Bits and Pieces” at the Elizabethtown History Center museum a week ago. Then I saw the performance again.

The performance really hit me. Even the second time, I wept. Because the piece somehow captured it — the bridge, any bridge, is a metaphor for a woman. She serves, she links, she works, and suddenly, she is no more.

The Champlain Bridge, between Addison, Vermont and Crown Point, NY, the piece reminded me, can still be seen in the movie “What Lies Beneath” with Harrison Ford (who, like me and Hilary, grew up in Park Ridge, Ill).

I was not near Crown Point when the bridge came down in December of 2009. But a friend sent me the link on Facebook. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=URYzzGlcSKU&feature=related It so shocked me, caused me to gasp. The destruction of a monolith, like the World Trade Center, is just unthinkable. Transfixiating.

Lindsay Pontius produced the oral history/performance piece along with school kids from Moriah. It gives a voice to the people who made the bridge, used it, watched it implode.

The 80-year old bridge was more than a bridge. But she was not cared for enough.

This year, there is no bridge: businesses suffer; folks reminisce. ‘Bridge Road is the Bridge to Nowhere Road,’ a performer says.

What lies beneath is her legacy. Soon another Mother Bridge will be put in place. We will feel the old bridge’s demise was inevitable. The unbelievable becomes inevitable.

Until the new bridge steps in, New Yorkers board the ferry and cross the narrowest point of Lake Champlain to get to Vermont.

http://www.adkhistorycenter.org/cal/schedule10.html

Synchronicity Happens Here

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I believe that synchronicity – those magical moments of epiphany – happen more frequently in New York City than anywhere else in the world. I don’t know if there are studies to back me up on this. But I swear it’s true.

Like, one day you wake up in New York City, and all of the yellow cabs’ hoods are covered with these super-bright Peter Max-type flowers. Another day, there are big orange flags flying above you in Central Park.

Another day you’re riding your bike on Central Park West and you see Leo DiCaprio getting out of a car and he’s talking into a phone. So, you slow down to hear what he’s saying. And he says, “Ah, love’s labor lost.” Real sad-like. 

That’s what I’m talkin’ about. This blog is an homage to my city. It is a city I dreamed about when I was growing up in the Chicago suburb of Park Ridge, Illinois — also, Hillary Clinton’s hometown, which the New York Times once called the “lily whitest of towns.”

I remember as a kid looking at a picture of the skyline of Manhattan and wondering what life would be like inside that picture. Now, I know.

Living in NYC is not all glamorous celebrity sightings. I live in the slow lane alongside the fast lane of NYC. I don’t go out clubbing or to socialite events. But I do try to see every new show at the MoMA.

I try to get to every one of my kids’ AYSO soccer games. To do that, I usually have to drive through Harlem to get to Randall’s Island where they play. That’s when I wonder if I’m the only Soccer Mom in the country pointing out the historic Apollo Theatre on the way to the day’s game.

Sometimes I wonder if it is the city that keeps me going or is it possible that people like me — people in the slow lane who live in and love NYC  — keep the city going?

I love NYC theatre, museums, schools and parks. I love parenting my kids here. I love the brilliant people you meet and the amazing places you walk by every single day.

View from the City Bench

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It’s no secret that I’m a bench sitter. I like to watch the passing parade. I like not having an agenda.

Our daughters were in the school production of Pajama Game together and we had half an hour to kill before heading to the school auditorium. So on Friday night, my friend Trisha and I sat and watched the people go by. We were positioned in front of the lamp post near the Museum of Natural History.

Trisha was knitting. She was my decoy.

We loved watching all the kids in strollers and the dogs on their leashes. I put the camera very nonchalantly between my knees. Here are a handful of  the photos that I took of the passing people (and dogs). walking by. This is the view from the NYC bench on a Friday Night on the Upper West Side.

The Artist Is Present

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This blog is definitely becoming a review of MoMA’s latest show. Let me give you advice on Marina Abramovic’s performance art show.

Be present.

I think that has something to do with it. Don’t want to give the experience away.

Two real people in the nude stand facing each other in a narrow doorway. Knife ladders lead to three small rooms in another area.

Videos of the artist carving a star on her belly with a broken wine glass, bashing a skull against a bosom, walking the Great Wall. Video of nude men bouncing their hips into green, green grass.

There is one kind of performance art that you can actually see the Artist performing on the 2nd floor at the MoMA. (yes, the Artist is Present!) And I have tried it. We call it a Staring Contest. If you participate in a Staring Contest long enough apparently — like all day with quite a few people, then you, too may be a Performance Artist. Am I missing the point?

Oh, I see, I need to tie my hair in a knot with someone else’s hair and sit back to back for the entire day. I need to make myself pass out somehow.

I hope I don’t sound like crabby old person, like someone who goes, ”Meh! This is art! Give me Rembrandt! Now that’s art!”

Here’s my point – I don’t like to flinch when I look at art. But then, I suppose when you flinch, you are present.

The show’s oddly seductive (I went to see it because someone at the opening night of Chris’s play, “The Forest,” said she’d seen it six times). And yes, it’s very, very modern. I find it awesome that the MoMA features real live living artists and not just dead bones (of which there is a humongous pile in the center of The Artist is Present exhibit. And I think Abramovic carved the meat off of them herself and you can watch a video of her doing it.)

The show only goes for another couple of weeks. But until then, you, too, can be present. Otherwise take my word for it. It’s cool and weird.

Cafes in the Village

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Is there anything more exquisite than fresh flowers, coffee, an apple tart, art? “Smile though your heart is breaking,” sings Sinatra in the background.

The ladies at the table across from me are talking about their eating habits, the neuroscience of happiness, and a friend of theirs who is “a very good writer.”

As I wait for Hayden at this week’s Bat Mitvah service down the block, I stopped at this cafe, Di Fiore Marquet Cafe on East 12th. It is lovely. The Village really feels like a village.

New Yorkers and the Rain

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New York is for walking.  Yes, the buses and subways are fine. Yes, a bike sails through traffic. Yes, you can find parking if you drive. And yes, cabs are ubiquitous.

But New York City is scaled for the walker. When tourists visit New York, they’re always surprised by how much walking they do. A New Yorker wouldn’t mind walking 10 blocks. But you can tell the tourists — they’re the ones beginning to flag.

New Yorkers are more physically fit than people in other parts of the country. All the walking is good for kids. Within a few blocks, you’ll find our grammar school, our doctor, our grocery store, our church, our gym, and our park. What more could you ask for?

Okay, the downside of all of this walking? When it rains, which it’s been doing a lot lately, there’s no way to avoid the elements. Maybe in the suburbs, you can duck into your car right from your garage, but in New York, you can’t avoid the weather.

I hate umbrellas. They slow you down. And they take up too much public space — especially in the stairwells leading into the subway. Also, an umbrella takes up too much hand space. I suppose you could wear one of those umbrella hats, but they’ve never really caught on and I’m not going to be the first.

The best way to dress for NYC in the rain is to wear a baseball cap. Pull it low. You might want to keep on that silver sticker. You might want to keep the bill wide. (Although I still like to scrunch up the bill.)

Baseball season is only a couple of weeks away. So you can choose — a Mets or Yankees cap? So many places sell them. But beware — there’s a fashion trend in baseball caps that I’ve been noticing in NYC. The Chicago Cubs cap. How did that get here? New Yorkers are funny.

The City Just Keeps Getting Better

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Today, like a prelude to Spring, we had a sunny day, blue sky. All afternoon we spent in Riverside Park. Central Park is for tourists but Riverside Park is for New Yorkers.

First we were at the Elephant playground where I have spent more time on a bench outside of the playground than at any other city bench in the whole city. Or any city.

It’s called Elephant playground because there are elephants that spout water in the summer. There were no vendors selling water. The kids said they were thirsty and hungry.

We walked to the River Run playground via the Boat Basin Cafe (not yet open, but a man was attaching a boom box to a column, playing Salsa music).

Jolain and I talked about how our mothers followed Dr. Spock’s advice. Kids must have at least one hour of fresh air a day.

A vendor sold hot dogs and pretzels outside of River Run. One child among our six asked for ice cream. But they were not selling ice cream yet. Maybe it topped 50 degrees.

We moved to a bench that was full of light in the River Run playground. We call it that, but maybe it’s called the Hudson River park or something. The river runs through the playground. It’s a bigger, modern playground than Elephant park. A beautiful sandbox with a sculpted sun face. The kids like the depth of the sandbox, but they weren’t in it today.

The children rode the old-fashioned merry-go-round and bounced on the teeter totters for hours. Jolain and I talked of our siblings, books, art class. We whiled away the afternoon.

Peacemaking and War

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Yesterday, I woke before the family and attended the 9:30 am class at Rutgers Church on War. Rather than looking at whether churches should support or resist war, the group thought about what we can do to make peace.

I love small-scale solutions. Thinking small is big right now. Small is hot!

Here was one of my ideas:

Offer classes for kids on conflict resolution. At our local public school, all three of my kids in fifth grade were trained as conflict mediators. They patrol the schoolyard to help the littler kids handle fights.

Conflict mediation totally works. When family members argue in our house, the kids remind us and each other to follow rules and help family members adhere to these rules during arguments. The rules include listening well during conflicts. Do not interrupt.

They’ve learned to restate each other’s opinions, to hear the other side, to work together to common ground. It is a beautiful thing. Of course, they’re not perfect angels, but they have mediation and diplomacy skills which will benefit them their whole lives.

Here’s another cool idea from the Rutgers Church class — allow a new structure to grow within an old structure. The new structure will take over like a flower sprouting up within a garden. Peace is like that too. Work within a church for peace and peace will bloom.

I want to write more about conflict resolutions, but I have to get to my exercise class. That is another way to peace – getting physical. Breathing.

Art Students League of New York

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The Art Students League http://www.theartstudentsleague.org/ smells of oil paint.

The building is an absolute gem on 57th Street.

I have taken two Saturday classes there over the years. They’ve been taught by these wonderful  women of quite an advanced age, (one of whom Hilda Terry is no longer with us.) Last month’s watercolor class was taught by Dale Meyers who is still creating, teaching, thinking, and sharing. The other students’ work can be amazingly technically proficient or incredibly primitive (mine falls into the latter category).

It is exceedingly relaxing to be in a room where everyone is painting. My watercolors tend to be an embrace of negative space with a loose and splattered messy style. It’s hard to summarize. But fun to make.

I’m taking a Literature of Art Class with Ephraim Rubenstein on Thursday nights – he is so passionate, smart, provocative about the history of art. On Thursday we discussed the difference between Nude and Naked. We had read (or in my case, skimmed) Kenneth Clark’s “The Nude.” The Greeks, Rubenstein said, had a love of nakedness. Their gods were big and beautiful, not like a formless Yahweh.

We talked about how beauty in art gives one a shiver. That innately and physically we respond to art. We talked about philosophy — how when you think “bed” you have an ideal of “bed-ness” in mind, according to Artistotle. Is that “bedness” more ideal than the artist’s interpretation or an actual bed itself?

We discussed idealism. How, as Americans, we have a love/hate relationship with idealism. Is the nude who comes to model for art class a disappointment? Is he or she any less perfect or ideal than the Victoria Secret airbrushed model?

***

When I had inquired with the Eastern European woman security guard at the art school on Thursday whether class was cancelled due to snow. She told me that the school’s motto is Nulla Dies Sine Linea or “No Day Without a Line.”  “We are always open.”

The classes at the Art Students League are so cheap and so good. My daughers took a kids’ class with Martha Bloom. They just had a show in the gallery and the hallway outside of the cafeteria.

Yes, there’s a sweet, funky, good cafeteria and a tiny art shop in case you need supplies. The Art Students League has it all. Everyday.