Times Square never seemed Namaste to me. Times Square is a moving place, a kaleidoscope of tourists snapping pics, of flashing billboards, of the Naked Cowboy, of friendly police officers on horseback, of quick pickpockets.
Times Square is a place to hustle through or be hustled in. But it is never chill.
Until yesterday. On my way to breakfast I passed this. How awesome.
Hundreds and hundreds of people doing yoga together in Times Square. And here they are moving from downward dog to cobra. The yogis centered the shifting kaleidoscope. They slowed the hustle. They brought inner peace. Then they picked up their mats and hustled on.
Two of my Facebook friends also posted pictures of the rainbow over Manhattan last night.
I spotted it as I approached the Lincoln Tunnel with five teenagers in my van coming back from 6 Flags. We’d been stuck in traffic for what felt like days but was probably less than an hour.
It’s amazing what a rainbow over the Manhattan skyline will do to your spirits.
One of the teens slid open the minivan door to take a picture on his phone (remember: we weren’t traveling fast, because of the traffic jam). My son gave a cheery thumbs up to the neighboring drivers of slow-moving vehicles.
Highs and Lows.
On Thursday night, I celebrated Bloomsday at the Supreme Court building downtown. You know, it’s the pillared building featured in all TV’s court shows. You know, the big steps and the feeling of justice as your purse is scanned by friendly officers of the court.
One of the best parts of living in New York City is that you can be as high class or low class as you want to be. Or wanna be.
One night you’re partying at the Supreme Court looking up at the rotunda and the next day you’re hangin’ in New Jersey looking up at the parachute ride.
Sometimes I don’t really feel like getting going in the morning. I’m in a groove with my writing and I don’t feel like waking the kids or setting their cereal on the kitchen table (I know, I know, they’re spoiled and they should do that themselves).
To cheer myself up, I think, “Hey, you’ll get to ride past the flowers in Riverside Park.”
There is no garden lovelier. It was the backdrop for the reunion scene in the movie, You’ve Got Mail.
When they were making that movie, I rode by on my bike. I stopped to watch them set up the shot. They were adding fake flowers throughout the garden. They were covering up the vents.
I chatted with the designer who was dressing the garden.
“Why are you adding more to the garden? It’s so lush.”
The designer agreed, “But we have to because we want things to be blooming in there that wouldn’t be blooming in there all together this time of year.”
That’s Hollywood for you, messing with nature.
When the movie came out, the garden did look good. Almost as good as it looked today.
I was suggesting the girls take one last trip to the women’s room before we drove home from Jones Beach. That’s when I spotted the senator on the boardwalk. I was thrilled.
“Hey, that’s our guy,” I said to my husband Chris. “What’s his name again?”
“Chuck Schumer,” Chris said.
“Right. Kids, let’s meet our senator — Chuck Schumer.”
We shook hands. I snapped a picture. He asked, “What’s your name?
“Catherine Jones.”
“And is this Mrs. Jones?” he asked me.
“Actually, it’s Ms. Coudal, but whatever.” I mumbled.
“Nice to meet you.”
Then we moved on. I commented that he was taller in person. We stopped at the bathroom. We spun some wheel to get a free pair of sunglasses at a bank give-away.
We left the boardwalk and then saw the senator again. How did he get ahead of us? He was chatting with another family. Now there were young men standing near him holding up signs, “Meet Senator Schumer.”
“Oh we love him. He’s our guy,” I told the young men.
We went and said, “Hi!” again to Senator Schumer. I blurted out. “Hey, we love the president. And we love you.” I totally interrupted his schmooze-fest with this other family. He was saying the family’s name — it was an Italian name — and he knew someone that they were related to. If you’re a politician, I guess you know people.
He turned his attention to us. “Hey the Joneses! You’ve got an easy name.” We snapped another picture.
I will try to remember our senator’s name next time I see him. Just like he remembered mine — while not mine exactly. But my family’s name.
Note to self: it’s not the destination, it’s the journey.
To get to the medieval monastery, the girls and I walked through the Heather Garden in Fort Tryon Park. I bumped into my friend Dorothy in her floppy hat watering the flowers. She’s a gardener who used to be an editor. We chatted about coworkers. We chatted about Bette Midler, who was going to be honored by the park.
Then we chatted about the Art Students League. We both took watercolor classes there. But there are no watercolors as beautiful as flowers in a garden. If I painted them, they’d look too blue, too fake, too beautiful.
I asked Dorothy, “Where is the heather?” She was vague, “Over there.”
But she pointed out the phenomenal bright red poppies. “As big as a baby’s head!” I said. We marveled at the flowers and walked on.
We tried to lunch at the Leaf Cafe but there was a wedding reception in progress.
“I’m never getting married,” K. said. “Because I could ruin some kids’ lunch.” So we walked to the Cloisters and lunched there. It was a lovely day in the park.
It felt like summer had just descended us as we walked through the Heather Garden to the Cloisters.
“In fact, being involved in either receptive cultural activities (such as attending a theatre performance or viewing an art show) or creative culture activities (where participants themselves are active in the creative process) was found to be related not only to good health, but to satisfaction with life, and low levels of anxiety and depression,” the Norwegian study noted.
Visiting a museum or garden feels good. But the visit is also good for you.
Yesterday, Barbara and I walked for two hours in the park. We stopped at the old Tavern on the Green spot for a snack. Then again we stopped for a few minutes at the top of the stairs by Bethesda Fountain.
This is such a sweet spot. In my writing class, a woman wrote a long essay about the meaning of Bethesda Fountain — how you can forget you’re in a city surrounded by buildings. You can’t see a building when you’re down by the fountain.
I love the way the angel is a part of her surroundings but above them too. In third grade, C. studied the park and told me the name of this sculpture is the Angel of the Waters. She is a celebration of clean water for the city. Thanks to Wikipedia, I learned this 1868 sculpture was the only original work of art Olmsted and Vaux commissioned for Central Park. It was designed by Emma Stebbins, the first woman to receive a commission for a work of art in New York City. Woman power. Water power. New York City power.
Me and Barbara –power walking — A part of it all and above it all too!
Yesterday was Bel Kaufman’s 100th birthday. I met her at the Dutch Treat Club, a luncheon club for people in the arts at the National Arts Club. The woman is an inspiration. She’s funny, smart, honest and beautiful. Bel is the author of Up the Down Staircase and a recent hire, the oldest ever, at Hunter College.
Just the other night at dinner, H. said, “My next girlfriend will be a model.” (I didn’t know he had a last girlfriend.)
“There’s too much emphasis on physical beauty,” I said. “Look around you and find beautiful people in your real world, like your Uncle Brendan or Laura from church. They’re beautiful. Make them your idols. Not models or superstars.” Like the rest of the world, my kids are way too in love with celebrities.
The great thing about living in New York is that there are so many amazing, old people. And Bel said, she prefers the term “old people” to “seniors” which sounds like they’re still in high school.
She’s my role model. I love the way she looks and commands a room. I hope that when I am 100, I will be so fabulous.
In this blog, I’ve written a lot about New York’s natural beauty and art. But there are many beautiful people too — as many beautiful people as flowering trees in spring and paintings in the museum.
One performance artist was painting, the other was ironing; they wore crochet.
We met our guide, a curator and art dealer, Jonathan, at the New Museum on the Bowery.
From the museum’s top floor, there are fantastic views — in the distance, the bridges and buildings of Lower Manhattan and right beneath us, the Festival of Ideas for the New City — sidewalk exhibits on community supported agriculture, art in the parks, children’s centers, new kinds of energy, just way cool stuff.
My Number One Son and I were at the museum for the last day of the George Condo exhibit, Mental States. Jonathan knew a lot about Condo. He showed us Condo’s work from the early days — when he hung with graffitti artists Jean-Michel Basquiat and Keith Haring. His work was displayed vertically, as in a salon.
Jonathan told us that Condo is prolific. He is both derivative and original. His work is an homage to art history and a contemporary take on cartooning and art on the streets.
This is the clean version of Condo's art for the album cover.
My son said one painting reminded him of the Kanye West album cover, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. Jonathan was impressed. “Yes, that was his work.”
Just then, a guy who looked like a handsome version of Al Pacino, slapped Jonathan and hugged him.
“Hey man.”
“Hey man.” They hugged in that downtown-cool-guy kind of way. It was George Condo, the great man himself. He smelled of cigarettes. He was with his wife, a gorgeous filmmaker. We chatted a bit. They wandered off.
We were impressed. But no one in the big gallery paid the artist any mind.
“They don’t know it’s him,” Jonathan told us.
But we did. And it was cool. Just way cool stuff. Hey man.
I got this guided tour of contemporary art through the school auction. I was glad that I redeemed it and that H. joined me on the outing. We left the museum and headed to Astor Place.
We were heading to the North Meadow in Central Park to watch a Little League game. The North Meadow is an oasis where white-petaled trees grow out of Ice Age rocks.
We saw these whimsical sculptures in the middle of Park Avenue.
It was hard to get a good picture from the cab window. I said to the girls, "That's New York for you. Look around you. Something new and beautiful every day."
There are so many flowering trees on my path. I don't think Riverside Park has ever looked prettier. I was down, but nature lifted me up.
The gardens are bursting. It's possible to believe the flowers have feelings and they feel joy in the sunshine.
Sometimes when I am on my bike, I am annoyed by the dogs that run wild off their leashes in the park. But they are, in their way, beautiful too. And dog walkers in the the parks have made the parks safer. So live and let live.
And just because this is my blog and I can post whatever I want. I posted this before, but it bears repeating -- a few weekends ago in Washington DC when the Cherry Blossoms bloomed, my sister and I went out to breakfast. Just the two of us -- without our 6 kids. I ate this waffle. The strawberry was cut like a rose.
100 Days of Poems and Pics 