All my boxes finally were packed and sealed for the office move. We had been packing for two days. My coworkers were quietly sifting through their own papers, drifting around socializing, or drifting out of the office. Russian moving men were hauling stuff away on handtrucks.
I beat it outta there. It was 11:41 am.
I went as far away from Soho as the train could reasonably carry me in thirty minutes. Midtown! MOMA!
MOMA! Where I'd never been before.
MOMA! Steel and glass and hardwood floors.
MOMA! Where the Pollock's as high as an elephant's eye.
I spent a lot of time on those Pollocks, esp. full Fathom Five, in which you can see the form of a cigarette and a paint tube cap sloshed in with the rest of the caked-on color. I like that. The artist and his crap.
Museums are so dizzying -- not to mention the art therein, in this case -- I had to take pee breaks often, just to unwind. The arch of my right foot is aching something fierce too these days, and the wood floors are killer.
There seem to be a lot of German tourists afoot for some reason.
If this were a romantic comedy, a dashing man would have approached me as I gazed at the Walker Evans subway candids. He would have commented on how vivid the unwitting subjects look. I would have explained how, upon seeing the larger Evans retrospective at the Met a few years ago, I saw a candid of a man I swore was my grandfather. It made sense: New York in the thirties and forties-- a very familar-looking Anglo-aristocratic guy in a fedora and topcoat -- square jaw -- light eyes -- baby on his lap. I couldn't positively I.D. either the man or the baby, though. The man's head is turned.
The portrait burned in my brain. I found it in the Evans book that accompanied the show. I called up my dad and asked him to scout for the book and find the photo. He and my mom did so over a latté at their local Barnes and Noble on Long Island.
"I'm sorry to report, I don't think it's him," my dad said. "That wasn't grandpa's nose."
And that would have been the end of the story I would have told to the dashing man who did not exist and did not approach me.
As if MOMA weren't exhausting enough -- with or without these imaginary dramas -- I headed next to Bendel's for some serious froufrou.
Bendel's! With a whole wing devoted to candles.
Bendel's! Pashmina my heart.
Bendel's! With lace thongs wrapped up tight like little bullets and stored in a jar.
I wanted some makeup but wasn't sure what. Finally I supplicated myself to the girl at the Benefit counter. She was so young and skinny her bra stood up of its own will.
"We'll do the smoky eye on you," she said gravely.
I left with smoky eyes and shiny candy apple lips. Bought 2 products. One is a yellow stick that knocks out an excess of rosiness in your complexion -- effective for when you paint your lips red and want to tone down your face in contrast. Fooling around with it today, I discovered it makes a very good under-eye concealer as well.
The second product is more controversial. It's luminescence. The dewey look. Huey, dewey, gooey. I still can't tell whether I glow, or I look clammy and schvitzy as if from food poisoning.
As soon as I hit the street I blotted out my lips. It was warm out, which felt comforting.
It wasn't even five o' clock yet. I'd ordinarily be at work for another hour or two!
Crossing in front of the Plaza, I looked up at Central Park East. The boughs of the trees were touched with yellow. Yellow cabs were passing by. The sun was low and gold in the sky.
