C’est Magnifique

Foreign Diplomacy

“I felt the Earth beneath my feet; sat by the river and it made me complete.  Oh simple thing—where have you gone?  I’m getting older and I need something to rely on . . .”  Somewhere Only We Know—Keane 

It was raining hard when I left my apartment Monday morning and if ever a day deserved to be started with a bowl of porridge—that was it.  I went into Bis Co Latte, where Holly was having issues with her gelato machine, and had my Tetley’s British-blend and a bowl of oats with dried cranberries and chunks of mango.

Based on the weather reports, it was not going to let up, so the Bronx Zoo and New York Botanical Garden were out.  I decided to take the subway to the upper West side then take a cab through the 79^th Street transverse to the East side and walk to the Guggenheim and the Neue Gallery.  As I exited the subway station it was pouring and cabs full of dry people sped by paying me no mind. 

I’d had the foresight to buy an umbrella at a liquor store (they keep some on hand and put them by the entrance as soon as it starts raining); it is identical to the one I bought the last time I was here on a rainy night—black, slightly sturdy, and still only four dollars.

I opened my umbrella, started to walk to the other side of the street in the hopes of better luck at getting a cab, and a French woman asked me directions.  She had a small child with her—a pretty little Audrey Tatou-looking child, but with the disgusted look a Parisian might get if you tell them brie is inferior to Kraft singles.  In her case it was the rain dripping from her hair into her face that left her disgruntled.

They were miles from where they were supposed to be; a miswritten address—not Eighty-sixth street, Sixty-eighth.  I gave the woman my umbrella.  She objected.  I told her she needed it more than I did.  She thanked me a few times and walked off.

I don’t want to turn this into an ego-trip, or make something huge of something small, but think about it:  One tourist goes home and tells everyone she knows that an American gave her his umbrella in a downpour.  All those people think Americans can be caring, unselfish, and helpful. And maybe the people she tells this to will tell someone they know. 

For a short time, those people see Americans in a different way.  And I’ll be honest; I did it as much for that as I did to keep a cute French kid from getting her knickers wet.  (Apropos of nothing in particular, while I do not know much French, I do know that the French for umbrella is Pepin and I think she was amused by this.)

With no cabs in sight and the rain coming down even harder, my jacket was soaked through as was the hooded sweatshirt I wore beneath it.  I walked up the block hoping to find a store where I could buy a replacement umbrella.  About ten minutes later I did; a convenient store just around the corner from a laundry.  I bought another four dollar umbrella and walked into the cleaners. 

 “Can I use one your dryers?”

 “What you need dried?”

“This and this,” I said as I took off my jacket and sweatshirt.  They agreed to it, but did not conceal their shock very well, and switched from English to a language the man they were mocking does not speak.  Well, it gave them a good story to tell people (a better story if I had taken off my pants which were damp as well).  I went out in front of the store which had a nice deep overhang, and made a few phone calls while my clothes tumbled.

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A Beautiful Place

“And when I see you, I really see you upside down, but my brain knows better . . .  This is fact not fiction, for the first time in years.”  A Lack of Color—Death Cab for Cutie

After getting myself semi-dried off, I went to Zabar’s and bought some square biscuit cutters, a couple pots of jam, and the makings of lunch for later; I’d enjoyed my previous picnic and wasn’t going to let the weather stop me from having another one.

Enthused by a good deed that cost me nothing more than four dollars and wet clothes, I walked the Central Park transverse to the East side rather than taking a cab.  In front of the Guggenheim Museum there were hundreds of people also wanting to escape the rain.  I was in no mood for people who were only going to a museum to avoid precipitation (even if I was among them) so I walked to the next block where the Neue Gallery is located.

My immediate impression was one of awe at the building the gallery is housed in—marble in warm, subtle colors, iron balusters on the gently-curving staircases, gleaming, pleasantly-marred floors—an overall feeling of understated elegance.  If it were a private home, you would take one look and say (with approval) “Old money.”

The gallery consists of works by German and Austrian artists, most notably Gustav Klimt.  I’ve seen some of his paintings in the past—mainly the dazzling golden-hued works of women or couples in which the subject and the background nearly become one, but I knew very little about his wider contribution.  After being there, I concluded he was simply exceptional.  

I began my journey not with the works of Klimt, but in rooms that contained clocks, jewelry and mirrors—all were extraordinary.  The frames of the mirrors were gilded, intricately-carved wood, with carvings so precise it was hard to believe they were indeed carvings.  I kept thinking of lesser gilt frames that have gesso or plaster decorations applied to the frame to simulate a painstakingly-carved frame, but these were the real deal and I have never seen finer examples.  I once saw an Eighteenth century Venetian frame selling in an antique store for nearly ten thousand dollars; it was rubbish compared to these.

The jewelry was staggering as well.  I imagine it would be termed Art Nouveau in that it incorporates both organic and geometric elements, and was made by artists whose work spoke of every aspect of their personal belief system, which fits in with what I have since learned about the artists featured at the Neue.

Some necklaces were seemingly-simple pieces constructed of complex woven gold or silver thread with semi-precious stones added thoughtfully to enhance the design.  Others were more obviously complicated, with enameling and flush-mounted stones.  It struck me that many of the stones were, by modern standards, of lesser quality—emeralds were not the black green most prized by those who know jewels, but paler and with inclusions evident to the naked eye; and opal, carnelian and lapis—stones few serious jewelry collectors would prize—were used repeatedly.

My first glimpse of an original Klimt was this one.  It is a beautiful painting, as anyone can see, but it became more important once I read of its history. The painting was a portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer commissioned by her husband Ferdinand. The painting and two sculptures that flanked it in the Bloch-Bauer home were stolen by Nazi pillagers during World War II and were missing for years.

Years later when both painting and sculptures were located, the heirs of the family won a suit to have them returned to them. They have been on display in the Neue ever since.  The story behind the painting made it suddenly more beautiful, more profound to me.  I stood and stared at it and felt a tightening in my chest as if it had been my own family who had been maliciously robbed of this treasure.

I continued on and viewed sketches of Klimt’s.  There were sketches by a young artist still learning the human form—learning how to draw an extended hand or bent arm, and elaborate sketches used as studies for paintings; and there were sketches that stood entirely on their own merits.

Charcoal, pencil and paper became a woman trying on hats, a vendor in the market, an old man with arthritic hands, or an old woman with sagging breasts, distended stomach, and bony shoulders. 

There were several sketches of women in the act of self-pleasure—they were erotic, but to me they did not seem at all lurid, it was as if I was seeing a private moment and respected that it was private.  I don’t think it was a form of eroticism that was, for lack of a better word, masturbatory.  I have a hard time seeing a man who depicted the aged and poor with such candor resorting to brash titillation.

As I viewed more I felt tears in my eyes and realized I had never had such an emotional response to any work of art I had ever seen.  I’ve seen paintings and sculpture by Degas, Monet, Renoir, Cassatt, Rembrandt, and Picasso among others; none of them did to me what these sketches did.

I stood vaguely paralyzed, trying to come up with a word to describe Klimt’s work—a word I could put into my head so I would never forget how I felt in seeing them.

Humanity.  

Klimt captured humanity.  He captured it in an innocent child, in a time-worn body—the kind of body that none of us want to admit is our eventual fate; he captured in sex—simple, unashamed, joyful sex.

I stood there with red eyes and a snotty nose and saw a German couple a bit older than myself sniggering at one of the nudes.  I was enraged.  How could anyone see anything other than what I was seeing?  I walked towards the door and as I passed them, I said in voice neither raised nor hushed, “Euro-trash Philistines.”

I’ve used the word philistine sarcastically on more than a few occasions, but that time, I really, really meant it.  At least half the people I came in contact with during my trip were Europeans—mainly French and German, but some Italian, Spanish, and British (who are not European at all, but you know what I mean) as well.

Conventional wisdom says that Americans are more uptight with regards to sex, possibly because of our puritanical roots, or possibly because we are a young country and therefore still in our adolescent stage and prone to acting like it.  Well, I spent a week seeing French, German and British tourists (less so the Italians and Spanish) point and giggle at nude sketches, nude paintings, nude sculptures, and even a suit of armor with an especially impressive codpiece.  

Whereas, I saw American school children look at these same things with intense curiosity, then watched as they worked out for themselves what they were seeing.  Most of them did not giggle; they got a knowing look and were pleased with their discovery.   So Europe—you’re not all that, even if you do make good cheese. 

Cheese isn’t everything, assholes.

I walked up the stairs to another exhibit, passing photos of Klimt—photos of him with family, with colleagues, and one photo of him in a caftan of a robe (his favored article to wear while working) holding a black and white cat.  The final exhibit was a portion of a frieze he painted to honor Beethoven.

Klimt belonged to the Vienna Secession, a group of artists who wished to promote unconventional artists, whatever their personal style or personal beliefs.  The Beethoven Frieze was part of an exhibition by the Secession with paintings and sculpture being viewed while Beethoven’s music was performed with new arrangements by Gustav Mahler. 

Behind the mural (which is mounted to the wall on spacers so it appears to float) are speakers—they play Beethoven’s Ode to Joy in the arrangement prepared by Mahler for the frieze’s original viewing. The mural depicts good and evil, and the quest for happiness—serene angels, a grotesque creature, a soldier, and lovers.

There were benches in this room and I sat and listened to the music and observed the progression of the story in the mural, and I knew I would most likely never feel this way about another artist, ever.  And I kept repeating to myself over and over again the word humanity.

When I left, I walked until I found a building with an awning over the service entrance.  I sat on the sidewalk out of the rain and ate chicken salad on a plain bagel (having learned not to eat seeded bagels when there is no one around to ask if you have a seed stuck in your tooth) and followed it with rugelach for dessert.  It was a simple lunch that suited the day.