Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Doing That Thing Again Where I Just Tell You a Whole Lot of Nothing

What with all the excitement of posting about the altercation on Sunday's train ride, including actual photos that I took with my phone (which was the most exciting part for me, really), I neglected to say anything about the intended destination of my trip. My main purpose on Sunday, besides grabbing another box labeled ACNE in huge letters from a Sephora that is not in Greenwich Pain-in-the-Ass Connecticut, was to visit The Frick. It had been recommended to me by several people, more than one of them a stranger in line for the Grand Central restrooms, which should perhaps have been an indication that it might not be my thing. Still, I was quite interested in seeing some of their pieces (Vermeer, Whistler, the odd Monet), so I pushed it to the top of the list and made the trip.

The Frick Collection is housed in a mansion once owned by the Frick family. As is true of many old, high society dwellings, the building is ornate, furnished with stiff yet lavish pieces, embellished in every nook and cranny. The art is hung on walls heavy with architectural detail. Everywhere I looked, there was yet another thing to look at, something else to take up visual space. Had I just been visiting an ornate mansion or viewing great art on its own, it would have been lovely. But the combination of the two left me overwhelmed. I found myself anxious to leave; it was simply too much for me.

I don't doubt that there are some who revel in a museum such as The Frick. In fact, looking back on those who recommended it to me and what they were wearing or carrying, it makes perfect sense that they would enjoy it. I, however, would not go back. Honestly, I much prefer The Whitney.

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I am learning how to do summer all over again. The busy days when all that makes sense is to just not stop moving until every last thing is done, the rainy days which thwart all outdoor plans and drive my young charges to utter boredom, the in between days that vacillate between the two. I am counting months first, but soon I'll start counting weeks, and then eventually days. When I feel a little overwhelmed, I simply remind myself that it wasn't long ago that the month count was six, and now I'm at a mere two. I measure time by events and visitors. I note that there is just one more plane ride I'll take.

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One thing I do enjoy about the summer schedule is that the regularly scheduled activities the kids are involved in (tennis lessons in particular) do not require intense supervision, yet there is no task I can easily do while waiting for them. There is not enough time to grocery shop, it is too bright outdoors to work processing photos on my laptop, and the wedding invitations I'm in the thick of assembling would blow away in the wind coming off the shore. Whereas the activities of other seasons require reading material that can be dropped at a moment's notice (magazines mostly), summertime activities allow for delving into something deeper. I'm already enjoying reading this, so much so that I'm nearly finished, and I've got this up next, thanks to an informal long distance book club a friend set up. It's blissful, really.

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As much as it's been fantastic exploring New York City, I find that the city's charms are beginning to wear thin compared to the charms of hanging out on the sofa with the man I love and a couple of cats. I will surely use these final months well, seeing and doing and seeing and doing some more, but I very much look forward to a much more boring life in the near future.

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