Even after we get there we’re not there yet. We’ve come for
the Cubism show but it soon seems like we’ll never get to it. We wander through
the maze that is the Met. So many treasures from so many different ages and
cultures. It’s not hard to be diverted.
We do locate the Cubism exhibit eventually. Entering we
learn this is not the Met’s collection…not yet, anyway. It’s on loan from a
Lauder heir. Inveighed early on by Daniel-Henry Kahlweiler, agent to and
champion of the Cubists, to purchase a painting by the young
Picasso, Kahlweiler so liked it that he decided to collect ‘em all. Not just
Picasso, but Leger, Braque, Gris all made it in to his extensive collection
covering decades of these artists’ work. Lauder will eventually donate the
entire collection to the Met.
I found myself lingering over the pre-WW I paintings. It’s
the era in which Frank Lloyd Wright designed the Darwin Martin house. In the
tour I conduct there a point comes in which I must distinguish between the
immutable universe of the Victorians and the Modern Age which seceded it. The
new age is typified by the opening up of structure. These paintings from that
period so exemplify that. They’ll make it into my tour.
And I’m reminded of George and me climbing Montmartre in the
drizzling rain to find the studio where in those earliest days, the young
impoverished Picasso and Braque would meet every evening to confer and, I would
guess, commiserate.
A late lunch in the café, a visit to some exquisite
porcelain from fin de siècle France and England, then back to our hotel.
Traffic is still a mess. The cabbie leaves us off at Grand Central
Station suggesting that we will get to hotel faster by walking there than by
staying in his cab.
Evening arrives and we venture out again. This time we’re
headed to the Metropolitan Opera to attend the performance this whole trip has
been built around, “The Death of Klinghoffer” by John Adams. I’m prepared to
like it. I’m a great fan of Adams. The opera exceeds all my expectations. The
beauty of so much of the music, the powerful performances, the outstanding
stagecraft, the gripping narrative…it’s all so compelling. I had no idea of the
depth of the work. It has so much to reveal that I know I must attend again if
and when another opportunity arises somewhere, sometime.
Afterward it’s a quick walk across Broadway to Bar Boulud
for a late meal. After the wretched excess of the night before I opt for the
baked halibut and a coupla glasses of Tisot. Duck breast and more of that fine
French champagne for Shelley
More tomorrow.
