Time in the Apple – Pt. 1 – Do Over Day

Monday was dedicated to doing stuff we’d done before.

Like making it to the Dick Road Amtrak station just in time. Like arriving at Penn Station at least a half hour late. That put us out on the street just at 5:00 PM when traffic was at its worst turning what otherwise would have been a cheap ten minute cab ride to our hotel into a thirty minute crawl with little to watch in passing but the meter climbing.

Checked in and cleaned up we hailed a cab and headed to one of our favorite watering holes, Whisky Park at 6^th and Central Park South. Veuve Cliquot for Shelley, local IPA on tap for me. That’s where we met Johanna. “I’m traveling with a group from Australia,” she said by way of intro. “But sometimes I just have to get away from them and have a glass of wine by myself.”

Chatty Johanna, a jewelry dealer from Albury, New South Wales, filled us in on her tour so far, Rod Stewart in Las Vegas was a highlight, her feelings about immigrants to Australia, she doesn’t care for them much, and her dismay at the American custom of tipping for service. She had a stack of coins in front of her on the bar. ”It took me four days to accumulate these. Do you think it’s all right to leave them as a tip?” she asked.

She did. She left. “Most of them don’t tip at all,” said our lovely bartender.

We opted for another round.

Then it was time to stagger a few blocks down 6^th to Benoit where we had dinner reservations. The last time we dined there it was a brutally cold, snowy winter night. We were practically alone. It was warm and cozy and the fare was hearty, just what was needed. This time the joint was jumping, tables full of folks clearly enjoying themselves. Benoit is meant to appear more authentic Parisian bistro than any in Paris and succeeds admirably. The service is impeccable; the food is as authentic as it is good. Cassoulet for me preceded by a county salad (who knew that those country folk put so much bacon in their salads) washed down with glasses of a robust French red. Salmon for Shelley accompanied by more French champagne. A glass of Muscat to finish the evening.

Then to bed.

More tomorrow

Time in the Apple - Pt 2 - The Met and then the Met

We dawdle, typically, getting out the door in the morning. We’ve only a short cab ride to our destination, The Metropolitan Museum. Note to self: in the future try to factor in national holidays. It’s Veteran’s Day and the big parade is scheduled to start. 5^th Avenue is closed and the reams of traffic that roll down that major artery most days have got to go elsewhere. And since you can’t cross 5^th you can’t go east or west without first going north or south. Get anywhere quick? Not today.

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.

 

Time in the Apple – Pt 3 – New Vistas

Fog over the city this morning, tops of buildings disappear into the grey swirling mist.

What to do on this, at least initially, dismal day. We’ve enjoyed sightseeing bus tours in many of the cities we’ve visited but have never done so in Manhattan. So we hike to the Grey Line visitor center and sign on for a ride on the downtown loop tour bus. We climb aboard and settle into the sheltered seats on the upper deck.

I marvel at the vehicles that ply the busy streets of this city: big rigs, construction equipment on trailers, concrete delivery trucks, FedEx and UPS delivery trucks all competing with the vans, the taxis and the cars. Does anyone in this city own a Prius? Seems not. They favor big vehicles, Escalades, Chrysler town cars, major league Mercedes abound. (Perhaps they feel more secure inside a half ton of steel.) And buses: muni busses, tour busses and lotsa sightseeing busses. Somehow they all maneuver through the canyons of the city where every intersection is a death match between aggressive drivers and blasé pedestrians.

Our bus moves out into the melee. The misty drizzle ceases. I move to an unsheltered seat and as our bus ever so slowly moves through mid-town traffic, I see that I have obtained a unique perspective. In all my years of walking the sidewalks of New York I’ve never had this view of the medium-sized buildings, the five, ten and fifteen story buildings that I see now predominate. None are plain; all are interesting. Facades, pediments, casements all intricately carved stonework abound. Even those buildings built from ordinary brick feature elaborate masonry designs. There is a sense of style here I’d never noticed here before. For all the steel and glass towers that typify Manhattan architecture these less imposing structures more subtlety enhance and inform this city’s urbanity.

Our tour guide’s laid back narrative is entertainingly informative although somewhat celebrity driven. “This is the corner where Alex Baldwin was busted while riding his bicycle.” But by the time we reach Herald Square the weather is clearly resolving into a pleasant afternoon. This stop is announced as in additional to, obviously, Macy’s the stop for the Highline. We’ve both always wanted to see it so we abandon the tour bus and head east on foot.

We reach it, climb the stairs, and right away know we’ve made the right decision. What was once an abandoned elevated railroad line in now a marvel of urban park design. Late autumn colors abound all along this elevated park. Planking that fills the spaces between the former tracks rises gracefully to form benches and railings. At intervals we encounter public art, much of it by renowned artists.

At 22^nd Street we climb down and walk over to 10^th Avenue to the Empire Dinner for a late lunch. The weather has continued to improve and we opt for a table out on the sidewalk under an umbrella to shelter us from the now shinning sun. When an occasional cloud crosses the sun the breeze picks up producing swirls of autumn leaves. Almost too nice. Cobb salads for us both accompanied by cava and IPA.

Back on the Highline walking north it’s not possible to not notice that this neighborhood is in the midst of a wave of gentrification. All around once abandoned buildings either have been or are being restored. New construction abounds There is a lesson here for those who favor gracious urban living.

We reach the newest section opened just months ago where the Highline swings out around MTA rail yards to the river. By now it’s become what surely is the last gorgeous late autumn day. The sun now low in the west is adding colors to the panoramic views down river to the skyscrapers of lower Manhattan, to the dappled palisades across the river all of it reflected in the swift flowing yet placid appearing Hudson. We linger in the Zen of it not at all anxious to leave. But there’s another opera to attend tonight so reluctantly we catch a cab back to the hotel. 

 

Time in the Apple – Pt. 4 – Can Grand Opera be Lackluster?

We’re back at Lincoln Center for a performance of Verdi’s Aida.

This is something of a return to the beginning for me. I saw my first live opera here a handful of decades ago. It was Aida which Barbara Copley once described as “the wedding cake of operas.”

My love of opera owes much to the Metropolitan Opera Saturday broadcasts. It didn’t start with listening to the operas, however. Most Saturday afternoons I’d be out in my car running errands. On one of those afternoons while surfing around the radio dial I encountered the Opera Quiz, an intermission feature of the opera broadcasts. I was entertained and impressed by the erudition and knowledge of opera displayed by the contestants and host. On subsequent Saturdays, I would tune in to catch the quiz again. Operas, of course, are of widely varying lengths so I could never be sure when the quiz would be on. Sometimes I turned in early and caught the last part of an act. Sometimes I listened on after the quiz was over and the opera resumed. After a while I was hooked. I started listening from beginning to end.

But listening to opera on the radio is kinda one dimensional. So when I found myself by myself overnight in New York on business I headed over to Lincoln Center and bought an orchestra seat. I was beguiled from the hushed opening notes of the overture to those evanescent notes of  the ending. So here we are back at the Met to view a new production of Aida. To be sure, I’d read the less than enthusiastic review in the Times. But that was a few weeks back and I hoped the production had caught fire in the interim. Alas, it hadn’t. Oh, there was spectacle of course if almost all in tableau. There was Verdi’s magnificent music of course. One of my favorite moments in all of opera occurs in act two when all five principals and the chorus are all on stages and all singing their hearts out. But this production somehow lacked the dynamism one expects of grand opera.

 Perhaps the comparison is unfair but never the less this production paled in comparison to the John Adams opera we’d attended the night before. At times it seemed almost comical (one of the horses pulling Rhadame’s chariot in the second act actually got a laugh). It wasn’t of course, its tragedy but never was really conveyed as such.

 Too often the performers just stood and proclaimed. The  scene in which  Amneris tricks Aida into revealing her  love for Rhadame is a deeply personal confrontation between  two women who feel themselves to be as Amneris sings in act  one, not master and servant but sisters. Not in this production. The two sopranos stand far away from each other,  stage left and stage right, and sing not with or to each  other but out over the audience. Sometimes there just isn’t any surprise in your package.

Our time in the opera house was preceded and followed by visits just across Broadway to P J Clark’s for, you guessed it, cava and IPA. After the performance we added some very tasty tuna tartar tacos and a shepherd’s pie a piece.

 

B&D Blues

Our Black and Decker portable hand vac could no  longer  hold a charge. So I went online and found a website where I could purchase just the replacement battery I needed for $42 plus shipping. In one of those “I’ve got a minute; why not look,” moments I went to Amazon where I learned that I could purchase a brand new same model hand vac for…$42. And since we’re Amazon Prime members I wouldn’t incur shipping charges.

Then just to make sure, I went to Black and Decker’s website where the replacement battery was
 listed at $56 plus shipping.

How does this make any sense? I’m wondering about s as I await delivery of my brand spanking new hand vac.

Up in my Attic

 

A good friend sent me this email:

To: Jack Dumpert
Subject: Any of this in the attic? 

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/10/26/arts/artsspecial/spider-man-among-comic-art-up-for-auction.html?module=Search&mabReward=relbias%3Ar%2C%7B%222%22%3A%22RI%3A17%22%7D

This was my reply:

No, but up in my attic I do have the first issues of a tabloid sized comics publication written drawn and published by legendary comic artist Joe Kubert.

Kubert’s style was unique and I greatly admired it from my earliest encounters with his work, principally his work on Sgt Rock which appeared first in DC comics way back when I was in high school. Then in the early sixties I was totally blown away by his artwork reviving Hawkman. When I started this email I looked around online for examples of Kubert’s art. There are lotsa reproductions of his comic book cover art but very little of his interior pages which is where he really shined. This is the best I could find:

Check the amazing perspective and unique use of blacks…Kubert inked all his work himself.

Around the time he founded the Kubert School in the mid-seventies he began to independently publish that tabloid comic. It could only be had by subscription and I was a subscriber from day one. Alas, it only survived for five or six issues. Then I received a letter from Kubert to subscribers announcing its cancellation. In the letter Kubert apologized as the tabloid ran several continuing stories none of which would now ever be concluded. To make up for that Kubert included a small portfolio of his original art. That, along with all of the issues that were published I still have and treasure to this day.

I’m not sure if they’re worth anything although I suspect they may be as they are quite rare. I couldn’t help but notice that they’re not even mentioned in the Wikipedia Kubert bibliography.

Sorry to go one like this. It just one of those topics that opens the floodgates…

 .Jack.

 

 

 

Dawin Martin Docent

I wrote this a little short of a year ago and submitted it to the My View column in the Buffalo News. Rejected it was. I’m now 0-2 with that feature.

Since then the house has continued to reveal itself to me. I doubt that will ever end.

I stopped adding to the list of countries as there grew to be too many to keep track of. On just my once a week tour I’ve had visitors from every continent except Antarctica.

Oh, the visitor comment at the end is a sorta fix. It was written by our dear friend Paula who was visiting from her Toronto home. It was, honest to goddess, unsolicited.

I conduct my tour every Monday at 1:00PM. It’s been called “awesome” and not just by me.

Stop by if you can.

 Back in the chilly, dark days of early April I began docent training at the Frank Lloyd Wright designed Darwin Martin House. 

 

I had for many years conducted my own walking tour of downtown Buffalo. I did it just for my friends or their out of town visitors. I had, after all, worked downtown for forty years. I knew my way around and knew enough about the principal downtown buildings and their histories to keep my guests’ interest. My friends encouraged me to do it on a more formal basis, either on my own or with one of the tour companies that ply downtown streets.  But I was always daunted by the amount of additional research that I would have to do to be really qualified. 

Then I learned that docent training was being offered at the Darwin Martin House. Clearly, learning all about one structure would be a whole lot less taxing that learning as much about a city full of buildings. So I signed up. 

Early on there were times when I was ready to take a walk on it. I didn’t see any difference between the big chunks of required reading and homework, something I’d pledged many years ago to never do again.  Fortunately, most of it proved interesting and propitiously, some of it led me to other related readings.  

The first few classes featured speakers who introduced us to some aspect of the home’s architecture. I found them only marginally interesting.  They were followed by the heavy hitters. Ted Lownie, the architect who supervised the home’s extensive reconstruction, bumbled endearingly through his slide presentation, but nevertheless elucidated the revolutionary architecture Frank Lloyd Wright devised when designing the home. He was followed by Jack Quinan, the home’s curator emeritus. His presentation, enhanced with droll Irish wit, placed Wright’s work in historical context. Their talks engaged me. 

Next came our first assignment: stand in front of a group of classmates and deliver a brief talk about one of the rooms in the house. We’d been told to find our own voice, to prepare a presentation in our own words. My little talk included lotsa of the juicy stuff that marks Frank Lloyd Wright’s lifetime. But the teaching docent cut me short.  

“We don’t go into that,” He said.  

I left that night went home and sulked.  If they didn’t want my perspective, then the heck with them. I was pretty sure I wasn’t going back.   

Then, on the spur of the moment, I attended a talk on the history of the Martin House Restoration Corporation presented by Executive Director Mary Roberts. She spoke of the many people who had contributed. Some of the names she cited, Zemsky, Wilmers, Lipsey, were familiar; many were not. I was particularly struck by a photo of the late Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan, whom I greatly admired, hugging one of the home’s piers.  Hers was the story of a two decade long restoration effort which had come a long way and accomplished so much. As I listened I began to realize that I was coming very late to a monumentally successful project.  It was time to give my ego a rest and learn from all of those whose achievements clearly showed they knew what they were doing. I rededicated myself and became the first in my class to complete training. In late June I started conducting a regular weekly tour. 

Those that believed that Frank Lloyd Wright’s early masterpiece would draw visitors from all over the world have been proven correct. In just the few months since my docent graduation, my tours have included visitors from China, Japan, Korea and Thailand, from Switzerland, France, England, Ireland and Germany, from Brazil, Argentina, New Zealand and South Africa. And, of course, from all over this country and Canada.  

Invariably they leave impressed.  They are struck by the audacity of Frank Lloyd Wright’s design and stirred by the home’s beautiful interior. And because the docents have been so well prepared, visitors leave with new insights into principals of architecture and social history.  One recent visitor wrote, “I’m still thinking about and talking about the house and all that I learned on the tour. Bravo! What informed volunteers you have!”