I have said this before and I will say it again: my ideal day, my perfect day, my greatest joy in life, is going to an art museum with Natalie, walking through the city chatting and observing, sitting in a coffee shop for an hour rambling and arguing and discussing the things that fascinate and inspire, the things we love, the things that make us laugh.
That was Saturday.
Plus: a four-year-old’s birthday party.
I hit the T station around 8:30. While waiting for the train I was approached by an elderly Asian couple who wanted some information on how to pay. Did they just tap phone? Yes - but, I noted, just once, you don’t have to do it on the way out. I said that because I was accustomed to the London system, whereby you tap on both sides because it’s zoned. Not here: flat rate.
I learned this because I had made a pointless exit tap on my first jaunt.
Now I could turn my own lack of savvy into an important information point AND act like a local! Train comes, the usual trundle. I get off to change from the D to the E at a station full of 60s markers.
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The terrazzo floors . . . |
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The aluminum slats and box signage. |
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I go to the station Natalie had suggested, with a nearby meeting point. We were going to have Breakfast. Now, as you may expect, weekend breakfast in a big city is different, because there are small places with long lines and hardly any seating. As it turned out we had to walk a long way past the station where I’d disembarked . . . and past the previous station. Hot morning, too. I did not care. I cannot tell you how much I did not care. Hungry, yes, hot and coffee-starved and I did not care.
We found the place, and even snagged two seats. While we waited, we played an online game where you look at a photo and have to name the year and location. We did rather well! Fantastic breakfast sandwiches. Next?
HAH-VAHD
They're all still waiting for their theses to be approved
Specifically, the Harvard Art Museum. What a gem. Exceptional collection, three floors, never overwhelming - you were as eager to see every room on the third floor as the first.
Old friends:
For some reason I always have my picture taken when I find a Mondrian.
Then: an unexpected reunion. I’d say it was stunning if that word hadn’t been drained of meaning by overuse. But it was. I approached this one, and thought “well that looks like a Feininger”
Then I saw what hung next to it. Another Feininger.
Once upon a time, my favorite painting in the world.
I had this one on my wall for many years. It was given to me by Nora W. , the remarkable artist who illustrated my column at the Daily, and for whom I carried a flaming torch that crisped my arm down to the elbow. I’d never seen the real thing, and I had no idea I ever would. One of those moments in which you are speechless before Art for all manner of reasons. It was wonderful. The idea that it’s been hanging here for 44 years, waiting for me - well.
This next painting is kitschy, as bygone patriotic stuff from other countries usually is. The apotheosis of a famous general, off to meet his comrades in the great hereafter. What catches the eye, of course .. .
. . . is the lack of color. I’d never seen that choice before on a large work. Your modern brain thinks “Oh he just dragged the saturation slider all the way to the left” but then you think I didn’t know they could do that, which is silly. Anyway, a striking work, and apparently reviled in its day.
It’s practically photorealism:
The text says:
Shrouded in the French flag and surrounded by symbols of national grief, Louis-Adolphe Thiers (1797-1877), president of the Third French Republic, lies in state. To his left, a mourning figure representing France bows her head, while to the right, a nude, winged figure of victory gestures toward the glorified wars of the past unfolding in the heavens. The allegorical composition was disparaged by several critics at the time, reflecting the ambivalence surrounding Thiers's legacy because of his brutal suppression of the Paris Commune uprising (March-May 1871).
It’s also not the original. That one was in color.
This is a smaller, grisaille version (painted in shades of gray) of the colorful painting that was exhibited at the Salon of 1878.
Perhaps I’m a bit dim, but this doesn’t hang together:
Vibert was a painter, printmaker, and amateur photographer, and the unique American frame surrounding his painting underscores its playful mimicry of reproducible media. Constructed in New York in the 1890s, the frame is an enlarged version of the "shadow box" frames that collectors used to exhibit daguerreotypes and other works on paper in their homes.
It doesn't seem different than any other frames of the era. But! There's a complete explanation at Harvard's site, if you wish, and it's fascinating. The grissaille version is meant as a commentary on the relationship between painting and photography, they suggest. There's a whole level of nuance and era-specific intentions we can only infer and intuit.
And that's just one picture in one corner of one room on one floor. You can see why we had fun.
We made our way up to the special exhibit, which was Early Celtic Art. “Hope you’re ready to see some lines intersecting,” Natalie said, which sounded like a Mitch Hedberg museum tour remark.
It was underwhelming, alas, and sad - lots of iron rings unearthed from ancient burial sites. We headed back down, and I had the opportunity for some pretentious art of my own. I saw the edge of a glass door against a monochromatic wall, and hey presto.
I'll give future museum writers a head start:
COVID Ghost, 2026. In his Bright Line series (2020 - 2026) the artist investigates the limnal borders between the present and the concerns of the past - in this case, the careful masking that characterized the pandemic era.
NO EXIT. WAIT HOLD ON THERE IT IS, 2026. Another entry in the Bright Line series (2020 - 2026).
After that we had a cup of coffee - at a chain. I wouldn’t have known it was a chain if she hadn’t told me. I guess it’s Australian. They don’t make a point of it because no one ever says oooh, let’s get some Australian coffee. I don’t think anyone ever says let’s get some Australian anything. Licorice, maybe. (N.B. after googling I learned that the coffee shop is Aussie owned, but started in New York as an “Australian inspired coffee shop.” No one knows what that is.)
We talked for an hour then wandered around the Harvard area. Nice enough. Tourists. Proud parents. Etc. In-laws picked us up, and off to a birthday party for their grandson. I suppose that makes me a granduncle; why not. A grunkle. It was just a delight - her side of the family, I should note, is doing their part to make up for the people who reproduce below the replacement rate. Hurrah for the three-kid family. It made for a lot of noise and discussion of fire trucks and Bluey and the like, but it was great to be with everyone, and always amusing to look at the Doctor Dad and recall when I babysat him in DC in 1992., and we rigged up a string between the balcony and patio so Batman could rope-line down.
Ended up a local bar with (deep breath) soon-to-be-ex-nephew-in-law, Jake. (Will always be NiL, though) Great guy. All-American, smart. . Learned a lot about the telecommunications industry At first I had a Maker's and he had an IPA, but when the waitress came around again I thought a beer would be just perfect, and a beer from a cold bottle. I asked what they had, and when she said "Miller High Life" I saw the old label and clear bottle and said that's the one. Jake agreed. So we sat outside and smoked cigars and drank Miller High Life. God Bless America.
Up and early out in an Uber, because I had decided the night before that I didn’t want to have a jot of anxiety about the trip. It’s 45 - 60 to the airport via T, and then there’s the bus, and I just thought: screw it, I’m on vacation. I’m not a pauper. I budgeted for this and I’m below budget, and consider it part of the pizza divident.
The what? The pizza dividend, of course. On Friday at the restaurant, Natalie and I had settled upon the Fennel and Pork Sausage Deep Dish, and it sounded so good that Lisa and Tim said they'd have the same. Thirty minutes later one of the pizzas arrived, and we were bade to wait 5 minutes before cutting, lest the lake of sauce and topping pour out. A general suspicion spread, followed by a specific suspicion, and sure enough: there was but one. The waiter had not understood we wished for two.
The good news: the pizza was capable of feeding all of us. Better news: we could use this as dessert leverage. They did comp one. Anyway, since I was paying for dinner, part of the "least you can do" guest behavior, I got off easier than I might have, so spend that on an Uber.
Thus does my tiresome mind think. Anyway.
Got here very early as is my wont, but it meant for happy easy merry airport time, and I got some work done. I also seems as if no amount of Dunkin’ java can wake me up, so I’ll be sleeping on the plane. (Note: I am sure the coffee will catch up the moment I try to close my eyes.)
LATER Nope. After I'd had my robot-cooked sliders - that was Monday's Substack - I went right to sleep. This has been the most successful plane-sleep trips I've had in years.
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