This was my third trip to New York since the MoMA launched the Abstract Expressionists New York exhibit.    I had run out of time on my previous two trips, but was able to get there this time.  (And, horribly, it has closed so I feel terrible about going on and on.  But I’m going to anyway.)

I dig ’em.  The Abstract Expressionists, I mean.

Big and graphic and bold, they jazz me right up.  It was terrific to see all of these paintings together.  I forget, so accustomed to their images, so familiar with their forms, how shockingly foreign they were at their debut.  Forget that contemporary eyes might have gazed upon them and thought, “What the heck?” Puzzled, as Bert Cooper’s employees were with his Rothko.

Willem de Kooning Woman 1.  Really, we’re not all that bad.

I was there Good Friday and the museum was packed.  A swarming museum is an idea that delights, but a reality that detracts.  There were people moving everywhere, looking and talking and listening to audio tours.  But people were visiting Pollack like a rock star.

Perhaps you’d heard this as there have been some shenanigans with guests using those large pieces of plate glass as a TV screen in reverse, have regarded the neighbors as audience.  After all, people tend to take liberties on vacation.  In a different city you are anonymous; you could do anything there, relieved from the prying eyes of Mrs. Kravitz.  Further daring to invite the witness of strangers.  Some people tell me that when the hotel first opened, encouragement of this kind of inhibition might have been implied.  To negate this, a letter from the manager was left squarely on the table.  “As a reminder, please be aware of the transparency of our guest room windows and that the activity in your room, when the curtains are open, may be visible from the outside.”

My eyes brushed this letter three or four times during my stay.  I was amused each time to think that any human being capable of making a hotel reservation would need to be reminded that glass is clear.  That if you can see out, they can see in.  That, regardless your bravado, on-lookers might not prefer to look on.  Needless to say, that when I was uncovered my windows were covered.  The reverse was also true.

I thought I could get a couple of posts together over the weekend, but the holiday tripped me up.  Further coverage to follow.

Here’s the vintage pitcher that I picked up at Artichoke Annie’s Antique Mall.  Slightly Russell Wright looking, except for that handle,  I think.  No markings.  No pedigree.  (Artichoke Annie’s?  Really, is she kidding?)  Feeling a little superior?  Passed up were a Elsa Schiaparelli cloche in its original box for $30 and a vintage leather riding hat box designed to hold two hats.

I’d never been to the University of Missouri – Columbia so when one of my friends suggested we go support our children in a state science competition, I immediately hollered, “In!”  We did, actually, show up to cheer on our children (as much as we could cheer from our home base in the student union) but we took the slow road and saw a few things along the way.

Visually, I’m telling this story backward, but as we were headed up to find seats for the awards ceremony, I got held up and when one friend said to the other, “Where’s Patricia?” the other said, “Taking pictures of the floor.”  As they are friends, they understood and waited patiently holding the “door open” button until I arrived.  It took a lot of time to lay that floor.  Seems the least that I could do to stop and appreciate it for a moment.

That was the end of the trip.  The first part of the trip included stopping at a few of antique outposts between Kansas City and Columbia.  The day was wet and cold and breezy, though Glenn’s Cafe at the Hotel Frederick in Boonville was warm and dry and yummy – a welcome respite.

Another delightful surprise was the porcelain pottery by Yukari Kashihara.  Originally from Japan, she studied at MU and has a small shop and studio in her home in Rocheport, Missouri; her garden was an inspiration.   As we wandered out, wondering how in the world she ended up in Rocheport and hoping the world would find her, I was reminded that I seem to find equal inspiration in small spots as large.  If I look.

P.S.  The title is not entirely accurate.  I “got” a lot of laughter (and in trouble from our hotel room neighbor) and a terrific vintage pitcher in that blue-green color I can’t get over.  And the floor pic.  Which I love.

It has been a long, long winter.  I know it wasn’t just my winter, but I do take the cold personally.

I am at home at the beach.  I am happy at the beach.  I am better at the beach.  My hair is not only bigger, which feels right to this Oklahoma girl, but wavier, and somehow more golden even before the sun has touched it.

Sitting in the sun may be my last conscious vice, having long ago given up late nights, too many cocktails and scoundrels.  Something in me craves it, soul, psyche, some sort of cosmic battery, and I can feel each muscle begin to relax one by one as it absorbs the heat.

My friend, Nick Olsen, would shrug and think, “Duh.  Leo,” at this gush and perhaps he’s right.  You can all but hear my tail gently slapping the sand as I raise my face to the sun.

More lion than lioness as I have no drive to hunt, content to consume what others bring back.  (Perhaps lions would be the bloggers of the animal kingdom if they could type.)

At the beginning of the week I wondered if I needed the ocean; perhaps sun was sufficient.  But I found myself facing the surf.  Nick knows, Aquarius rising.

Each day I walked to town and knew that I prefer a village.  Here for coffee, there for bread, somewhere else for the paper.  In and back, hello and how are you.

If you were nearby, either towel or table, you would have heard me express my recently discovered distress at the thought of having a gluten allergy.  In the past week I became acutely aware that I could live on bread and butter.  And pasta.  And cookies.  “I,” I declared, “am going to eat better bread.  From here on out I am going to eat wonderful bread for breakfast every day.”  Mr. Blandings looked up over his bracket, “I asked Scott yesterday how he got into such good shape.  He gave up carbs.”

“Really good bread and a square of dark chocolate.”  His blue eyes held mine for a moment before he returned to his basketball picks, “That sounds like a good idea.”