The Return to New York, Part Two

Mar 29

The streets of New York are so full of life. There are always people flowing this way and that. There are buildings in constant states of construction and improvement. Restaurants place seating on the sidewalks so as to collect more diners. Dogs pull their owners along to reach that special, treasured spot that only a dog could know. There are millions of taxis, and trucks, and buses, and motorcycles. There is never a dull moment. Like I said before, I thrive in that hecticness. My little introverted self loves being amongst all the people of the city but also being able to be completely alone within that. And yet, there are moments even I need to take away and find some peace within the city. And during this trip especially, finding peace was more necessary than usual. I did so many more quiet, contemplative things this time around. Not rushing from one place to the next allowed me the space to take time. Time that was just my own.

Moving north from Chelsea Market to Hudson Yard is the Highline. The Highline is a 1.45 mile long, repurposed elevated train line that was originally built in the mid 1800’s for freight trains. It was in use through the 1980s when the route was relocated to New Jersey. It sat in disrepair alternately being threatened with demolition until it was reopened in 2009 as an official city park. But it is not a park in the most traditional sense. You still have the feeling of walking along a track, the metal peeks through the moss and grasses. There are still spokes of cable that hold up metal beams. There is a definite industrial quality to it, a roughness that makes the softness of the buds and fronds of grass even more tender. The beauty of this place is sharp and rusty but in the same breath, understated and fragile. The first time I happened upon it was after one of my monumental treks across the city. My feet were sore, and throbbing and I wanted nothing more than to sit. I climbed the metal stairs that lead up to the track and breathed a sigh of relief. There was my place to sit and take in a piece of peace right in the midst of the never stopping city.

I checked things off my list this time around, making sure that I hit all of my favorite places, Chelsea Market, The Highline, The Drama Bookshop, Broadway (not to be confused with Times Square which is a crush of tourists and low budget costume characters) and, yet, I had time so, I planned a trip to The Met. Now, I assume that most people I speak to/write for, know that The Met is the shorthand for The Metropolitan Museum of Art. It is quite possibly one of the most famous museums in New York City but, arguably, in the world. So, when I told my sweet husband where I was going that day, I referred to it as “The Met”, assuming that he knew exactly what I was talking about. Later in the evening, as I was walking to Columbus Circle I told him, again, that I had visited the museum and started to delve into the things seen and how wonderful it was when he stopped me.

“Babe, you keep saying ‘The Met’ like I know what that is…,” he interjected into my monologue.

It stopped me in my tracks. I giggled and explained to him that it is a very famous art museum. But it struck me. All of trips to New York have been with friends or solo. I have never been able to bring my husband along with me to experience my city. I hope, sometime down the line, when the kids are older that we can plan a trip. I have so much to share there with him.

Anyway, back to the Met. I had been there on my first trip to New York with my parents. I don’t remember much but I do remember a feeling of awe. Knowing that might be in store for me I was ready. The first exhibit I wandered into after crossing the expansive lobby was the Egyptian wing. As a child I always loved mythology of all different cultures, first and foremost being Greek but followed closely by Egyptian. (I even named my first cat Isis. After the goddess not the Islamic terror cell.) Walking into the labyrinth of rooms filled with precious jewelry, golden collars, marble statues and busts, sarcophagi, and so much more, there was an overwhelm of just how ancient it all was and how precious every piece is. There are hundreds of glass cases, more than one can really take in one trip. I felt truly grateful to be part of the crowd blessed with the viewing. Also niggling in the back of my mind was the snarky thought that we had stolen every piece. That everything stored in this wing of the building belongs far from here, across the world really. I am very grateful that I have the privilege to view it all but an immense measure of guilt that all these precious things don’t live in their home world.

It was a strange feeling to start my visit out with, so strong and visceral. I wasn’t sure how the rest of the art would strike me after that. I hoped in equal parts that it wouldn’t but also that, if need be, it would. I wandered into a courtyard, not sure how I got there or where I really was but happened upon several large sculptures, carved directly out of blocks of marble. There was one in particular. Nestled into the solid stone was an exquisite likeness of a woman grasping an olive branch and holding back a sheaf of fabric. “Mourning Victory” by Daniel Chester French stopped me in my tracks. All fine art is absolutely mystifying to me, in the best of ways. As someone who has no artistic talent, at least in the most traditional sense, that people can create such gorgeous and perfect representations of life, is so exceptional. This particular piece, that the artist was able to see this figure, gracefully nestled into the stone and could then craft it is beyond my scope. I loved the texture of the “fabric”, the slight lines of her torso muscles, and the softness of a human emerging out of stone. What a skill to be marveled at.

And that wasn’t the only piece that I fell in love with. Making my way up the grand staircase, I was grateful that my viewing of the remaining pieces, the Medieval European art, the Greek and Roman sculptures, had not elicited the feelings of guilt and mis belonging that the Egyptian wing had. Perhaps that was not fair, but it was the truth. What was held at the top of those stairs were the paintings of the European Masters. Meandering through them I fell in love repeatedly, I had so many favorites. I was stopped in my tracks, however as I reached the entrance of the Impressionists Gallery. One would think that the Monets, the waterlilies and the gardens of Giverny would have pulled my focus and entranced me. (To be fair, they are spectacular, but I have seen them many times in print and in person, so the surprise of discovery was not present.) Before I could even enter their room, my focus was commanded by a huge canvas of a young woman. It wasn’t particularly beautiful or bright but the look in her eyes, they told stories. There were verses and reams contained in that person. I was transfixed by the pain and longing and determination in her eyes. This was a painting of an exceptional woman. I didn’t know if she was a woman of history or fame, but I knew that I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. It was a depth of feeling and connection. Panning over to the plaque on the wall, she was Joan of Arc. She was special and powerful and important. And she felt it.

The afternoon at The Met was filled with emotions that were truly unexpected. They ran the surprising gamut from less than ideal to completely awed. As I was greeted by the bright sun on the top of the steps the experience washed over me with fluidity. From the Dutch masters to the fashion of top designers to the armor of ancient civilizations, there as so much to take in. Much more than one visit could yield. Retracing my steps through Central Park, I found myself living in the glow of all of the culture. Savoring it. What a gift.