Chapters

A weekend trip to New York City to see the Matisse Cut-Outs exhibit. In four little words: much ado about nothing. Ridiculous, even. So in fact it was fascinating but only because there was so much hype about something so very unfascinating. I heard some French patrons say « …comme école maternelle… » with smirks on their faces and for me that summed it up.

Day three I took the PATH from Hoboken to Christopher Street in the West Village. I wandered without destination or plan for hours and doing just this is my humble and personal utopia. Then through TriBeCa and finally to Battery Park. Can you believe after so many visits I was finally going to do the ferry to Ellis Island and see up close the Statue of Liberty and that the ticket window closed at three twenty and I arrived I-kid-you-not at three twenty-five? It’s true. Can you likewise believe that I found not one but FOUR of the same tags I had photographed in Paris over the last few summers? This is truly exciting and rips wide open for me a ton of new questions about these artists’ identities and origins and lives and so on. The night ended at Rudy’s in Hell’s Kitchen where they give you one free hotdog with every drink you order, upon request. A beautifully-executed reclamation of eating like white trash.

Today was the East Village, Loho, Lower East Side, Chinatown. More graffiti, more coffee, no wine, curiously. At each stop I read at least one chapter from each of the two books I’m currently reading. One is Leonard Cohen’s first novel. Reminds me of Henry Miller in that it’s narrative is poetic and slightly abstract and partially autobiographical and simply brilliant. The other I will not even mention the name of but it’s banal and routine and akin to doing bicep curls with a two-pound dumbbell. But still I read it because I am in a two-person book club and knowing that the other person is reading it, too, makes it enjoyable nonetheless. I’ll pick the next book, though, that’s certain.

Landing already. Toronto and NYC are only a couple of chapters away. My ears are popping like mad.

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À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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