New York state of mind

My goodness, jet lag does funny things to your head. One minute you're functioning fine: you can hold a conversation; remember people's names; have a pretty good idea what time it is, even correctly guess the day; begin to understand the enormity of the political landscape in the country you are visiting; read a book, and (almost) manage to navigate without causing a major fall-out. The next (and it can literally be the next) minute you are unable to decide what to wear and realise you have been staring blankly at the suitcase for ten minutes; you have no idea if you told your host a particular anecdote earlier; you stand in front of a written description of a painting at a gallery and realise that on the third reading you have still failed to process any of the words, and you come over all my goodness using words that you normally only observe spoken by the very young. 

And you start taking photographs of buildings and pavements and paintings and wonder if that's normal. And then realise that it is. For you. And then post them to a blog - very slowly ... owing to the dilemma of word and photo selection and only intermittent access to an internet connection. And take three days trying to assemble the paragraphs into a good order ... any order! ... in order to construct an actual posting. And realise that you have spent five-lines-and-counting describing what you do usually, by way of the word-picture-procrasti-ramble that normally appears here. Six lines. So you may as well instruct your jet-lag-addled brain that is now procrasti-looping to get on with it. Eight lines. And make that six days. 

No, seven days. 

And now, eight ...

Time to get going again -

Day 1 (last week...!) in New York and a walk from the Upper West side, across Central Park to this

The Guggenheim and a lesson in modern art and purpose-positive architecture and mistiming 

The building was both stunning in a I-look-like-a-small-concrete-car-park-from-the-outside-but-am-much-prettier and clever in a I-am-really-a-roller-skate-helter-skelter-with-art-gallery-imposter-syndrome-that-provides-shelter-in-my-spirals-for-paintings-while-providing-a-pleasant-and-gentle-uphill-stroll-which-is-much-suited-to-the-jet-lag-enfeebled-and-generally-fatigued-of-mind.

Mis-timing as in challenging. The Agnes Martins on show are hard to appreciate if modern art isn't your thing. Quite hard even if it is. 

Though I did like this one

Because it whispered Rothko at me.

We were tired.

Our somnambulant discombobulation was slightly ameliorated by the sleepy demeanour of the gallery staff. I agonised about including this picture of the staff member at the top of the spiral because I don't have his permission. But you can't see his face. So I hope it's okay. I'm sorry if it's not. But his crumpled appearance and relaxed, easy pose unwittingly turned him - in my head - into a work of art. Every bit as poetic as the Agnes Martins. I'd entitle it 'Watching the Watchers, New York 2016.'

From the Guggenheim, we wandered down the east side of Central Park, snacking outside the Metropolitan museum and sleep-walked into 5th Avenue.

Where we found some pretty buildings.

I have been called a pretty building myself (by one of my daughters; not very long ago. I wasn't sure at the time how to respond, but the name stuck. And I've grown to like it. It evokes the spirit of something solid (!), lasting, and homely perhaps. I hope it does. There could be worse similes. And my building hasn't fallen down yet. Hopefully, its foundations will last a few more years, even if the thatch on top is thinning.)

New York appears to be full of both pretty and pretty ugly buildings.

New Yorkers like their buildings tiered and decorated at the top. Walls of glass reflect like sheer water the rush of clouds past sentinel towers.

Multiple towers and millions of windows and worker ants rushing about and looking out everywhere.

At street level, Halloween window shopping

and fantasy shopping.

I have no idea if fairy princesses inhabit New York. Clearly, D&G think they do. And that they want pompom shoes with crystals. Maybe, their hope is to distract from the clamour outside the building next door.

Whose owner must have an enormous ego, judging by the size of his ... well, I could get rude here but I will not descend to his level of abuse-speak. It's a big building. He has several in New York. All big. All perhaps, trying to compensate ... no, again, I will stop myself. He's a ... you can fill in the blanks yourself.

Yup! The name in gold confirms whose tower it is. Immense ego confirmed.
The pay (bribe ...?) he reputedly gives the supporters who turn up every day, outside his tower and shout and whistle - a lot! - confirms the throw-money-at-it-until-all-your-troubles-turn-to-dust-or-are-permanently-tied-up-in-legal-tape, squeaky-clean, screaming-with-misappropriated-rightious mire that his ego is balancing upon.

This ego is a gift to cartoonists - with his little shouty mouth and lips that look like they've just licked a parrot's arse - I'd nominate him for frontrunner in a gurning competition. But not the Presidency.

Surely, please, not the Presidency.