Tuesday, April 05, 2005

The cultivation of Pantrygirl

With a nudge from my cousin, I got some culture this weekend. I gave my cousin a tour of midtown west and east in the process. We did all the touristy things we never did as kids because our parents decided that vacations should be spent sitting at each other’s home watching television and killing each other in the backyard with lawndarts.

We went to the Time Warner Building, The Plaza, The Paris, FAO, St. Pat’s, Times Square, Central Park Trump Towers and a whole other list of crazy touristy places. I was tempted to stick my head in every picture he took and do that ‘V’ sign that every Japanese tourist does in photos. Somewhere in Trump Towers, we bypassed a queue of German tourists and because of such, we wound up in a line that extended longer than one would imagine to get inside MoMA at 11 in the morning. We finally got in to find out we were in the wrong line. Damn those Europeans and their queuing. We finally did make it in and we made our way down from the 6th floor, the Special Exhibition floor. Just a hint for those who haven’t visited it yet, it’s warm inside. Incredibly warm. My face was flush for most of my visit. I’m used to the cold marble rooms of the Natural History museum. I was not expecting to look at art while stripping down to my skivvies.

I’m trying very hard to gain some culture when my cousin turns to me and says he’s been counting the the number of artworks donated by a Ms. Bessie something or other.

pantrygirl: Are you kidding me? You’re counting by donator? I’m busy trying to remember the different periods of Picasso and you’re keeping track of how many pieces the Rockefeller’s donated?

Tim: You called pointillism, dippy dots.

pantrygirl: And last night, I called a teabag a dunkie-do. You’re point is?

What I did learn was that Picasso’s wife must have had many a fight with him for using household items in his sculptures. A very nice pie server was used in his absinthe piece and he had an affinity for his three goldfish in a bowl.

There was one portrait of a man in bed as interpreted by his wife that I would love to know the name of. If anyone knows it, comment me. The title alluded to the husband not knowing how beautiful he was to her. The painting itself was of a strangly angled man in bed. He’s not the kind of man you’d want to wake up next to. Anyone? Anyone?