An Art Odyssey in NYC

I reveled in a trip to some arty spots in New York a few years back with my friend Charlie who was a terrific guide

I staggered out of MoMA feeling saturated. Like a big sponge, I’d absorbed so much great art it was almost too much.

As I stretched my aching feet against the curb one at a time, I tried to regain enough energy to make it back to the hotel for a well-deserved break.

New York’s Museum of Modern Art is not just a collection of some of the most serious art in the world, it’s a real workout of all the senses. And after nearly four hours I was sated. But it’s not for the faint-hearted; be warned. The crowds were cloying but well-mannered.

To see Gustav Klimt’s bare-breasted woman in the flesh was a joy.

I’d seen that image so many times over the years that it had become imprinted on my mind. But right there in front of me, she came to life.

Monet’s gigantic Reflections of Clouds on the Water Lily Pond was stupendous. It was radical for its time (1920) and was still thrilling the crowds in 2009 when I was there.

I caught a look on another woman’s face which seemed to reflect my thoughts and it went something like: “I don’t believe I’m seeing it for real.” It was the way she blinked.

The work is 200cm x 1276cm long in three panels. At least 20 people were just sitting there looking at it in quiet awe.

I must have heard at least eight different languages being spoken.

People discussed with reverence the famous images, most of which I’d only ever seen as reproductions. And the audio device (free with the entry fee) really helped bring meaning to the paintings. Some of the commentaries even had sound effects, like the post-impressionist Pierre Bonnard’s The Bathroom (1932); where the dog barks and the clock ticks.

The highlight for me was Christina’s World (1948, Tempera on gessoed panel) by Andrew Wyeth. Again, it was an image imprinted in my mind since childhood.

My artist father was a big fan of Wyeth and must’ve shown me the picture when I was a kid. The terribly crippled woman (a neighbor of Wyeth’s in Maine) crawls towards a house in a field of perfectly rendered grass — each blade so realistic you can almost feel it under her poor hands.

We hadlunch in a very stylish café (excellent wild mushroom soup, $10, for me, and an asparagus and carpaccio salad, $16, for Charlie) within the MoMA building.

I got a little emotional there, explaining to my friend why the painting had affected me so much. Her gnarled hands and crippled feet had reminded me of my own horror and fear of disability. I hadn’t realized until then that Christina was so disabled and it was confronting to see in such stark reality.

The collection of Miros was breathtaking. The colors and the drama of each piece were thrilling to see. One-piece, Still Life with Old Shoe (1937) was spooky and sad at the same time with its not-to-scale moody shadows and glowing greens, reds, and black.

The audio commentary for Marc Chagall’s I and the Village (1911) featured a mooing cow. I wondered if it came from the giant cow’s head peering at the green man’s face or the smaller cow being milked by a tiny woman. I couldn’t help but wonder why Chagall dangled a woman upside down as a man with a scythe approached her.

The day before, we were walking along York (the area is called Yorkville) and spied Sotheby’s, the famous art auction house. Charlie, an art dealer from Minneapolis, wanted to check it out.

“Let’s pop in and see what’s up,” he said.

It just so happened that there was an auction of prints going on, so we grabbed a catalog and slipped into a couple of seats. Up on a big screen appeared a Picasso. I’ve attended a couple of art auctions before, but I was really excited to see a Picasso etching about to go under the hammer.

It seemed some collector was selling off their Picasso prints and one after another they went for some extreme prices. The 30-something auctioneer was really earning her pay that day. She barely paused for breath as one great image after another came up for sale. In the space of an hour, she must have sold a couple of million dollars’ worth of Picassos.

The bids were coming in thick and fast by phone and a couple of stony-faced arty types were bidding against each other as I watched, spellbound. This was about as high-class as art gets, and we were right there!

Anyone can go along to these auctions, but if you want to bid you must register first. It was a great free live-theatre show.

I was impressed that a 10-year-old boy sitting in front of us wrote down each price on his catalog under the watchful eye of his well-heeled grandparents. His granny and I exchanged knowing looks as I said: “Wow” quite loudly when lot 131, a Picasso lithograph (Jeune Fille aux Grands Cheveux) went for $US85,000, well over its expected price.

After an hour we’d had enough and left. Coming up the next day were works by Lucien Freud, Toulouse-Lautrec, Renoir, Pissarro, Rauschenberg and Cy Twombly among others. I was disappointed at my lack of staying power but impressed at the auctioneer’s.

That morning we had our first taste of what this great city had to offer, artwise. The Frick Collection at 1 East 70th Street was at that time, still housed in the beautiful home of Henry Clay Frick, a steel magnate. The mansion was designed by Carrere and Hastings, the same architects who worked on the New York Public Library.

The home is based around two beautiful courtyards which feature fountains, palms, and frogs spouting water; wonderful spots to reflect on a fabulous collection of old masters. Again, the audio commentary was brilliant.

Someone had gone to great lengths to really set the scene about two very special paintings. On one side of an impressive fireplace, Holbein’s two old adversaries Sir Thomas More and Cardinal Wolsey faced off. Their hostility towards each other over that Boleyn girl is palpable.

Frick clearly had good taste (and the dough to do it) and assembled a collection that includes Rembrandt, Reynolds, Innes, Corot, Gainsborough, Fillippi and some fabulous furniture from the 18th Century court of France. Much of it is in the rococo style with lots of marquetry inlay and gold gilt. Not everybody’s cup of tea but it works in the Frick.

“Not a shabby dump,” mused Charlie.

One of the few American painters in the collection is Whistler, and although his mother wasn’t there, the Frick contained some beauties. There were 10 of his works including full-length portraits of a couple of aristocrats, and some lovely seascapes.

Afterwards we were having a cup of tea at the Coffee Inn on 1st Ave and discussing Whistler’s work. An elderly and very elegant Iranian man had been eavesdropping and politely interrupted to tell us a lovely story about Whistler and Oscar Wilde. Apparently, the two were having a conversation when Whistler said something clever.

Our new friend explained: “And Wilde said to Whistler, ‘I wish I’d said that’ and Whistler said to Wilde, ‘You will, Oscar, you will’.”

This started up a nice exchange with the old guy and pretty soon an elderly woman also sitting on her own at another table joined in. The two oldies were worldly types, and it was one of those very cool conversations that sometimes happen quite by chance. She was 80 and a widow of 10 years, and the Iranian and his (now dead) wife had practiced as lawyers in Iran before the revolution.

I was inspired by their mental acuity and glad to have been able to provide a little entertainment for a couple of lonely oldies. Being a New Zealander sometimes has its benefits. The novelty factor seems to intrigue some people and for some inexplicable reason they like the sound of a Kiwi accent.

That night after a long trek down to the Bowery and back to our hotel on 7th, we were walking through Times Square and one of those shady types with a briefcase full of Rolex knockoffs beckoned us over.

“Get one of the classic ones,” said Charlie, one of the few people I’ve ever known to have owned the real deal.

“A hundred and thirty-five,” said the tall Somalian watch seller. I’d always wanted a “Rolex” but knew this was too much.

“OK, $20,” said the Somali after a brief, rather harried, discussion. He wasn’t licensed and just wanted the transaction to be over with. The “gold” looked a little too gold and the second hand clicked instead of gracefully gliding, but my new fake Rolex was a work of art.

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