friday evening began with a walk on the highline. a zip up broadway to a lecture on the phenomenon of supernovae at columbia university's pupin hall of physics, where my companion and i compared the attraction and repulsion of the circling neutrons in pulsars to our matters of the heart. a stroll up a leafy, quiet, northern stretch of broadway to a morningside heights dive bar where we muscled down burgers with hefeweizen. and then, because things were just too decent, a zoom back down to the meatpacking district where, low and behold, we were admitted without much muss to one of the most exclusive perches in the clouds - the boom boom room, in all it's cream and golden glory, and le bain, it's adjoining terrace complete with a bubbling whirlpool, lush faux grass beneath the toes and circular waterbeds the color of pink flamencos beneath the bum. (they must not have smelled the alkaline remnants of physics nerd on us)
saturday began late and still sleep deprived, kick started by the sounds of impatient text messages from myriad sources. i half watched the sorrow that was the argentina-germany game as i swung a skirt around the waist and applied sunscreen to the exposed regions. an hour and a half later, having navigated the haze that is grand central station, a breakfast sandwich tucked under the arm, i collapsed into the seat of a train headed north up the hudson river. fighting to keep the lids extended, i marveled at grassy mountain after mountain jutted out over expansive river, intermixed with tiny, overgrown islands laden with abandoned fortresses. what life must have been like when they were in use, what life must be like for their contemporary inhabitants; a far cry from the den of iniquity i'd said goodnight to the previous evening.
some time later i was shook awake. we were there, at the beacon train station, a 5 minute walk from dia:beacon. molested at the thought of having to muster enough energy and intelligence to ingest and respond to art, i shuffled and grunted. upon reaching the promontory that looked down on the museum, i was disappointed to see a less than impressive external shell, a one-story factory. i quickly self-regulated upon entering the cafe and bookstore, however. coke in bottles (one of my favorite indulgences), ronnybrook farms yogurt (a sign that dia:beacon is gastronomically conscious), homemade creamsicles from the adjoining town, gus organic sodas and a bowl of homemade black bean and corn soup that whisked by (further evidence of the same) hushed my whimpers. a floorplan in hand, my inner arty perked, i was ready to go.
needless to say, dia:beacon impresses, not just with the works of Sol LeWitt (crazy genius), John Chamberlain, Richard Serra and Andy Warhol, but with the space itself. wide, white halls that take a good 2 minutes to traverse with intention, a good 30 minutes if you're stopping to ingest each piece; vaulted ceilings with paned skylights on slant that dance off of elements poignantly, particularly in the subterranean, shaded space where richard serra's torqued ellipses I, II, and III live. and then, the best part, the sunken, slate grey sofas that beg for lounging interspersed throughout, allowing one to lay back and absorb the moment. it's just brilliant.
because i always try to follow the rules (smile) and photography was prohibited, we only took a few shots at close range with my iphone. hopefully this will give you a taste. you'll be pleased if you go and see the rest for yourself..
this morning, sunday, i awoke early to write to you. i feel i have neglected you, the words that escape my fingers as of late have been for my eyes only. this post is a make-up of sorts, a gest and request for re-acquaintance. so, hello.
this afternoon i board another mode of transportation, this time headed south towards the delaware river where i will flirt with cabin living. lake swimming, bonfires. midnight hikes and sleeping in a tent if i'm so bold or well accompanied.
happy fourth of july, à bientôt.
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