Kandinsky at the Tate

Yesterday I went to see Kandinsky: The Path to Abstraction at the Tate Modern. I'll tell you what was abstracting - me, after dealing with the enormous crowd in the gallery. I went with the same friend who toured the Hermitage with me, and it wasn't exactly the same treatment.

I wasn't particularly enthused about the show, but this may have been partly due to the mistake of going to an exhibit on a Sunday afternoon and partly that I'm not hugely fond of Kandinsky's work. (Though I will say that, as per usual, the Tate Modern did a fantastic job of acquiring such an enormous volume and wide range of works.) It isn't that I don't get what Kandinsky was trying to do with abstraction, but it eliminates a lot of the individuality of each painting for me. Then again, this theory should purport that I feel the same about Rothko's work, but I don't. My friend perhaps said it best: (As we both stared at a painting in front of us), "God, that's the perfect visualization of how I feel when I'm nauseated."

A few years ago, I had to buy a card for someone important to me at really short notice. I dashed into a corner store and had to pick something that didn't have flowers or a cheesy greeting on it. The only banal, yet colourful one that fit this category was a Kandinsky print. I found myself walking around the exhibit yesterday thinking more about this person than about the paintings on the wall. What does this say about Kandinsky? What does this say about me?

Comic Relief with Mom

Hunting for a flat and dealing with the British way of doing so is super stressful. My mom, thankfully accompanying me during this task, is comic relief.

Mom: The flat we're going to see today is right next to the Natural History Museum.
Me: Oh.
Mom: You've been there.
Me: No I haven't.
Mom: Yes you have. I took you there when we came to London during that Spring Break.
Me: I was seven.
Mom: Well, we should go again. They have great animals there.
Me: Animals? In the museum? (Pause) Are they dead?
Mom: Well, yes. But they're really nicely stuffed.

Hopping The Pond

I'm sitting in my loft, it's late, and I'm trying to get my head around the fact that I'm moving to London tomorrow. The 17 pound bag of articles and files that I'll be carrying on the plane with me tomorrow is helping. But my Zoodles and Swiss Chalet sauce packets and nalgene water bottle are packed and I'm surprisingly ready to go. Posting here will most likely be sparse as I deal with this whole homelessness issue. As in, my homelessness. Until then....cheers!

The Perfect Day

It was pretty much the perfect New York day on Wednesday. A deli bagel breakfast, shopping on Fifth Avenue where I bought a gorgeous suit, lunch in the lobby bar at the Four Seasons, an afternoon in MOMA and then an entire evening watching tennis at the US Open.

From our front row seats we saw both Sharapova and Roddick's matches, the hottest couple on the circuit at the moment. (Reading the The New York Times this morning, it referred to them as "Rodapova". God, I'm sick of the name fusion fad.) Roddick looked very good, so much so that I'm picking him to win the men's title. And I'm going for a wildcard for the women's and taking Serena. I was prediction perfect last year.

But the highlight of this year's event for me happened before the matches even started. I was wandering by the practice courts, which are covered in mesh netting, though you can peek through the cracks in the fence to watch. A guy was standing there peeking through and I asked him who was practicing. "Connors and McEnroe," he said. I snorted with laughter. Except that he wasn't kidding. So I watched these legends fool around on the court together for about ten minutes - something I never thought I'd see in my lifetime again. Photos taken on Wednesday night in Arthur Ashe Stadium.

(And as I have just been standing and pacing for the past 35 minutes in my loft watching Agassi play such an unbelievable and nail-biting match, I can't even imagine what I would have been like if I'd been there. Vomiting, probably.)