Please indulge me while I electronically utter the biggest cliché of all times: They grow up so, so, sooooo fast.
Though it seems like only yesterday that the Wee Lass was trucking around with Huggies hidden beneath her bloomers, she’s now old enough for sleepovers at the (nearby) home of her bestie, Ella.
Those two have literally grown up together, from the early days in Battery Park City to the joint hop across the Hudson River, to Joisy. It’s pretty mesmerizing to see them together now, each growing like weeds, with miles of dirty-blonde hair trailing behind them and Kindles tucked under their arms.
Okay, where was I?
Riiiiiiight, I wanted to tell you about a rawther swoon-worthy new show I saw at the Met yesterday. Because if anyone knows how to have a good time when the Wee Lass is at a sleepover, it’s Momover Lady. For reals. No sooner had Hubby and I packed her up and shipped her off than we were headed into the city for our weekly date and a spot o’ culture.
Having already seen everything worth seeing, we’re movied-out at the moment. So, as an alternative, I proposed a trek to my absolute favorite New York haunt: the Met. Words can’t describe how much I love that place; never, not once in 30 years of going, have I ever been less than completely blown away at the scope of all the wondrous treasures contained within its walls.
It. Is. Spectacular.
The show – Impressionism, Fashion, & Modernity – just opened this week, which meant it was packed packed packed to the rafters on Saturday afternoon. I’d like to go back, at an odd hour, on an off day, and take the audio tour (loooooove audio tours, even though my beloved Philippe de Montebello is no longer booming forth, with me hanging on every syllable).
I even think it’s a show the Wee Lass would like, because it marries the most magical, large-scale Impressionist portraits with some of the frocks painted therein. Yes, the exhibition skews girly; one could easily spot a few male eyes glazing over. Still, I suspect a blockbuster in the making, for the simple fact that everyone – and I mean ev-er-y-one – loves Impressionism.
As an art-obsessed teenager and twenty-something, I worked my way through a slew of favorite genres.
First I was crazy about Pop Art, Andy Warhol in particular. (And I was lucky enough to meet him, at Studio 54 of all places, before he died in the late 1980s. Yay times a million.)
Then I had a maje Picasso moment, kicked off by reading that incredible Arianna Huffington bio.
Later, I became utterly besotted with the Dutch Masters, especially Pieter Bruegel the elder. And I still adore the faux-cheerful, illustrational quality of famous works like “The Wedding Dance” and “The Harvesters.”
But in, around, and between all that, I’ve always loved Impressionism. Even when, as a pretentious youngster, it felt banal to love what everyone else loved.
Yesterday, as Hubby and I wandered from the exhibit out to the main galleries housing even more Impressionist masterpieces, it finally dawned on me why this relatively small sliver of art history is so cherished: It’s soothing to the soul. That’s the simple fact of the matter. It’s really pretty and it makes people really happy to look at it.