Billions for a Basquiat!!!

Closer to home, where I seem to be staying more and more lately, the big news in the NYC art world last week was that a Basquiat painting, this Basquiat painting, sold at auction for $110,000,000.  That's right, one hundred and ten zillion dollars, to a 41 year old Japanese fashion billionaire who just had to have it, paying almost twice the pre-auction estimated price.

                                                           Yikes!!!!!

The painting, described as "virtually unknown" prior to the auction, being in a "private collection since 1982" raises big provenance questions for me, anyway.  Considering the frequency with which people are coming across "new and previously undiscovered" Basquiats, I sometimes wonder how many are real and how many are found by dumpster divers hanging around the side doors of local elementary schools.  Even if the above one was the real McCoy, which I'm sure it may be, I couldn't imagine where I would hang it without being mortified by my judgement, and how I would justify this expense to friends, family, or myself.  

Working within my price range, and following the long standing principle that you should only buy what you like (which would have left me out of the bidding on the Basquiat), I recently bought this lovely little painting of a motor scooter,

by Chester DeWitt Rose, for $400, and I get great pleasure out of looking at it every time I pass by it,  and have no buyer's remorse, but I do like to wonder what would be hanging on my walls if I did have a billion or two.  Hopefully I would remain the sensible person I like to think I am, but probably not.

                                                              Pablo

My morning at the Morgan Library with Emily Dickinson...

I no longer find roaming around NYC of much interest.  The city I grew up in no longer exists and I am old.  It is now someone else's city now.  I now find myself lost and disoriented when I am there.  But since we are still there often enough, I have begun to spend more time in Brooklyn, and making surgical strikes to visit places I never had time for in the past.  One such place is the Morgan Library.   I can only attribute my prior avoidance to the place to the jumble of conflicting feelings surrounding my distain for the blind grasping power of vast wealth that Morgan represented, my love of books and my ignorance of what was there, or maybe just not being able to fit it in.  My loss!!!

But now, I finally got to the J.P. Morgan Library and Museum on Lexington Avenue and 36th Street in Manhattan.  It is indeed a monument to the insatiable, grasping power of vast wealth that allowed for pillage, plunder and the capacity to buy antiquities by the boat load, but in Morgan's case it is so much more.  In his minds eye, he had vision of how it would be, and like everything else he did, he succeeded.   He created a transcendent work of art in its own right, having the very good sense to know what he wanted and admired and hiring buying agents with the taste and intelligence to intuit their employers intent and to collect well.  The result, shown in part below was the creation of a Renaissance palazzo dedicated to the accumulatation  of knowledge, art and history housed in the most spectacular surroundings and bequeathed to the people of New York.  The man was a glutinous omnivore, but you've got to love him.  He loved books and with them, built something transcendent.  He created an object of art worthy of Michaelangelo and shared it with the world; money well spent.  

,

                               Images borrowed from Morgan Library website

                             
J.P.Morgan was not a scholar or a reader of books to any degree, but distinct from other robber barons of the era who just bought lots of stuff, he amassed a vast collection of books and manuscripts which speak to his deep UCS longing for the scholarship and the academic life that eluded him in lieu of his worldly pursuits, but which he was able to acquire in the only way he knew how, to buy it.  It's a fact that you can't do it all, but he loved books and loved what they represented.   Somewhere in his soul he longed to be a scholar, and he created a spiritual experience, a temple to knowledge housed in an inspiring setting that he obviously worshipped in and then left it to the world.  The library has three Gutenberg Bibles, this is the one on display and the only worthwhile picture I took that morning.

An interesting counterpoint to this breathtakingly grand display of wealth and power, was the special exhibit on display during my visit there on the life and works of Emily Dickinson, whose physical existence was as small, understated and unadorned as a cloistered nun, whose needs appear to have been minimal, and whose mark on the world were little more than a few scrawled poems on scraps of paper that filled the draws of her room.  Barely enough physical evidence of her existence to fill the small room housing the exhibit.  Unlike the Morgan Library which overwhelms and engulfs, forcing itself on you and commanding your attention and indeed reverence, Dickinson's presence is barely felt at all, forcing you to squint to seek her out and struggle to connect the dots of the shards of evidence testifying that this small, introspectively rich inner life even occurred.   Interestingly the exhibit is named for the first line of a poem that displays a sense of self that is the anthisis of the ego of Mr. J.P. Morgan:

                                             I'm Nobody!  Who are You?
                                         
                                            Are you - Nobody - Too?
                                            Then there's a pair of us!
                                            Don't tell! they'd advertise - you know!

                                            How dreary - to be - Somebody!
                                            How public - like a Frog-
                                            To tell one's name - the livelong June-
                                            To an admiring Bog!

Was Emily's reference to the Frog, a veiled jab at the puffed up Mr. Morgan?  It is very interesting that the curators chose this poem and the dichotomy of egos it implies as the focal point of the Dickinson exhibit in the house of Morgan.  We'll never know.

                                                              Pablo

Sag Harbor Theater...RIP

April 25, 2017

Jackie and I have been staying in Riverhead for the past week for family visits, a wedding and to take pictures if only it would stop raining long enough to plant my tripod.  To boost our soggy morale, a lunch at the Dockside in the old American Legion Hall in Sag Harbor seemed like just the thing.  Sag Harbor is fortunate to have been just far enough off the beaten path and not particularly well publicized so that they have avoided any of the crass commercialization that is so often inflicted on quaint old fishing villages in the USA.  The streets are quiet and evocative, with a sense of authenticity that provides a glimpse into the past, where on a cool, damp morning, the smell of the sea pervades the air with its nautical presence.

The main street still slopes gently down to the wharf, harbor and the sea and the streets are still a hub of local commercial activity with not a tee shirt shop in sight.  For me, two important lynch pins to the charm of Sag Harbor have always been the American Hotel dating back to the 1800's, still elegant and exuding old world charm, and the 100 year old Sag Harbor Theater which was there in the middle of town last time we were there in the fall of 2016 and is now an empty lot, having burned to the ground in December of 2016.  Its smiling face no longer greets visitors, brightly reminding them where they are and how lucky they are to be there.  Much has been lost.

                                                              Pablo

Miami Beach B-Day...

Well, it is 12:01 am, February 14, 2017 and Jackie and I are here in Miami acknowledging with gratitude, the acts of kindness and good fortune that made it possible for me to have made it to my 70th birthday, a goal made all the more poignant as so many others seem to be falling by the wayside lately.  I had a close call this year, and can take no personal credit for this dubious birthday accomplishment, particularly in view of my careless, even cavalier attitude toward my well being.  Were it not for the miracles of modern medicine and Jackie's care, my last posting ever may have been in August of this year.  I do not take this good fortune lightly, and am certain divine intervention was at play.  In this regard, it is best not to think or question to much about that which is not yours to know,  and just be mindful and grateful.

As planned the party for two began at 4:30 with pina coladas at the News Cafe fortified with floaters from a bottle I had in my pocket, followed by dinner at Spiga, a very appealing looking Italian restaurant on Collins and 12th that I had admired from afar for many years.  But alas, it was just ok.  My Caesar salad was weak and a bit wilty with not a hint of anchovy flavor and the pear/ricotta/ ravioli/pasta thing I got sounded great on the menu, but was short on flavor.  Just a bland creamy unexciting concoction that looked lifeless in the bowl.  Jackie was much more impressed by her tagliatelle and I had to agree that it was pretty good.  No need to go back, however.

Readers of this blog know that I always like to say that there is something uniquely American about America.  There is an exuberance about our architecture that expresses the unbridled hopes and aspirations, the ambition and imagination, unleashed by the unlimited possibilities of the new world that is no better exemplified that by the Art Deco District of Miami Beach.

While there is no shortage of examples of Miami Deco architecture, the Leslie Hotel built in 1937 is one of my favorites, probably because of its bright cheeriness, and because I have a niece named Leslie whose bright, outgoing ways match the hotel's warm welcoming demeanor.

Still working on the lifeguard station series, but only one new one this time.  All the others are about the same as last time we were here and already recorded, and while the weather was great for the whole week, the sky was frequently flat and uncooperative, photographically, much of time, although not always, obviously.  

Stayed for the week at the Winter Haven Hotel on Ocean Drive, a classic deco hotel built in 1939.  The room was small but nice, although a bit damp feeling and uncomfortable at times.  We didn't have a car which turned out to be a good thing, necessitating our not spending too much time in the room, and making us walk 3 or 4 miles just about every day.  Every time we are in Miami we talk about spending a month or two in the winter.  Maybe next year.

When you are on foot or riding a bike, you get to see a lot more.

An architectural detail on the wall of the old 1930 synagogue we passed on lower Washington Ave. which is now a Jewish museum.  It was a Sunday afternoon a little after 3:00 and we were on our way to Smith and Wolensky on the canal at the bottom of Miami where we love to have a two martini late lunch and watch the cruise ships leaving Miami Harbor headed for the Caribbean.  Saw 4 ships that day and were not disappointed.  That's it for now.

Pablo                                                                          

Addendum:

More on the Winter Haven...

In spite of our kind of small and mildly muggy room, one saving grace for Jackie at the Winter Haven was the french toast which was some of the best she'd ever had, which is saying a lot.  It was as good, maybe better than mine.  Thick sliced, well soaked, and well cooked to produce a sweet, custardy consistency inside, and a crispy exterior.  

 

And the mojitos were also strong and good, in fact when the bartender was pouring the rum, I was beginning to wonder if he was ever going to stop.  So while I'm not sure I'd stay there again, I can recommend a long, lazy late afternoons happy hours on their veranda...

Pablo

Oh, and one more photo I took in a Miami cafe one morning that I liked a lot but realized there will be no place to put it, so before it becomes an orphan photo, I will append it here...There is something Gandhi-ish about it.  You can see my head in one of the central mirrors.

                                                                          Pablo

                          

Back at the Cafe St. Germaine, Old San Juan...

Dateline, Old San Juan:

January 17, 2017

It's been a couple of years since I was here last, aimlessly wandering the streets in search of rum smoothies and inspiration.   I thought I had my fill of Old San Juan back then, when I almost burnt myself out spending those few weeks finishing my book "Cinco Calles".  In the end, the only thing that saved me from a complete literary meltdown were the five o'clock, five dollar happy hour mango mojitos and tapas on the third floor cafe of the St. Germaine at the corner of Sol y Cruz.   Here I gently drift into an alternative reality, channelling the zeitgeist of a time and place long gone and for the few hours that it lasted, I was in the zone, at one with the "lost generation", a raffish, Hemmingwayesque wannabe spewing meaningfully meaningless literary blather dressed to impress, masquerading as an exercise in self importance.  Poetry as a selfie of the soul.   So much so, that it brought to mind a poem I had written in the late 90's during my long cushy years of self imposed indentured servitude.

As if to deny their humanity,

the materialists have been heard to ask the question...

Suppose you were to take an infinite number of monkeys,

and place them in front of typewriters

to strike randomly at the keys

for an indefinite period of time,

could one of them product the great American novel,

a sonnet, or at least some mediocre poetry?

Why yes I could answer,

I am that monkey!!!

Now I'm back.  Perhaps you remember the interior photo I took at the St. Germaine back then and posted in the Cinco Calles posting of May 2015...

 For a change, nothing has changed.  Even me.  As luck would have it, they had not yet gotten their delivery of mint leaves for the day and therefore while mango mojitos were on the menu they would not be in our future today.  Had to fall back on a second choice which might have been a first choice anywhere else, the Boozy Colada, which lived up to it's name.  A thick, velvety rum smoothy that, with the help of a floater, got us to where we were going in no time at all.  The veggie centric tapas were few and since I avoid hummus (I am always disappointed by all but mine, since I don't skimp on the lemon and garlic) we shared a flatbread which was good.  As you don't need to be told, the photo below is the heart of the operation.

While it is not readily apparent at first sight, the next shot is actually a selfie of Jackie and I, just the way we like it these days.  If you click on the photo to enlarge it, and look in the mirror on the wall in the middle of the central area on the third floor which was still devoid of other patrons when we got there at 5:30, there we are.

The corner of Cruz y Sol from the window of our table at the Cafe.  Didn't take a picture of the exterior.  Don't know why, but there must have been a good reason that I can't remember right now.

Pablo

Three old dogs...

Pablo

The world's best potato latkes!!!

December 31, 2016

It is the last night of Chanukah and as good a time as any to mention that I make the world's best potato latkes.  I should clarify ...my mother, Elaine Shapiro, made the world's best latkes and I watched hungrily over the years as she slaved over the stove serving them hot and crispy right from the frying pan on Chanukah.  Sadly she is gone and the job of world's best latke maker has fallen on my shoulders.  It's amazing what you can learn by just standing around and watching.   Blintzes, chopped liver/herring, stuffed cabbage, ...I can do it all.

This is no idle boast.  Everyone who eats my latkes, even old pros, say that they are the best they have ever eaten and ask for the recipe.  Like all good intuitive chefs, I have never followed an actual formula.  I just work by sight and smell and feel, and hope for the best.  While I know the ingredients, I have always been vague about the amounts.   Last night, however, we made a small batch using 4 potatoes and an onion, and I realized that I had the measured amount of ingredients which would qualify as an actual recipe, ...so here it is.

Start with 4 medium sized potatoes (I use russets), peeled.  Using the safety grater below, grate them into a large bowl.

Then grate most of one medium-sized sweet onion into the same bowl and let the mixture sit for a  minute.  Next, squeeze out all the excess liquid by hand.

[Google "safety graters" and you can find one online for under $10 or buy one at a home goods store.]

Once well drained, add about 1/2 cup of matzo meal.  Don't use flour no matter what anyone tells you!

Stir, and then add salt and pepper to taste.  Careful with the salt; it's easy to overdo it. Then stir in three large eggs and mix well. 

 

In a large frying pan, heat 1/2 inch of cooking oil to a medium heat so the latkes cook thoroughly.  Spoon mixture into hot oil and flatten out the middle of the latkes so they are flat and cook evenly.  They should look like this one when done.  Hot, crispy and golden brown.  Great with sour cream or apple sauce.

Pablo

Addendum:

Jackie just found this picture of me in my prime, making latkes a couple of chanukahs ago. 

Over the past few years, the number of latke eaters has grown out of control to the point that we need 3 frying pans.  After I experienced an emotion meltdown over a frying pan that was not heating up quickly enough requiring me to be tranquilized and put to bed, help was needed, and my wonderful niece Leslie has stepped in, took over the pan, and hence forth became my apprentice with all things latke.  The tradition continues.  Elaine's granddaughter is poised to become the world's greatest latke maker.

Pablo 

Addendum 9/18

Was over at Russ and Daughters on the Lower East Side a few days ago to pick up my usual order of delicacies to bring back to Albany when I was struck by this display of potato latkes.  I know you pay a premium for the luxury of buying just about anything in Manhattan and all things being equal, the prices at Russ and Daughter, probably the best appetizing store in the city are not bad.  But the latkes!!!

Just in case you can't see the price, they are $2.25 each!!!  I guess if you are from Kansas or something and think that they are the product of some super secret formula known only to the great rabbis or some mythical old bubbas with heavy Yiddish accents, why in the world would you pay $2.25 for a latke when, you could grate up a couple of potatoes, an onion, an egg or two, and throw in a little matzo meal and a pinch of salt and pepper, and mix and fry and for the cost of less than $1, you could have 6 or 8 latkes and have a little party for your 2 or 3 closest friends.  $2.25???!!!  Huh!

                                                           Pablo