like walking through a warhol photograph

This past weekend my parents were in town and I took my mom to MOMA. She had never been, and loved the fact that I could get in free with my company's corporate membership. 

There's so much great stuff there right now ... the color exhibit is fun, and I always love seeing Dan Flavin pieces. The highlight, though, wasn't Flavin, though it was clearly Flavin-inspired. Scandinavian artist Olafur Eliasson's Take Your Time features site-specific light installations, much like Flavin. The picture to the left was taken in a hallway, which, with the help of overhead orange light, transforms the space and creates the effect of walking through an overexposed photograph. Another highlight was a piece I called "The Fortress of Solitude", a circular wall of shifting color fields. 

I love light installations, it makes the spectator a participator in the piece, and also powerfully transforms space. It's like wading through celluloid.

For more information on the Eliasson exhibit, visit the MOMA.

it gets great light, but what about the machetes?

I have been knee-deep in an apartment search for the past few weeks. There is nothing like the New York rental search, in fact I think it's worthy of a Christopher Guest-esque skewering, or a series of short stories or essays, best in the tone of David Sedaris or Lorrie Moore. It is, frankly, a nightmare.

I saw a lot along the way, including a loft in an old textile factory in Williamsburg that is (still!) zoned commercial, a bedroom even smaller than my current dwelling on the LES and a carriage house off the Bedford stop with roommates who did not speak to each other (or in English). I've ended up through the looking glass in a dream townhouse in Park Slope with a good friend, so I'm more than happy. I'm also armed with stories to tell.

I looked at a number of places in South Williamsburg, on the other side of the bridge from the trendy part, off the Hewes and Marcy stops on the JMZ. It's up-and-coming, I think, on account of all the young people moving in and looking for roommates. I was struck, both of the times I visited the area over the past week, on the notable police presence. I thought it odd, but then, I live in the played out East Village where the only emergencies on the corner are NYU girls who break a nail or have trouble lighting their Parliaments.

It turns out something serious was afoot. I was lucky, it seems, that I wasn't slashed by machete-wielding gang members. I mean, to get slashed or held at knife point is one thing, but a machete?

Read the full story on Gothamist.

and W ruled the day (and night)

I was walking along Houston yesterday and saw a striking woman walk out of Whole Foods, sipping a cup of soup. She had long legs, pixie features and flaming red hair. I found her stunning, and thought that if she wasn't a model, she certainly should be. Ten minutes later, flipping through a W waiting to get my hair cut, I came across a striking photo spread set in D.C., with a young woman done up as Jackie O, photographed alone against the monuments. Long legs, pixie features, flaming red hair. Same girl. A lovely New York moment.

That night I went to a party at a killer loft in Chelsea. It was a scene, to be sure. Fashion people, mostly, kids with great clothes and lives that are very different than mine. One of the hostesses wore a black slip dress that was low cut in the back and hung loose on the sides. We saw the sides of her breasts all night, and at one point she revealed star-shaped, glittered pasties covering her nipples.

I ended up talking with a friend-of-a-friend's girlfriend who, as it turns out, works at W (she was also quite beautiful and wore the perfect shade of red lipstick). I mentioned my coincidence, and not only did she now it, she helped pull clothes for the shoot. Another lovely, W-related New York moment.

The night continued as parties like that must, slowly unraveling to an inevitable crescendo. In this case, somewhere north of two, someone broke the pedestal sink in one of the bathrooms. There it was, the toppled basin on the floor, cracked porcelain strewn about and pipes exposed. No spewing water though. I wish I had a picture.

So it was a crazy night. It ended, though, on a nice note. Around three or so, I had a compelling conversation with a late-arriving guest, one markedly lucid and thoughtful given the hour. He was older (shockingly so, it turned out) and was there with his boyfriend (of course), but we had a great conversation about media, print journalism and New York vs. everywhere else. It was unexpectedly mature and provoking and pleasant given that this was a party where people broke sinks.

oh the places i've been

After an unseasonably warm October thus far, Fall hit New York this past weekend. And though it may have just been a tease - they say this week will make October one of the warmest on record - it was my most "I love New York" weekend yet.
I won't go into too many details, but let's just say it involved a rather magical combination of Williamsburg bars, free hugs, French photographs in Soho, a dinner party, Issey Miyake cologne, organic apple sauce, a gondola and a run along the West Side Highway. Hard to beat.

oh the places i've been

The first Saturday night in a new place can be kinda daunting. There can be a great deal of ambiguous social pressure, as everyone else is going out (and in New York, you can hear them going at it). And if you are lucky enough to find plans, you run the risk of being "that new guy who doesn't know a soul and ends up pounding gin and tonics in the corner."
I lucked out, and was able to have a fun evening with a few people I already know. It started on the Lower East Side at Fat Baby, a great name for a bar, I think. I had heard that the LES had popped, and now I can safely say it has. It is not what it was, say, last year when I had a friend who lived on Ludlow. The scene I saw Saturday night was pretty fratty and involved a line around the block to get into a bar that used to be known for its laid back, hip charm. Any time you wander around a bar wondering if Miami Vice-style blazers are making a comeback, it's time to leave.
And so I did. The next stop was Sugarland in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, a recently-opened gay bar with a killer roof porch. The drinks were cheap and strong, the music was fun and a little unexpected (anytime Fleetwood Mac makes an appearance, I can't help but smile), and the guys were unpretentious, stylish and a fair bit grungy (which totally works for me). The night ended with pizza on a street corner with a group of friends. Hard to beat.