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Rockefeller
Center with Jonathan Borofsky's Walking To The Sky
behind. 2:00 PM. Photo:
JH.
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Yesterday
started out cool and brisk. The avenue outside my door is noisy
again in the early
morning, whatwith the school buses and taxis (and limousines) dropping
off the kids and the residents all battling for a ride to the office.
Furthermore, it’s been the opening sessions of the UN for
the last two days which means avenues are closed for blocks and
blocks and the side streets too. You can imagine what that does
to midtown gridlock. Forget the grid; just think: lock. And on
the East River, there are NO boats – just Coast Guard boats
with guns on their bow. I miss the boats on the river, all kinds
of boats, sailboats, yachts, motorboats, jetskis, tugboats, tankers.
Life on the river; there now is no. Although yesterday I saw a
large container ship with about a hundred containers on it, moving
down river, right by the UN.
President Bush was in town for the UN, so more gridlock and closed
off avenues. Police everywhere, motorcycle police, police cars,
patrolmen on corners. There is nothing reassuring about this, ironically,
because traffic is so tied up in Manhattan these days even without
street closings that all I can think is what will we do if we really
need to move, and fast? Nothing, is the answer; we will do nothing
because we’ll be stuck in the damned gridlock. And so will
the cops.
The problem, which no one seems to want to address, isn’t
the terrorists (that is not to say terrorists couldn’t be
a problem), it’s that there are too many cars. Too too many
cars. And trucks. The trucks park anywhere they want, and double
park anywhere they want. Only the taxicab drivers get ticketed
for parking or traffic offenses. The damned trucks get a free pass.
Am I whining?
So. By early afternoon in the beautiful autumn sunshine, it
had gotten warmer, even a little on the humid side. Those warm
summer/autumn days that I recall on the first days of school when
the school
clothes were still too warm to wear but we wore them.
There
was a lot going on last night and I missed all but two events. First
of all, as aforementioned, it was very difficult getting around.
I took a cab down Fifth Avenue (about
seven — a crawl)
to the Ritz-Carlton on Central Park South. The horses and carriages
lined up and the smell of horse droppings everywhere. Can you imagine
what it was like when there were 100,000 horses in the city everyday?
No, you can’t. Nevertheless, the horses are beautiful and
surely having to put up with us is far worse than our having to
put up with them.
Over at the Ritz-Carlton, there were holding a launch party for
a new magazine called New York Dog. My friend Heather
Cohane, who
has three dogs – two Westies and a Yorkie – has a column
in the magazine which is a monthly. All of Heather’s dogs,
like mine, are rescued dogs. For years she had mainly Westies,
including a little beauty she rescued about three years ago whom
she calls Juancito. Then she got this Yorkie called Sparkie and
Sparkie has taken over. I tell Heather all the time that she’s
favoring Sparkie and breaking poor Juancito’s heart. She
denies it. I still half-believe it. Although she’s very good
to all her dogs.
A lot of people brought their dogs to the magazine launch. I
took several pictures, as you can see, and there were a lot of
Yorkies.
Mainly small dogs. I don’t think I saw any large dogs. There
was a shih-tzu. I have a couple and I love shih-tzus, but I love
all dogs. And cats. And a few bipeds although few are really anywhere
near as loveable as the doodles, which is what I call my dogs.
I have all kinds of crazy names and language I use with my dogs.
I talk to them all the time, and pretend they’re talking
to me (in a weird dog-voice). I know people think it’s crazy
and funny, which is one reason why I do it. The other reason is,
perhaps, I am crazy. Crazy about my dogs, haha.
Everyone wonders how this dog magazine is going to do in a marketplace
that is super-saturated with magazines. Will people want to go
home at night after work, put up their feet and read about dogs?
Think about it. Maybe. God knows it won’t hurt. I was in
a semi-lousy mood when I arrived at the party, thanks to the traffic
and thanks to the traffic and thanks to the traffic. But I found,
inside of thirty seconds, seeing all those little quadrupeds, all
looking around at the crowd like we were crazy, as if wondering
what the hell they were doing there, I found myself smiling and
laughing and I felt much much better. Arf-arf-woof-woof. Buy
the magazine, it may do you a world of good. |
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Heather
Cohane with Sparkie
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Heidi
Krupp with her Yorkie
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Catherine Crier
with her Yorkie
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L.
to r.: Another Yorkie lover; A non-Yorkie lover; Norah
Lawlor and Taylor Baldwin.
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Lyn
White, and Roger Webster
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A
Shi-Tzu looking up at his mistress
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John
Ryan (President), Gregg Oehler (Publisher), and Leslie
Padgett (Editor)
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Ondine
Cohane and John Voigtmann
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After
my go-around at the New York Dog Magazine party, I had to go
down to the Marlborough gallery on West 18th Street for the
opening of Hunt Slonem’s new show. So it was back out on
the street. I decided to opt for the subway (at 57th Street and
Sixth) rather than a taxi that could take All Night.
There were six motorcycle cops sitting on their cycles, on the
pavement right around the corner from the Ritz. They all looked
done in, like they could have used a good nap. I walked down to
the subway and took the F train.
I’ve been taking subways most all my life although I don’t
know all the lines. This was, I think, the first time I ever took
the F train down to 23rd Street. I was thinking how wonderful New
York is in that you can always be having new traveling experiences
around the town, no matter how long you’ve been here.
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Metropolitan
Life Building
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A friend told me that the Marlborough Gallery was between 11th
and 12th Avenues on 18th Street. So I hopped a taxi at 23rd and
Sixth (after taking a picture of the Metropolitan Tower bathed
in cobalt blue, with its spire in gold).
Well, there is no 12th Avenue down there, number one. And number
two, the Marlborough Gallery is between 7th and 8th. This could
have really teed me off, the way New York things can get you into
a screamer mood. But I held my breath and thought how lucky I was
to be able to walk through Chelsea at that hour (7:30). 18th Street
is lined with beautiful old brick houses from the 19th century,
and of course the neighborhood is vibrant and jumping.
As was the Marlborough Gallery and Hunt Slonem. I took his picture
as soon as I arrived. He was talking to our mutual friend Ann
Rapp.
He was wearing an electric red jacket, a beautiful red. And next
to our elegant friend, Mrs. Rapp was all in black with her chic
signature accessories, it was a complete New York moment.
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Ann
Rapp and Hunt Slonem
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Hunt Slonem is one of the most successful artists in America. He
lives in an enormous loft nearby which I’ve heard about but
never had the opportunity to see. Everyone raves about it and many
have seen it because he’s gracious and hospitable and entertains
all the time. He also has a great big Victorian house up on the
Hudson near Rhinebeck where he also entertains a lot. Lots of friends,
lots of conversation, and then back to work. I got there fairly
late (it was called for 6 to 8) but there was still a pretty good
crowd. I got some shots of the work, including a shot of Anne
Slater
who was wearing something that complemented the painting where
she was standing when I photographed her.
It turned out to be a beautiful night in New York, with everyone
glad to be there. |
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Nick
Voretsky and Patricia Burnham
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Jeff
Slonim and Serena Bass
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Diana
Kashan
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L.
to r.: Bill Kapfer; Montgomery Frazier and Judy Agisim;
Ann Rapp.
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Lionel
Larner, Judy Auchincloss, and David Robinson
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Hunt
and his admirers
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The
works of Hunt Slonem ($55,000 for the one on the right) |
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Michele
Oka Doner
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Mary
Kaye Daniels and Jon Demsey
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Lawrence
Jurdem and Miss Rupy
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L.
to r.: Dennis Rano; A lively conservation; Anne Marie
Gavalis, Larissa, and Sandra Long.
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L.
to r.: Art as fashion; Anne Slater and John Cahill talking
to Lionel Larner;
Lionel Larner, DPC, Anne Slater, and John Cahill. |
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