7 posts tagged “new york”
After spending the last four months completely submerged in preparations for TED and building the new TED website (which launches this month), I am finally surfacing and reclaiming my life. What better way to jump back into New York culture than taking in the first (3-hour) installment of the new Tom Stoppard trilogy?
I've come to think of this 3-play cycle as the Cast, rather than the Coast of Utopia. Because the cast is just spectacular. Ethan Hawke: manic and memorable. Billy Crudup: Wow. I mean, wow. And then there's Brian F. O'Byrne, Amy Irving, Jennifer Ehle, Martha Plimpton.... Such a great line-up. Unfortunately, though, the women were nearly invisible. They were there on stage -- speaking lines, moving the plot along -- but they just had no presence. Now, perhaps that's the point: Women in 19th century Russia weren't exactly empowered... but it was a bit disappointing to see such phenomenal female actors recede into the background. I never got a full sense of who, exactly, their characters were.
Nonetheless, it was an impressive production. And I found myself looking around at the attentive sold-out crowd and the huge cast and the extraordinary sets (including, in one scene, ice skaters circling an enormous chandalier that looked like it had been carved out of ice, with Russian Orthodox spires on top and icicles at the bottom), and thinking, bemusedly, that we were all extravagantly indulging Tom Stoppard's whimsy. If Tom Stoppard wants to write a nine-hour, three-part trilogy about 19th century Russia. Well, by God, we'll watch. And so we did.
I'll be back in a few weeks for Part Two ....
This is what I love about New York: We have a high enough density of odd and curious souls that we can support movie theaters like the Angelika, which can screen movies like "Air Guitar Nation" -- a documentary about the world air-guitar championships (Yes. That's worth re-reading: World Air Guitar Championships) -- and a theater-full of people like me and my sister will show up at 10:30 on a Saturday night and take it in. (After drinking great wine from gorgeous glasses at Murray Moss's Centovini, across the street ... a bizarre juxtaposition that made the film that much better). Anyway: Air Guitar Nation. Utterly amusing. Surprisingly life-affirming. Awesome. Loved it.
If you're a single gal in her thirties, living in New York, you will inevitably have moments when you feel -- for better or worse -- that you're shadowing Carrie Bradshaw. Showing up for the first minute of the semi-annual Manolo Blahnik sale is one of them.
At 10:30 this morning, when I arrived at the pocket-sized shop on W. 54th, the line at the door was perhaps 20 deep. At 10:40, the doorman began spoonfeeding us into the store. Verrrry slowly. One by one. Still, it filled quickly, and flustered the gentle staff. "Oh! Oh!" the Italian sales manager shouted with pitch-perfect distress. "Eet's too crowed een here! Mr Toussaint! Mr. tousSAINT! PLEEZ do not let anyone else EEN!"
Now, the thing to know about Manolo Blahniks is that they're shoe lovers' shoes: Beautiful works of art that just happen to adorn your feet. Blahnik himself (brilliant, colorful, exuberantly odd) is an unabashed shoe fetishist, with zero interest in other forms of fashion. "I don't like dresses. I don't like hats. I only like shoes," he told Michael Specter in a wonderful interview during this year's New Yorker Festival. And this explains a lot about his work: Divinely designed, lovingly crafted and absurdly priced ... I mean, you really need to live in New York quite a long time before you can imagine paying that much for a pair of shoes.
Which brings me back to the sale. The sale!! I was surrounded by scads of pumps, flats and boots at 30% off, and wouldn't you know it? Isn't it always the way? I fell head over heels with the shoes in the window: The bright red, bejeweled, 3-1/2-inch heel, peep-toe, satin d'Orsay pumps, which were utter perfection and distinctly not on sale.
As I slipped them on, and floated over to the full-length mirror -- mentally preparing to pay what used to be a month's rent in San Francisco** for a pair of shoes I obviously needed -- I wondered briefly about who I'd become. What ever happened to my pre-New York, pre-Sex & the City self ... the one who lusted after mountain bike shocks and ski racks, and went hiking on the weekends? I suspect she's still in here somewhere ... that I will someday move back to the west coast -- or Colorado, or the Alps, or Africa, for that matter -- and giggle at my current Manhattan ways.
But for now, I'm shadowing Carrie Bradshaw. And I'll settle for a metaphorical hike: across town, for dinner -- on a Tuesday, no less -- in my beautiful, bright-red shoes.
** Note: My rent in San Francisco was always rather cheap. Pre-dot-com-era cheap. I'm not that far gone ...
Thought I'd choose a snowy design for the blog, just to remind me what winter used to look like. It's been a balmy New York winter thus far. I have yet to even wear a hat!
I keep hearing Jill Sobule's happy song about global warming in my head... (the line about wearing a halter top in Manhattan in January)
In the last two weeks, I've concluded there are few things in life more trying than hailing a San Francisco taxi. Between the relative scarcity of taxis, the lack of a consistent light system (In New York, it's simple: If the light's on, the taxi's free. If it's off, it's not. In San Francisco, it's anyone's guess), and the maddening indifference of SF taxi drivers ("It's such a nice day. I'm not sure if I really NEED any passengers to enjoy a day like this") what seems like a simple task requires a high degree of patience ... and skill.
You must not get frustrated by the empty taxis that whiz by you on the way to a radio call, you must not be humiliated when you try to wave down a taxi with a smirking passenger you failed to notice; you must not be deterred by the carousing teenage boys who heckle you as they drive by and try to high-five your taxi-hailing hand. You must not be intimidated by the drunk and staggering street resident who propositions you as you wait. No. If you are to hail a taxi in downtown San Francisco, you must persist. Keep that arm out. Yell "Taxi" at the top of your lungs. Run right out into that center lane at the red light and jump into that open cab. In short: Act like a New Yorker. Eventually, your efforts will be rewarded, and if you're lucky: Noted...
"You can always tell a New Yorker," one taxi driver explained, nodding approvingly at me in the rear view window. "They're serious about hailing cabs."
Last weekend, I finally got to see Christina Courtin, an up-and-coming singer who counts some of my friends as big fans. She's a small, sweet-seeming gal with a big voice, at turns breathy and brassy. And she is courageous on stage ... really, really out there. She has this way of almost throwing herself into the music .... It fascinated me, because she's actually rather awkward -- at times, she looks like she might fall over -- but she's so courageous and exposed and almost untethered that it works magic on the crowd. And it's clear she's gathering a big following -- the sold-out 150-capacity house was packed with adoring fans (including Meryl Streep).
Last night, my extravagently talented friends Jamie and Michael Leonhart played a double bill at the tiny, lovely Rockwood Music Hall on the Lower East Side. Jamie's a tiny, curly-haired, honey-voiced, utterly mesmerizing jazz singer. A cross between Billie Holiday and Ani DiFranco, if you can imagine such a thing. Her husband, Michael, tours with Steely Dan, won a Grammy, and seems to play every instrument known to man. Their shows are always a treat, but last night was particularly magical: Midway through the set, Michael invited his dad -- the great jazz bassist Jay Leonhart, who happened to be watching from the bar -- to join him on the tiny stage, and make some magic. It was one of those perfect New York moments...
