upstate to hudson

Janet welcomes us to  Mansion Row—and suite.

 The Hudson River is a grand one, and by train you travel right along it, up from the city, past the George Washington and Tappan Zee Bridges, past the town I grew up in and Sing-Sing prison, and West Point and Bear Mountain and Poughkeepsie where I went to college and Hyde Park and on up into yuppie country. Ed and I touched down in Hudson with plans to see Katie's latest gallery and our old Life buddy Peter. We immediately went out to lunch (it's what we're good at) with Peter and wife

Janet, moseyed down to see Katie and Mike, back to Peter's for a party which became so lively that we blew off the train home.
   I was given the future B-and-B suite, which was great, while Ed had to be contented with the guest room. And we got to  head back to town in the daylight and enjoy the Hudson River Valley all over again. A swell, if unexpected weekend.

The LIFE crew must have communicated about the shirts.

deer in the headlights

The Artist Kate Knapp picked a winter scene that I quite liked for the window of her gallery on Warren Street in Hudson, N.Y. That is, I liked the picture but for one thing: the deer in the foreground. It turned out she had added the deer later, feeling that an element was missing. And she liked the way the deer's antlers referred to the tree branches, as her husband Mike points out (above).
I don't think I would be able to tolerate critics like me if I were an artist. But Katie listened patiently to all praise (left) and criticism.

the book of nyc

 They came,
they saw,
they walked.
And they took in
 a lot of cultcha,
as you can
plainly see
from Bill's
tiny (3-by 4-inch?)
letterpress  book
(very cleverly
folded from one
sheet of paper).

It wasn't like the Ozarks,
 nor yet Arizona.
It wasn't
Los Angeles or
North Carolina.
It was New York, New York,
the city so nice
 they named it twice.
So they hadda walk.
And buy epsom salts
for the feet.

rounding up

Hannah and ze kidz in the departure lounge at Queretero Aeropuerto.

A lot going on lately.
Hannah got trolled on Instagram yesterday when for Charity Tuesday she donated 15 percent of sales to Planned Parenthood. Some said they were no longer buying Calm-a-Mama products, many more cheered her on.
Here is a link to Donna Ferrato's Vanderbuilt University show about domestic violence. You can also see my panels of text under the exhibition link.
Meanwhile Peter Meyer is all about education these days. He has a compelling newsletter about  college level that ranges from the Yale-Harvard football game to self-censorship on campus. In addition he has started a program called School Life News to teach young kids journalism so that they can learn skills and be better able to distinguish false news. You can see a video about the program here if you enter the password slmvideo.
Found a new mag I like, The Bitter Southerner. I'm not sure if it's in print as well as on line, but I like the writing and the pix.
A doc is coming out on photographer Harry Benson. I'm pretty sure Ed already has his copy. Trailer here.
And speaking of Harry, Donna ran into him at the Time magazine do for The 100 Most Influential Photographs of All Time, where they were both being honored. You can see a video of Donna and her subject being interviewed about the picture.

the ugly horse

This painting is one Douglas's father and mother acquired (for reasons unclear to me) that he thought I might like to have. They were emptying the barn, so it needed to be stabled somewhere, if only the dump. It was covered with cobwebs and mouseshit and held together with duct tape. And deplorably brown. But there was something about it—I think the size and the frame—that fit into the old men's club ethos of the Dowling Intercontinental, New York City. So, with some little trouble (and help from Doro who cleaned it), I took it off island and installed it in the hall. What do you think?

it begins at home

Mind you, the sign was produced by another. But the silencing was her idea. No one told her to be quiet (at least not then), but they will begin soon enough. Good little girls are seen and not heard; little boys are rambunctious. This message comes even from us, the die-hard feminazis who had to fight to get every word in edgewise. It's just part of the cultural cloud, automatically downloaded. It is doubtful that Mr. Trump will off the patriarchy, so it's up to the rest of us to teach Camilla that every voice matters.

great american eating ceremony

Yep. Here we are again! I notice that we're skewing younger—only three medicare types in the group this year (including myself). Many beautiful people. Not enough diversity except in age, where we did pretty well. Love you all, and very grateful for my intimates.

great american eating ceremony begins

The Saga of the Love Bath will be continued at a later date (it ain't over til it's over). Meanwhile, it is the commencement of The Great American Eating Ceremony. The shopping and lists have begun in any case. Mo' later.

the tub, part 2

 

The tub, the truck and I made it from my sister's house to the ferry. Thinking ahead, I called Ana for rescue and help unloading. She has some strong guys in her family.

Made it onto the boat, though I must confess I asked the guys to back it on. I am poor in reverse at the best of times, and given the lack of line of sight in the current instance, decided to bury my pride.
From this point on, my documentation is poor. Mainly because I was terrified. Not only that the tub that had come all the way from mainland China to Hong Kong to New Jersey by boat, to Boston by truck and by my aegis to Block island would be already broken, but that the guys would get hurt.

They rolled it home. After uncrating on the porch (appeared undamaged), they rolled it indoors. Then, slipping and sliding, as we argued about whether to get some more guys (the thing weighs about 500 lbs!), they rolled it over rugs up the stairs to the second floor. I was so scared someone would get killed that I did not take any pictures, instead running around with pieces of carpet and wringing my hands.
And them, miraculously, it was done. Rub-a-dub-dub

wtf's in the truck

The saga begins.
 I blame myself. But I also blame my daughter and son-in-law. I have a tub. A nice round tub. From China. But the Jacuzzi jets don't work because the touchpad doesn't work. I have  new set of electricals for it, but it has to be unplumbed and turned upside down to get at the electricals. Also to get at the faucets. Which, my son-in-law told me, were loose and needed to be tightened. He suggested cutting a hole in the side to get at them. I decided to get a new tub that would be easier to repair and have no jets to malfunction. Rental house.
But then my daughter posted a picture of the old tub on social media and there was an outpouring of yearning. So I thought, OK, another round tub. On line the only round tubs I could find were from China. Seemed cheap too. And after all, my other tub had come from China. Free shipping right to my door on Block Island.
Enter Danilo.

I did not realize at first that due to the fact that my original tub was already sitting in a California warehouse my second experience would be quite different. That I would become (pre Trump!) an importer of goods from China and would wind up paying more than double the quite modest cost of the Love Bath itself in fees and duties. Not to mention that I would have to fetch the thing from customs in Boston. The timing sucked—houseguests in New York and Thanksgiving next week and a $60-a-day fee to leave it in the Boston warehouse. So as soon as I got clearance and paid up via wire, I drove through the pouring rain praying that I would find someone to help me load the thing sideways in a too small truck. The kid from Montego Bay said I needed to get another truck. I begged. He got his boss. I begged some more. I signed my life away in case of breakage, and  they figured it out. Maybe because it was prominently labelled "Love Bath." And then the kid from Montego Bay loaded it and helped me strap it down. In the pouring rain. I was going to drive to my daughter's in Providence and let her see what she had wrought, but they all had the flu, so I went to my sister's instead. Driving very carefully.

friends and family

It's all about friends and family right now—and, yes, home decor. About to head to Boston for a bathtub. Don't even!

retreat

Yes. I have utterly retreated into home decor, the ultimate in comfort, um, porn. Above is the sofa I inherited from my brother- and sister-in-law in Block Island. I had long craved it, and they offloaded it when they sold their place. (They also convinced me to take the weird china art thingy on the wall—and the mirror image one in the other corner—to Claudia's Surf City.)
 My sister-in-law from Santa Fe spotted the lookalike Fendi sofa in a magazine. Score!

let there be light

There are many chandeliers in my life. I have two plastic ones in Block Island, acquired an unelectrified beauty from the dump, just put one up in New York, got another from New York, and now the building handyman has salvaged me this beauty. Maybe I'll switch out one of the plastic ones. . . Meanwhile it's resting on this chair.
Also, see Chien-Chi Chang's post election entry in Time.
Our favorite comedian/real estate agent Sarah Fearon was covered in the Times.
Tonight Donna Ferrato is holding a fundraiser for a women's shelter in Illinois. Invitation here. If you can't go, you can still donate and help them keep the doors open.
And in other presidential (?) news, Ed Barnes writes about the first 100 days of Aung San Suu Kyi for a new mag called Geneva Global.

for all the good it did

too young to vote

Eight years ago, at age five, my daughter Hannah's half brother Simon expressed his political preference. Today, at 13, he has strong opinions once again.

And lest you still believe that electioneering in the home goes over the heads of the younger set, consider the opinions of Hannah's daughter (and Simon's niece) (and my granddaughter) Camilla as she got ready to head off to kindergarten this ayem. 

"Oops," texted Hannah. "I came down and she had drawn this."
That's S for Stupid over the crybaby D on the left and G for Good over the H on the right (perhaps the positions should have been reversed?).
And this in a house with no television.
Camilla and Simon have their opinions and they're with her.
So there!

what's in the truck?

Mostly art. Two beautiful paintings by Kate Knapp that are for sale— and one ugly brown horse painting that I thought I had just the spot for. That is yet to be seen. There was also the usual assortment of foodstuffs (some of which is extremely well travelled from NYC to Missouri, back to NYC and then to Block Island and back. Sigh.) and odd castoff furniture. There were also about eight gallons of paint I was afraid would freeze and planned to truck back to NYC for the winter.  But at zero hour en route to the boat I found a friendly basement to store them in. Saved. And I could not leave the roses.

the day after

The old post office was embellished on Halloween night. Or, rather, the trees around it were. Apparently the owner of the current occupant of the building, a bagel store, had hosted a festivity for those just too old to trick or treat. Presumably they'll be cleaning up presently.

happy halloween. . .

Typecasting?

. . .happy All Hallow's Eve, Wiccan new year (Samhain), Diwali, Day of the Dead and otherwise potent holidays I don't know about. To the thinning of the veil!

tilting at windmills

My guess is that one of these days this Staten Island-cum-Jersey girl will bow to the inevitable and move to Rhode Island in a cottage by the sea. It seems to be where she feels at home. Tnx, Doro, for a fun time hanging out and doing not much of anything but yakking! No island tours—but we did go to see the new, still nonfunctional, windmills.

the voter

The voter, with granddaughters Eva and Madison (whose birthday is today)

"Do you think maybe once you're over ninety you aren't allowed to vote?"
    "No, Mom, you can vote until you die."
    "I let my passport expire. Do you think that's a problem?"
    "No. You don't have to have a passport to vote. You're a registered voter."
    And so began the crusade to get my mother, who lives in Mexico, an absentee ballot. She voted in the primary (for Bernie) and has followed the election very closely and passionately. But the Maine town clerk who used to take care of everything had retired, and we were at a standstill. In the event, I got her her ballot request, emailed her the ballot, and she managed to get her printer working to print it out. Phew. She did not feel equal, however, to emailing the ballot in. "I just mailed it, Claude. I couldn't deal."

bill in nyc

Artist Bill Dugan poses in my portrait chair at the Goose in Missouri.

Bill and Carla visited from Missouri. Bill was highly resistant, picturing himself as a Crocodile Dundee. (I'm familiar with the syndrome—my brother Chris does the same thing.) I wish I’d saved Bill’s email from his first day in New York, when he went to the ballet and boasted that he did not fall asleep and wondered why the women ran around on their toes and the men did not. I got wise thereafter. In his own words:

Carla and Bill soak their country feet. photo by Dugan

we made it to the Met & Guginhyme. rain mist all day, lines everwhere.  Got a chicken and vegies at Z's.  Used the crisper in the fridge to soak my feet in epson salts, it cleaned up well, ...just kiding, bought a tub at basic plus...kinda like heaven in stuff for life. Tiimes sq and MOMA tomorrow. . .Whitney, Hight line, and White Horse, back to the apt after tour of Zabar's.  See ya tonite or in am.

Carla bones up on Block island on the way over.

Off we went to Block Island for a week, Bill bearing the foot bath. Then He and Carla returned to the dreaded city for a night.

 . . .Made to the 15D.  FedX stuff, Zbars chicken supper, got some whiskey, smoked cigars on the park bench, heading out in the am...what more is life about

 Home again. I have never been sure whether Bill's spelling mistakes are schtik or not. I don't think I will ever know.

. . .Got a desk for the mouseum, moved it in, took the van to shop for shocks, ran around town, going to Chicago for friends 70 BD & 30 wedding anniversery.  Got home, nap 30 mn and brushoged 3.5 hrs...  Sitting on ice pack on back and taking brown medicine..later bill

elaine

Elaine Rivera loved people: “Two eyes a nose and a mouth—and all so different!” She loved all kinds of people, from the flower lady in her Bronx neighborhood to the political operatives she covered as a classic New York City beat reporter. Well, that isn’t exactly true. She didn’t love intolerant people—was, in fact, downright intolerant of them. And despite (or maybe because of) her brief marriage and series of long-term lovers, she had her reservations when it came to men. Notably, however, she remained close with almost every one of her exes.

    I met her when she was working at Time magazine on stories like the crash of TWA Flight 800 and the police shooting of Amadou Diallo, and, less typically, covering celebrities like Christina Aguillera and John F.  Kennedy Jr.  Usually she was a crusader for the underdog, the poor, the victims of racism and hatred. And she really, really cared. She went to the Washington Post after Time, but DC was a bad fit. "I am so outta Virginia, baby. I'm never living in the south again—they can just kiss my Puerto Rican ass," she crowed as she drove back to the home of her heart. She resettled near Yankee Stadium in the Bronx, and worked as a political reporter for WNYC, leaving to take a journalism chair at Lehman College. The latter moves, trailing many scarves and bags, were particularly astonishing because Elaine’s major bugaboos were technology and bureaucracy.  “This job is kicking my ass,” she would say, no matter which job it was. Now I wonder if the reason she was so exhausted was the liver disease she must have had for years. The only exception, which her more recent journalist friends got very tired of hearing about, was her golden era as a staff reporter for almost a decade at New York Newsday. One wonders what time she had to get to work there, for Elaine was never a morning person.

    Elaine was a party person. She always brought the party hats, whether it was a birthday party—which she adored—or New Year’s or Fourth of July. Confetti, sparklers, flags, balloons, bought at the 99-cent store. Her stories, too, made her the life of the party. One favorite was about the time she was staying over at a friend’s apartment and, mistaking the hall door for the bathroom door, locked herself out of the apartment nude in the middle of the night. Wrapping herself in a rug, she got on the elevator to go downstairs to call her friend, who had slept through the pounding on his door. The elevator got stuck in the lobby. Elaine pressed the emergency button and a woman over the intercom said there was nothing she could do. Elaine, of course, asked her name. “Tookie, Tookie, I’m begging you!” wailed Elaine. “Please call my friend. I’m standing in the lobby in the middle of the night in a rug!”

     Elaine loved being surrounded by celebration and friends, of whom she had an inordinate number. She was always trying to mix them, with varying degrees of success. Well, we’re mixed now, along with her devastated family from Cleveland, in love and in loss.

 

rainbow lining

It's going to take most of my energy to keep warm over the next week or so. But there are compensations. . .

auction 2:00!

 Today is the day when Hannah goes live on Facebook with Wear Your Music's auction of a Paul McCartney guitar string bracelet. Here at two o'clock. If you are not on Facebook, sign up!

In other news, Hannah will be converting her Providence office into a popup shop for her several businesses. Inquire for hours. All welcome.

waves upon waves

Could not resist another picture of the waves in front of the house—breaking right on the dune.
Meanwhile, there is a lot of catchup and roundup.
Jamie lost a new friend and neighbor in France, photographer Louis Stettner. His obit in the NYT.
A rather funny video about Casa de la Noche, the former bordello we stay in when in San Miguel. The video does not do it justice.
My pianist brother Ben debuts a new jazz record made with a principal cellist of the Berlin Symphony. You cane hear portions on Facebook.
The photographer Lynn Johnson has done a podcast about how caring she is on No Filter. I have not listened to it, but you may wish to.
The photographer Donna Ferrato has done a video with Time magazine on the importance of photography. Associated article here.
The Block Island Times has done a story about how the ferry aided in the Hudson River rescue of the downed plane. I believe it played itself in the movie Sully.
An interview in PDN of photographer Mark Peterson, whose instagram pix of the political campaigns I have much admired.
And don't forget Hannah's live Facebook auction of a Paul McCartney guitar string bracelet this Thursday!

this is today

Indian summer arrives. I mean, Native American Summer.

I have been remiss.
Way remiss.
There are reasons, which I will go into, mainly involving travelling and socializing.
So how can I make it up to you?
Shall I start from when I began being remiss and move forward in time?
Or shall I start from today and go backwards in time?
There's a lot I've skipped no matter which way I do it.
But I've got to get back to today so I can get to tomorrow.

happy birthday, ed!

Ed today

 This is my friend Ed, he of the maniacal laugh and blazing blue eyes and mind that runs too fast for his mouth. Happy birthday! Have I told you lately. . .

Ed back in the day