My friend Joyce and I haven’t been to a museum in awhile. Part of that is writer guilt (What do you mean you’re going to a museum with that scene like it is? You should be writing!), but Joyce did what they always tell you Not to do- ran for the subway- and broke several ribs and her jaw. This is scarily described in her blog, http://hyacinthgirlblog.blogspot.com/ I don’t usually run for subways, but now I’m not even tempted to.
So week before last, Joyce make her maiden voyage to the Frick. There’s something comforting about the Frick. Not only the fantasies about what it must have like to live in that house if you were a Frick. The special exhibit was Meissen porcelain, which neither of us felt compelled to see. It’s the permanent collection there that’s so wonderful- I’d forgotten how many Vermeers there were. And something about the space itself that reminds me more of how Manhattan was when I first moved there- less rushed, less pushy (though that wouldn’t be hard), quieter.
The first time I went there, what really blew me away were those four big Whistlers, and the Constable Salisbury Cathedral (see above). I’m not a big landscape lover, but the way the building glows in the sun light is really amazing. It was not on the wall this trip. This time, my third or fourth trip, I was less enthusiastic about the Whistlers than I was about the El Greco St. Jerome (I’d forgotten it was there- I thought it was at the Met up the street). And there are a bunch of Goyas. Goya’s subjects always look to me that despite their clothes, they are faces I could see on the street at any moment. The guy above (“An Officer’) could have easily been on my subway ride home.