401. The Magic of West 11th Street: A Perfect Day

BROWDERBOOKS

My latest:

 

A story of the strangest friendship that ever was: a dapper young bank thief and the detective hired by the banks to apprehend him.  For more about this and my other books, go here.  

Fascinating New Yorkers has been reviewed by The US Review of Books.  Reviewer Gabriella Tutino says, "There's something for everyone here in this collection of profiles, and it serves as a source of inspiration for readers who love NYC."  For the whole review, click on US Review.

Small Talk

And now, to spice things up, here are two examples of a library director of some years ago (not in this area) who thought he was brilliant.  

• To a patron wanting information about Walt Whitman, he said Walt was the husband of Christie  Whitman, former governor of New Jersey.

• To another patron wanting information about the Gettysburg Address, he went to check the phone books.

No, I haven't made these up.

             The Magic of West 11th Street: A Perfect Day

           Another where-but-in-New-York story.  One thing I like about the West Village is that I can go out and have adventures within a few blocks of my building.  Last Sunday, March 17, I did just that.  I lunched again at Philip Marie, a trendy restaurant at West 11^th and Hudson, just a block from my building.  As usual for Sunday brunch, it was jammed and noisy, mostly a young crowd under 30, though they let me in anyway.  I got my favorite table, near the front window, with a good view of the street and, just diagonally across, another of my favorite local restaurants, Frankie’s 570.  It was a sunny day and the wind had died down; people were sitting outside both Frankie’s and Philip Marie – hopefully, a sign of spring.  The windows of Philip Marie were plastered with paper shamrocks, and outside, tied on a long string to a railing, two green balloons danced in the wind.  Only then did I realize that this was St. Patrick’s Day; fortunately, I was wearing a green T-shirt, and I can always fake a brogue.

         What I love about Sunday brunch at Philip Marie’s – as at other West Village restaurants – is the mix of New Yorkers.  Yes, there are a few couples, but mostly it’s oddball combinations: 5 guys and 2 girls, 6 girls and 1 guy, 3 girls and no guys, and so on.  For many it’s probably a time to see friends and get updated.  Among the girls, long hair is definitely in, and bare shoulders are perhaps another harbinger of spring.  The noise is deafening, but I don’t mind: they’re all New Yorkers intensely having fun.  On the wall across the room is a sign:

Happiness

does not depend on what

you have or who you are.

It rests solely on what you think.

                                                               -- Buddha

A noble thought, but at Philip Marie’s Sunday brunch, there isn’t much thinking, just a lot of loud talking.

         The waiters know me and know my usual fare: yogurt and granola with strawberries, followed by a cappuccino.  As I consumed it and the noise raged on, outside I saw the passing traffic on Hudson Street; cars, yellow cabs, bikes, an occasional tour bus, police cars, and rarely – a reminder of the graver side of life – an ambulance, its siren screaming.

          At a table nearby there were three girls talking and laughing exuberantly.  As they got up to leave, one of them started grooving, rocking from side to side and raising her arms high in the air.  So from a sitting position I started grooving too, rocking my arms and shoulders back and forth.  She noticed, pointed to me, and squealed with delight.  Her friends turned, saw me, and likewise squealed with delight.  As they passed me bound for the exit, I announced, “My motto: geezers rock”; more squeals of delight.  The grooving one embraced me and kissed me on the cheek.  A smart phone appeared, and three of us put our heads close together and grinned at the camera: click, click, click.  Then more good-byes and they left.  It was all over in five minutes or less.  The diners at neighboring tables were so engrossed in their talk or their mobile devices, they hadn’t noticed our moment of silliness and joy.  But I love the purity of it.  We’ll probably never see each other again, but they’ll remember that grooving white-haired guy in the photos and have a few more laughs.  Where but in New York?

         It being a sunny day without too much wind, I decided once again to walk down West 11^th Street toward the river.  And once again, on the uptown side of the street, between Greenwich Street and Washington, I came to the Robin Rice Gallery at 325 West 11^th, which features exhibits of black-and-white photographs.  Just beyond it is Turks & Frogs, a wine bar with an interesting window display – on this occasion, as often before, a model sailboat on top of a chest, flanked by bottles, candle holders, and other objects.  I have chronicled both the gallery and the wine bar before in this blog.

         Going on a block, I glimpsed from a distance the Palazzo Chupi, a towering superstructure of a building whose top Italian palazzo-style floors, to the scandal of the West Village, once flaunted a Pepto-Bismol pink.  That pink has now softened to a lusterless shade that neighbors and myself have gotten used to and almost like.  At that point I decided to retrace my steps and visit the Robin Rice Gallery, which was exhibiting the photographs of Robin Rice herself, the gallery owner.  And just in time: this was the last day of the exhibit.  I was the only visitor, though two young women were sitting in front, busy doing something connected with the gallery.  I had seen the exhibit before, but this time I picked up a list of the photographs and made notes on the ones that I found especially impressive.

           Most of the works exhibited were black-and-whites, but on the wall at the end of the gallery were over a dozen in color, including one dated 1977 and featuring Andy Warhol at the Studio 54 opening.  His name, a slashing scribble across it, is not a signature; Robin Rice informed me by e-mail that she added it by scratching the emulsion off a slide film.  Several of the other photos were also from the 1977 opening of Studio 54, a trendy nightclub favored by trendy people in the 1970s.  So Robin Rice goes back a ways and did get around.

         It was the black-and-whites that drew my attention, and the descriptions often came as a surprise.  For instance:

·      No. 10.  A large hand, open, upraised.  Title: “Milly, W. 12^th Street, New York.”

·      No. 24.  A row of looming dark hulks of shapes, suggesting towering rocks along a rugged coast, maybe in Italy or Cornwall, England.  Title: “Near Penn Station, New York.”

·      No. 28.  Two high heels on tiptoe, casting shadows on pavement, and two men’s shoes planted firmly on the ground.  Title: “Greenwich Village, Lynn and Angelo.”

·      No. 51.  An allée with cypresses.  Title: “Maureen, Villa Boccella, Lucca, Italy.”  Not a surprise, this one.

·      No. 53.  A large seascape showing a broad stretch of sand and sea, and a horse and rider splashing ahead in shallow water.  Title: “Horse in the Celtic Sea, Penzance, Cornwall, UK.”

·      No. 56.  A couple embracing so closely that you can barely tell them apart, him seemingly in the briefest briefs, her in a wide-brimmed hat and maybe nothing else.  Title: “Sarah and Archer.”  No, not in the West Village; in Los Angeles.  I thought it intensely erotic, but Robin Rice herself corrected me by e-mail: it's a mother and son!

And these are only some of the photos that caught my eye.

         The photos bear dates from 1975 to 2018, and are taken in places as diverse as New York, Rome, Montauk, South Africa, Paris, Chicago, Brazil, Fire Island Pines, Devon in the English Channel, Eastern Caribbean, Minnesota, Naples, and Los Angeles.  Yes, Robin Rice did get around.  And the prices?  Anywhere from $600 to $3,000 unframed, and more if framed.

         As I left, I told the two young women that I did a blog on New York and would mention the gallery.  Delighted, they asked the name of the blog, and I gave them my card, promising to notify them when I published the post.  They then gave me a card announcing their next exhibition: Michael McLaughlin, “41 Degrees Latitude,” opening reception Wednesday, April 10.  I will attend the reception, if I can.  Hopefully, I’ll have better luck this time.  Last winter I meant to go to one, but was prevented by a heavy fall of snow.

         Such was my West Village adventure of Sunday, March 17.  Not exceptional, but not mediocre.  A fine example of life in Greenwich Village, and the inexhaustible excitement and cultural richness of New York.  


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©   2019   Clifford Browder