The vision of a genius

It was raining Dali.
We're clear on one thing, that New York always puts a fantastic glittery on anything and it does it with a thunderbolt. But a Salvador Dali Exhibition in a mall? This may be the mother of all art show and sale. I felt like I was in a gigantic duty-free sale somewhere in Dali-land.

We stopped to have lunch at Whole Foods which is at the Time Warner Center - a high-end vertical mall in the heart of Columbus Circle around Central Park West. I couldn't believe my eyes. The giant Botero sculptures Adam and Eve were moved to the other end of the corridor on the first floor. 16 of Dali's original monumental sculptures, 40 paintings and drawings took over. They made a museum out of this glorified shopping mall, how about that? The show is free and the public is allowed to wander among the sculptures and paintings, all these lovely things people can not so easily snatch and take home! Of particular interest to me are a series of three studies for Alfred Hitchcock's 1945 movie Spellbound. That I'd like to own, ha.

It is no surprise that Dali's work would get more attention than Botero's bronze naked male sculpture Adam whose male body part has turned so shiny from constant handling by some perverted gawkers. This is a rare opportunity. These works would've enjoyed their pride of place in a more sedate and intellectual venue such as the MoMa but the owner of the collection and the Galeries Bartoux chose this unconventional setting.

How did they even get these huge and heavy pieces through the door and believe me Time Warner Center has big doors. I certainly hope that none of our European visitors who will be running the New York City Marathon tomorrow (and there's a swarm of them around), knock over these art pieces.

In case you'll be in New York for some shopping, Dali's work await you at the mall. Throw in a thick wad of money in that knapsack, you'll be needing a lot. Their prices range from $20,000 to close to 7 figures.

But you know what I'm thinking? Security doesn't seem to be tight, if I tear off a piece of one painting then sell it, that may be enough to buy me a charming pied-a-terre in Manhattan or even support my retirement. Me and my imagined lifestyle... Ah, to dream and wake up possibly behind bars?

Enjoy!

Edward Hopper and friends

That's it, blame it on the rain. You could've walked the few blocks.

Celine was half an hour late for our date at the Whitney Museum. She took the LIRR from Long Island (where else) and hopped on the bus at Penn Station to get to the east side. A huge mistake on a rainy day. What you get in Manhattan you just can't get anywhere else - horrible traffic and slow-moving crosstown buses. The city streets are transformed into endless parking lots. It doesn't help that New York pedestrians forget how to walk fast on wet days.

So if it's a choice between having the subway doors close on your face, or if you're lucky enough to make it inside, getting whacked by backpacks loaded with every high tech gadget Apple can offer and spending an hour on the bus trying to get to the other side of town, I'd easily cherry-pick the underground. And you can forget about hailing a cab, the big-tipper hedge-fund guys have monopoly of those vehicles.

I didn't mind waiting for her at the lobby. People were friendly, even as they shook off the rain from their bodies like dogs and were politely handed plastic umbrella bags by the museum attendant. Being 5 feet or less, Celine boasted that she was in perfect company in the bus - all the riders were short. I could only wish that it was a short ride too! Knowing her, nothing could've stopped her from striking a pleasant conversation with the person next to her making any long soggy bus-riding experience with midgets interesting. Oh, she's going to hate me for this!

After a quick and rather late lunch, we rushed to the second floor gallery. The sign reads: Modern Life: Edward Hopper and His Time. With her vast knowledge of modern art and being a Hopper enthusiast, it is like having Celine as my personal docent. Move over audio guide, she can help me untangle the mysteries behind every painting here.

We will recall Edward Hopper and his most famous and recognizable painting Nighthawks that portrays people sitting in a downtown diner late at night. Often without figures, his paintings can depict loneliness and isolation. The streets are empty of cars, the colors soft and the unusual lighting captures the lonely mood of his subjects. There is a clear disconnect among the individuals as in Soir Bleu where the cast of characters appear to be detached from one another. Hopper did it like no other, how to convey what it's like to be alone in a crowd.

The central point of this exhibition examines his work in the context of his relationship to his contemporaries, the artistic community of the Ashcan School. Most of the works on display were drawn from the Whitney's extensive permanent collection. Some of his most iconic work include scenes from the bustling streets of New York City at the turn of the century and later, the small-town landscapes and cottages around Cape Cod in Massachusetts, which are among my favorites. Born in New York and a solitary man always at home by the sea, it is clear where his inspiration came from.

Two of the most striking work by Hopper are prominent in my mind. Above, New York Interior and Seven AM. His simplified shapes and details and bleak setting speak plenty of his feeling of solitude.

And from among his contemporaries, my pick is Martin Lewis and his print Shadow Dance.

Hopper and his friends, they were the realist painters who were willing to paint what they saw on the streets.

Celine and I walked out of the Whitney Museum saying very little to each other but very much in awe with what we just viewed - some of the rarely exhibited works of Edward Hopper and the painters of the Ashcan era.

Das Rheingold

Mention the name Wagner and some of us get anxious. His intense and lengthy works are not for everyone. I don't fall in the category of the learned opera goers like Celine and her late husband John who must have started the love of the operatic genius of Wagner when they were probably in their 8th grade.

One day at the Avery Fisher Hall cafe, a dignified white-haired gentleman sat next to me. His tote bag gave him away as a "Wagnerhead". He was joined later by his wife then they engaged in a discussion about the upcoming Das Rheingold production. As I eavesdropped I felt not only so small but also like a fish-out-of-water gasping for breath. These two are not dummies, they know their Wagner. It was intimidating. I tip my hat off to the loyal Wagner fans who seem unfazed by the composer's massive, challenging and very, very long operas.

The new production of the four-part Ring Cycle launches with Das Rheingold in a joint effort by James Levine and director Robert Lepage. Something I'd rather not miss. Sadly I had to give up my chance to watch it live since the scheduled performance coincided with Patrick's wedding held out-of-town. All attempts to exchange our season tickets for the same opera were futile. Those lunatic Wagnerites are quick to snap up tickets for the Ring as soon as the Met programs are released.

Thanks to the Met Live HD Performance which is broadcast in movie theatres across the world, I had a second chance. It was an encore presentation of a screening that took place earlier this month and not a simulcast.

The prominent feature of this multimillion dollar production was the set made of a long row of 24 planks built out of fiberglass-covered aluminum that can rise and fall powered by hydraulics and can rotate 360 degrees. Even the Rheinmaidens appeared scared as they climb a 45 degree angle close to the ceiling. The planks looked like giant piano keys that twist and turn into different forms - undulating to represent the River Rhine or descending into the Nibelung as a flight of stairs and all sorts of clever tricks. It was humongous and at times drowned the music and the voices of the world's premiere opera singers Bryn Terfel as Wotan, Stephanie Blythe as Fricka, Wotan's wife and Eric Owens as Alberich.

It's a mythical story of gods and dwarves and the magic gold in the River Rhine protected by the Rhinemaidens. The long story rolls on into a series of adventures and misadventure, love, killing and betrayal. But it wasn't the same as seeing it live in many counts.

First off, who eats popcorn at the opera? In the second place, I expected some pretty singing without amplification. Third, Lepage who once again brings cutting-edge technology did not do much to impress me. The sets were bulky and lack depth. In the absence of the live stage I had trouble imagining scale and proportion. I liked his work on the Damnation of Faust.

I wonder what it was like had I attended it live. The state-of-the-art set at times was a distraction from the beautiful music and great voices onstage. I also thought that Eric Owens playing the ugly dwarf stole the show from Terfel as Wotan. Despite all these, Maestro James Levine who could barely walk at curtain call carried the orchestra through an inspiring performance soon after his surgery due to back problems. He is a true star.

I won't say I'll never see another Wagner opera again. I don't have to love him, I just have to enjoy his music. And while it's true that the Met Live HD project paid off as it is now being utilized to foster new interest in the opera, I prefer to attend the performances at the Met.

Boris Godunov

I was put off by its length. At roughly four and a half hours, the opera dragged for most of the first act. Worse than that, the story was hard to follow not having read the synopsis ahead of time, a spoiler one might think, but not in an opera; I need to know what it's all about.

It was even tougher for Celine who was seated next to me and whose subtitle screen had malfunctioned. Sung in Russian and with no Met Titles to translate, it's hard to fake an applause when you had no clue what just went on!

I do not have photos to prove it but Celine dozed off a bit and I don't blame her. There's something about staring at the stage from our Family Circle seats, focusing on the singing while intermittently stealing a view from your neighbor's tiny screen, that interferes with one's ability to stay awake. No, this is not made up. You try it with the dim lights inside the opera house. As we say in New York, "What are ya gonna do?" She moved to the empty seat to my right, after intermission and by this time already terribly annoyed.

There was no impassioned romance or a plump diva belting out high notes. It's a story of power and guilt, Russian history in the making. Boris Godunov is based on Alexander Pushkin's play of the same title which details the rise and fall of a remorseful tsar who ordered the murder of the rightful heir to the throne to clear the way for his own gain.

The set design was spare and quite traditional. The historical idea was reinforced by showing large maps. Most striking was the use of an oversized book which laid open onstage on which the monk Pimen was recording the history of the time, in whose pages sometimes the characters literally wrapped themselves.

There was a wealth of good voices. With the German bass Rene Pape as the lead character, the production came much more to life as the chorus delivered its best. It was a big part for them.

There was no prelude, no memorable arias but enough monologues were barked out. One just has to concentrate on the beauty of Russian music more than the story itself. There is no question in my mind, the stars of this opera are Rene Pape as Boris and the Met Opera Chorus - the tsar and the mob.

Camilla and Patrick

Leaving behind the rumble of construction trucks, the whirring and buzzing of drills and chain saws, for sure a less tense atmosphere here in Maryland would be a welcoming change. Surprise, surprise.

Everyone was on edge at rehearsal including those of us who were not part of the wedding entourage. In his bold, strict voice, the officiating priest laid down the rules. No flowers except for two arrangements on the altar. Not on the aisle. No flash photography. Be quiet. I have a funeral to attend to after this and in between I have to eat supper so everyone pay close attention. It will be up to me to tell you when to kneel or stand, and a litany of others. Holy matrimony!

For the most part we obeyed as if following military orders. Unable to stay at ease, our friend Mila who was one of the sponsors broke the rules. While fidgeting with the strap of her halter top she accidentally (?) raised her hand to which the Gestapo called out loudly,

"Yes? Do you have any questions?"
All of 5 feet and change but packed with energy Mila nervously replied,
"I'm sorry Father, I was just scratching my arm."
You have to know our petite pal here in order to appreciate this story, the script of which will be rehashed way even after the rehearsal dinner.

Now Reverend Monsignor here may have had good reasons to be cranky. Some Filipino weddings such as this one, involve many participants. 8 pairs of sponsors, 8 bridesmaids partnered with same number of groomsmen, a maid of honor, a matron of honor, best man, parents and grandparents of both bride and groom. You name it. Anybody whose surname even comes close to that of the couple and to whom they are afraid to say No to, gets their name on the list of the grand-marchers.

At rehearsal dinner the restaurant was also packed. A ton of friends and relatives were present sort of keeping with Filipino tradition. You don't leave out the aunts and uncles from out-of-town. It's a banquet. As I started to get full yet couldn't stop making a pig of myself, I slyly took off my shapewear (aka girdle) under the table. Aaaahhh! Pain comes with fashion but I won't put up with it.

Camilla the young and beautiful bride wore a simple but gorgeous ivory silk gown. Patrick was a dashing groom. The ceremony went on as rehearsed without a hitch except for the part where Father Francis dropped one of the rings. His excuse, "I was distracted by too many flashes."

The reception was a couple of hours away at least and another hour's drive from our hotel so we decided to get that much needed feet rest before going. Boy I can't remember the last time I wore these heels now they are killing me.

Without a printed map it was hard to tell where we were headed. Should Chong just follow her piloting instincts rather than Lady Jane? The signs point to Prince Frederick in South Maryland, we may be on to something here. We finally got there after traveling some rugged terrain. It is so remote after a while we were cut off from the world, kaput no signals.

If you ever dreamed of a rustic wedding in a beautiful setting like Tuscany or Napa Valley, this is it. The Running Hare Vineyard sits on a picturesque farm with rolling hills and sweeping views of meticulously kept vines. It is magnificent but this made me nervous. The reception building sits atop a small hill!

You may be in for a stale disappointment, no pun intended. First, I know how to appreciate fine wine but can't talk to you about body or tannins; second, I might need an oxygen tank for this hike. I also got accessibility issues here and was getting extremely sweaty just staring at the long stairway leading from the vineyard to the hilltop.

The walk on the gravel wasn't something I had expected. A change of shoes wasn't part of my plan either. Never mind the dirt as my pristine heels started sinking into the grass by the side. My concern here was balance or my complete lack of it!

Alas, difficult but not impossible, I made it. The view from the hill was stunning. The backdrop of the vines on the hills made for a most magnificent setting for Camilla and Patrick's wedding reception. It was awesome.

I love weddings except for the dancing part. My part. I have two left feet, definitely got no rhythm. It's not like I'll be singled out by the cameras and watching guests, but I'll still be making a fool of myself twitching like the Tasered Granny. The band played great music so I didn't mind the blasting speakers right behind me.

Perhaps another memorable part of this event is the joy and excitement of reuniting with old friends we have not seen in ages. It was a happy occasion.

The sun has gone down and it was time to go. Camilla and Patrick caught up with us as we left for the parking lot. It would not have been a pretty sight had I gone tumbling down to the bottom of the hill. I held on to Patrick's arm tightly and slowly climbed down the dimly-lit stairway, poor Camilla had to wait.

There was a big crowd behind them waving goodbye as the newlyweds rode off to their honeymoon. They were a lovely couple on to a new life together. It was a pleasure to be a part of their celebration.

It would have been perfect if Patrick's brother Chris was there.

He is in Afghanistan. His wife Linh's charming presence made up for his absence.

Tornado in New York

There's a whole host of reasons why I have the unnecessary angst when I hear of the slightest weather advisory. I was only ten years of age but old enough to run errands only adults were entrusted to do.

My grandmother was ill and I was tasked to buy the prescribed medicines from a pharmacy out of town, a half hour ride from home. My mother escorted me to the bus stop and left me to the care of the driver who was instructed to drop me off at the drugstore closest to the bus depot at the capital. I didn't have any problem with that.

I took the same bus returning home but it was pouring rain when I got back. Halfway thru the few blocks walk to our house, it thundered then a bolt of lightning struck a few feet in front of me. Lightning snapped and lit the sky like fourth of July. Extremely terrified, I ran for my life in the nearest shelter which is the ice house where they store giant blocks of ice in mounds of rice hulls. The owners took me in. As soon as the storm subsided, they sent for my mother to fetch me.

It was a narrow escape, a terrifying experience which changed my life forever. From then on I would hide inside a rolled up banig - a woven straw sleeping mat, during the thunderstorms in the country. I'd come out of my hiding sweating bullets when the storm was over.

To this day I still pull down the shades to protect me from the lightning when it strikes. With no cellar to escape into, I take refuge in the darkness of my room and pitifully under the covers. I don't know how to break free of this fear. It would make for a challenging case for a head shrink, wouldn't it? Nah, I can handle this myself. After all, this is New York, no nasty storms such as the violent ones that hit the Philippines occur here. I was wrong.

September 16, 2010

I caught a glimpse of the weather report earlier today but none of it really hit me as treacherous. Around 5:00 pm, the skies turned gray and rain started to fall. Halfway thru her drive to Brooklyn, Chong phoned me that lightning just flashed thru the pitch black sky above her. Almost instantly here in Queens we were wrapped in the same dark clouds, strong winds and lightning while hailstones pelted the roof.

I ran upstairs to bring Tita Lumen down and as we walked down the steps strong winds shook the place and blew off the roof hatch cover directly above us. Then I heard a loud roaring sound. Everything unfolded in no time. I looked out into the courtyard. The trees were decimated. My senses told me it was a twister. It's hard to believe, not in New York.

Scary. It's that lightning experience from my childhood all over again but a lot worse! A devastating three or four minutes of the tornado and then it was a sudden calm. The neighbors came out to check on one another and to survey the damage. It was like a war zone. 50-year old trees were uprooted, roof covers and shingles were blown blocks away. Mature trees have landed on cars and buildings.

It was a scene straight out of a disaster movie. Quiet after the storm and desolate as a ghost town. The roads were blocked by fallen trees and debris. In a matter of minutes, sirens were going as private citizens helped to direct the rush hour traffic as drivers inched their way home, weaving in and out of road blocks. It was a miracle that only one person died and no one else injured.

We will soon learn that two tornadoes and a macroburst tore a 14-mile long path of destruction in Staten Island, Brooklyn and Queens. At 125 mph the wind gust we experienced was mild compared to what the folks in the Midwest had to endure during these violent tornadoes.

For days after I drafted this post sounds of chain saws and wood chippers filled the air. All over the neighborhood homeowners spent countless hours hammering and nailing stripped sidings, replacing roof covers, grinding stumps and rebuilding.

Even the birds were confused. They've lost their trees. I found many of them perched in bushes and on fallen tree limbs some maybe hoping to find their nests and their birdlings.

It was disheartening. And the fear is still there.
But we're all safe. The damages will be fixed and the trees will be replaced.

Bird songs at dawn, I'll soon hear them.

There's only one Big Apple

Not that I'm a huge fan of the Mets, but I'd be a fool to pass up a chance to watch a game when the stadium is just a stone's throw away and the $80 tickets are free! How did I get so lucky? I got friends with connections.

Let's cut to the chase - it's the Mets vs. the Phillies. I 've no idea who the Phillies are, I can only tell them apart from the Mets by the color of their jerseys. Thanks to our friend Ces who used to be a die-hard Mets fan, I learned a few things today. First, that when a player on the Mets team hits a home run at Citi Field, the giant fiberglass apple rises from a 16-foot black top hat over the centerfield wall. And I thought the shiny red apple is just a New York fixture. Apparently this is a big deal to the fans. A petition was even signed in the fight to have the sweet home-run fruit moved to its new home at Citi Field after Shea was torn down.

Second, Ces said that the orange poles in the ball field are what they call foul poles. I knew that, but what I didn't know is that the term foul pole is a misnomer since they are in fair territory. Any batted ball that strikes the pole or its attached netting is a fair ball and is ruled a home run, and so forth and so on. I was totally confused I tuned her out after the first rule. So much for Foul 101 all I care about is for the home team to win.


The choices of eats are endless, the longest lines being at the Shake Shack concessions. We decided to join the crowd of carnivorous youngsters and some elders too who I suspect like us are doing this out of curiosity.

But what a shock, the beverage list includes Chardonnay and Cabernet Sauvignon. Holy cannoli, am I at the stadium? It turns out their burgers are overrated and don't measure up to the new kid on the block - Five Guys which has great burgers and perfect fries - Obama's pick.

So we took our seats section 139 near the left field and sat thru the third inning at which point the Mets hit a homer. The ceremonial red apple to my left rose out of hiding and the fans went nuts. And then there was the sounds of cow bells, more cow bells. Well, it's not the home run that gets the fans out of their seats - it's the apple! How weird New Yorkers are.

Bored and not quite pleased with our view (believe me we'd rather watch from the bleachers), we ventured and walked around the concourse and up to the Club level. Yup, I said Club, as in exclusive-to-fans-with-premium-seats lounge. We checked out the Promenade but stayed the rest of the game at the Caesar's Club lounging and watching from the big screens. The view from up there was stunning. The giant screen showing the ongoing match at the nearby Arthur Ashe Stadium was clearly visible. It's the men's finals too at the US Open.

After the home run there was little to cheer about but we stayed till finish. As usual the Mets scored lots of runs early, held the lead for some time then lost. What else is new, it ultimately ends in bitter disappointment.

But we can't turn our backs on them, we love New York, the Mets and its apple. We love it to its core.

One home run - it's the most work the poor red apple did today. And it was worth watching.