Monday night I arrived home to my beloved primary partner of a city, bedraggled and bedazzled by my affair with the big apple. I’d spent my last day with my oldest of New York friends, the paintings in MOMA. I realized as I stood before A Starry Night, that of each of the four times I’ve been to this city, this is the one constant, visiting the MOMA. In my exhaustion and overwhelm, I found myself imagining I was at a rarefied cocktail party, mingling and chatting with Jasper, Andy, Pablo, and Vincent, among many others. Loving them all, I couldn’t help laughing out loud in front of a Lichtenstein when in my daydream, the Guerilla Girls barged into the party in full regalia. So nice to be able to hold a tender love for these paintings/artists along with my longing for a more mixed up cocktail party! An hour or so later, I was in a small gallery down the street, at a show of Louisiana Artists centered around rebuilding the New Orleans Museum of Art. The walls held much more art by women, and I’m kicking myself for not retaining their names. It was funkadelicious, and I got on my plane home intoxicated with the heady and hearty cocktails I’d been served up all weekend. Is there a hangover to follow? So far, so good, I just feel fabulous!
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