A few weeks ago, I managed to catch the Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Met, two days before it closed. In total, approximately 660,000 people visited the show during its run, and in the final weeks, some waited as many as six hours to get in. My total wait time of 1 hour and 52 minutes was modest in comparison.
I was struck by the ambiance of the main atrium of the Met, around which the massive line wrapped twice, so I caught some of the noise on tape. It got me thinking about the mental experience of hundreds of people waiting in a line:
Though I missed the Solstice sunset over the Manhattan Bridge tonight, there were a few strange things I came across on a walk through Brooklyn:
- What’s the deal with the enormous, spherical, neon blue sculpture that sits in the front yard of a house on Dean St. in Boerum Hill? I am inclined to ring the doorbells of this brownstone until someone answers. It looks like it belongs in the MoMA, and lights up the street in an eerie glow. I wonder what the neighbors think. It’s very cool.
- Sometimes people who live on first floor apartments leave their blinds open and their lights on, so you can see right into their apartments. One of the most grotesque, shocking and enigmatic displays I’ve ever witnessed: an intense doll collection. Floor to ceiling, shelves filled with Barbies, American Girl Dolls, Laura Ashley figures, and more, all still in their boxes, and a sheet of plastic “protecting” (?) them from–er–danger? Theft? This brings up so many questions. Who is this person? Are they young or old? Gasp–what if it’s a dude? The mystery continues.
Update: Apparently, the folks over at The Hairpin also had massive doll collections on the mind today.
- This is less creepy-weird and more awesome-weird: today, Nick Franglen, of the band Lemon Jelly, played a 24-hour improvised piece underneath the Manhattan Bridge. He played the theremin, in collaboration with the ambient noise of the cars and trains. He even set up a sensor to insert a blip of silence in the piece whenever a biker or pedestrian passed over it. A collaborative, sun-saluting hymn. Well done.
I enter my apartment to the sound of screaming teenage girls outside my windows. How do I know these are the screams of teenagers, you ask? Only teenage girls have a scream that makes your hair stand on end, grates your nerves raw, and fills you with an ounce of nostalgia of the time when you, yes you, were once yourself a screaming teen girl. Suffice it to say, it’s a scream I know well.
So before I start thinking it’s a Genovesean situation, I step onto my fire escape and discover the source of the unbridled screams. I live above a movie theater, and they’re having the New York premiere of the new Twilight movie, New Moon.
I sip Wild Turkey and watch the hilarity ensue:
This might be a weird moment to have realized this, but my life here is pretty damn cool.