I have a consulting project lined up at an investment bank that won’t start until the 12th. In the meantime, I’m trying to make myself useful at home. I’ve made some cosmetic repairs to the house and have started to paint the family room. I need to clean the winter detritus out of the gutters.
By all rights, I should be home finishing up the painting. But it’s Friday. And after a brutal winter of pounding blizzards, a March with record-setting rainfall and a lot of unemployment drama, the sun is finally out, the sky is blue-blue, and there’s a balmy breeze. So I have put down my paint roller for the day and am in the city for what my pal Bob would refer to as a Fuck-Off Friday.
I’ll stop in the David Zwirner gallery in Chelsea to view the original drawings that R. Crumb made for his most recent book, The Bible Illuminated: R. Crumb’s book of Genesis.
Afterwards, I’ll walk over to Madison Square Park to view the Event Horizon New York outdoor installation. The artist, Antony Gormley, used his own body to cast 31 life-sized statues and scattered them throughout the park and along the top edges of the surrounding buildings. When the first statue went up atop the point of the Flatiron Building, the police received multiple calls about a suicide jumper.
A short walk away is Swann Auction Galleries, where an important rare book auction will be held next week, The Otto Penzler Collection of British Espionage and Thriller Fiction. Lots of Ian Fleming and Graham Greene first editions. The books are way out of my price range, but I want to view them before they pass into private hands.
After that it’s uptown to Christie’s at Rockefeller Center. The author Michael Crichton poured a lot of the money he made off of Jurassic Park and ER into his art collection. Now that he’s dead, it’s up for auction and for the next two weeks you can view the lots. This guy didn’t kid around. Rauschenberg, Warhol, Lichtenstein, Picasso, and the cornerstone of the collection, Flag by Jasper Johns (est. $10-$15 million.) Jesus. $10 mil for a painting. And I can’t find a staff job.
In the evening I’m meeting friends to see Alfred Molina play the troubled/suicidal artist Mark Rothko in Red, a Donmar Warehouse import from London that opened last night to stellar reviews this morning.
Do know how many wives would allow their husbands to do all that with a half-painted family room at home? While I’m out fucking around the city all day and night, Mrs. Wife will be home taking care of The Daughters. She has said nothing about my folly and had not laid any guilt trips on me.
Who has the greatest spouse on the planet? It ain’t you. I told my sister about all this and she suggested I kiss Mrs. Wife’s feet when I get home. I might do just that.