Apr 8

Apr 8 Hit Hard

Jazz Musicians, Cityscapes, Architecture, New York City, Street Musician, The Age of Trump

“Hey, I’ve got nothing to do today but smile
De-doh-n-doh-de-doh
And here I am
The only living boy in New York”

— The Only Living Boy in New York City, Simon and Garfunkel (January 26, 1970)

“You got rats on the West Side
Bed bugs uptown
What a mess this town’s in tatters, I’ve been shattered
My brain’s been battered, splattered all over Manhattan”

— Shattered, Rolling Stones, from Some Girls (1978)

As I roam Chicago’s streets and boulevards, I sense an emptiness, but those urban pathways are slowly returning to life, with more bodies taking up sidewalk space with each passing day. Maybe that is happening in New York City, but on my visit this past week, I sensed that the City was harder hit than its broad-shouldered cousin.

Sunday I walked up Madison Avenue from 60th to 91st. No need to wait at corners for the Don’t Walk sign to flash Walk. No cars; just keep walking. As I looked left and then right, I noticed many empty storefronts, often with brown wrapping paper hiding the emptiness within. The Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar boutiques like Tom Ford, Chanel, and Estée Lauder survived, still ready to sell haute couture, but many one-off boutiques died a Covid-induced death. A security guard patrolled the streets to curb any vandalization efforts.

On Monday, I headed to the Whitney Museum of American Art, now located in what was the Meat Packing District, which was where animals were once slaughtered and packaged for human consumption. As the decades elapsed, the area became the haven for a different sort of meat packing—see the photographic archive left by Alvin Baltrop. And then someone decided that the overhead railway running south to north should become a public park known as the High Line. The adjacent streets now house families and upscale shops.

I walked from 10th Avenue to the High Line’s entrance at 30th Street. The elevated walkways have been jammed with throngs of residents and tourists since first opening in June 2009, but on Wednesday, there were open lounge chairs along the route, and plenty of space for the occasional runner to move forward unimpeded.

The Whitney, like all of NYC’s museums, currently is employing timed and limited admissions to protect its staff and patrons from disease. During my trip, I visited six museums. In an ironic twist, Covid-19 has been the best thing that ever happened to the museums, at least from a visitor’s standpoint. You can actually look at the art without being jostled by the hordes of the check-the-box tourists and Instagrammers—in the Frick, one visitor complained to a guard about the no-photo policy, “But I’ve seen photos on social media.”

I spent a good five hours in the Whitney, as well as another five in MoMA on Tuesday. With the exception of the one or two people who crossed my path, I was the only one in the galleries when I visited Fotografiska on Wednesday. Tip: If you find yourself in New York before August 8, 2021, stop into the Whitney to view Julie Mehretu’s mid-career retrospective—she clearly has her own style, but one can certainly see influences from Sarah Sze, Jackson Pollock, Joan Miró, and Yves Tanguy. Terrific and topical stuff. Second Tip: Fotografiska is a five-story museum on 22nd and Park Avenue South with five or six exhibits at any given time. Currently on display are images from Pixy Liao’s Experimental Relationship. Her work is well worth your time. Third Tip: Don’t miss the Alice Neel’s career retrospective at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, or The Modern Look: Photography and the American Magazine at the Jewish Museum, particularly if you are a Suzy Parker fan.

Late in the afternoon on Tuesday, I headed over to Rockefeller Center, and headed to the Top of the Rock—Floor 67. Based on the infrastructure designed to manage crowds, I suspect there is normally a long line, but not when I visited. There were at most 20 to 30 people roaming around the three-floor observation deck.

Saddest of all was the Village. On Sixth Avenue just south of Fourth Street, there were a number of empty stores. The storefronts looked like subway cars from 1974: covered in graffiti that reflected none of Jean-Michel Basquiat’s ethos. In fact, anything that was vacant had been tagged. Simply put, the Village looked terrible, as did Time Square and the Theatre District. It was as if a neutron bomb had exploded. The signage for the all the plays and musicals was still in place (Hugh Jackman in the Music Man, for instance), with lots of accumulated grime, but no people. I noticed that one of the two shops devoted to Chess on Thompson Street no longer had its mate across the street. HBO’s Queen’s Gambit apparently couldn’t save it.

Yet there were some positve stirrings in the Village. A trio of terrific jazz players provided the soundtrack for the skateboarders and retirees who populated Washington Square Park. Simultaneously, there was a Latino demonstration under the Arch at the north end of the Park. The speakers were calling for greater equality to be brought about through higher taxes on the rich and organizing workers. Covid may have shut the world down for the better part of a year, but Bernie Sanders and his mantras managed to not only survive, but to thrive.

Meanwhile, I spent lots of time in museum bathrooms, where I became woke. MoMA’s latest addition recognizes that people who visit museums need to occasionally relieve themselves. Unlike the bathrooms in the museum’s decades-old original building, the bathrooms in the just completed section contain plenty of stalls. Much to my surprise, the bathroom labeled “Men’s” contained 10 or so stalls, but no urinals. On the way out, I noticed a vending machine built into the charcoal-gray granite wall. “Really,” I thought, “MoMA is selling condoms in the Men’s Room? Is the artwork really that erotic?” I glanced back for a second look. Not condoms, but tampons. “Uh-oh, did I walk into the Women’s Room? I checked. “Nope,” and then I saw the sign telling me to use which ever bathroom I felt comfortable with. The New York legislature apparently hasn’t made it difficult for transgender and non-binary people to relieve themselves in a bathroom of their choosing. Progress.

Covid removed office workers and tourists from the streets, eliminating the need to dodge bodies as they come at you from all directions. I miss the resulting energy that all that motion releases. The city is just not the same.

There has been much debate whether cities will return to their pre-Covid state. Hopefully New York City will as more people are vaccinated, foreigners are admitted to the U.S. without required quarantines, and Corporate America realizes that there is value to in-person interactions.

Despite all the speculation, I don’t think anyone knows for sure what cities will be like once Covid fades away. Undoubtedly, some companies will allow office workers to split their time between home and office, but I suspect many people will return to offices. Some have speculated that mass transit will never return to pre-pandemic levels, but as usual I found it to be a quick and convenient way to move around the city. Already the airports are crowded and hotels are operating at higher capacities, so the age of travel does not appear to have ended.

One thing is for sure: Men are more thorough when they wash their hands in the Men’s Room. If I get up the courage to venture into the Women’s room next time I visit MoMA, I will report back on the thoroughness of women and other user.

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