Short Trips

Tuesday, April 22, Day 3

April 24, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Back to the Rijks and began this time in the medieval section. But first, for those who suggest my work is a tad detailed, here’s a large portrait of a Dutch noblewoman, Maria van Strijp, by Johannes Cornelisz. Verspronck,1652. Note the lace cuffs.

Here’s a close-up detail, taken by my iPhone, of those cuffs.

I rest my case. I am positively loose and sloppy compared to the precision of this painter. Another painter’s skill I marveled at – here’s a detail of a Bathsheba painting (Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem, 1594) where skin appears to glow as if lit from within.

How did he achieve this astonishing luminosity? No edges. I’m thinking layers upon layers of glazes and a delicate touch with a brush.

Back to the medieval section, along with paintings that blaze with color and expressive faces, there are many wonderful objects, including this carved ivory head.

It’s the grip of a flintlock pistol.

There’s a tremendous father and son diptych, saints galore and a marvelous carved elk antler, used as a shield, culled from a beast killed a thousand years ago.

As I’m walking through other sections, I notice a room that is pulsing light at intervals. Really ? In the center of a recreation of an 18^th century room, on temporary loan to the Rijks, is a glowing sphere with a reflective, geometric pattern on the surface. Light within it glows and dims, and as visitors stand near the surface, it ripples and twitches. The Lotus Dome. by Daan Roosegaarde, is a reactive dome, lit from within and covered with a geometric net of flower shapes. The Mylar petals open and twitch in response to the warmth of a human body, as the LED light glows and dims. Hypnotic. It took a while before I could make myself move on.

Lunch again at the café, then back to the rooms. There’s a great variety here, from an armada of wooden ship models, to walls of locks that resemble lace in the complexity of their designs. Heaps of clothes and jewels and porcelain. It’s more like a Smithsonian museum, a country’s historical attic, than a straight up art museum. One thing that puzzles me is the scarcity of sculpture. Very few works in the Rijks, and many of those in terracotta. It isn’t until my visit to the Rembrandthuis, with the enthralling docents of Context tours, that the penny drops. This city is built on soft, wet ground. Think Venice or NOLA. Hundreds of buried pilings hold up the Royal Palace. There’s no stone here, no marble quarries. Streets are made of brick. That’s why sculpture is lacking.

Another lunch at the museum cafe, More thinking about the particularity and the humanity of the Dutch paintings. I walked back at the end of my day in charity with the world, and after a light supper, fell into bed, exhausted. And all hell broke loose. Two words.

Crying baby.

On the other side of the wall of my comfortable room is a baby who has a really bad night. Maybe it’s colic. Maybe the parents believe in letting a baby cry it out. Don’t know. I do know that baby cried without ceasing from 6:45 to 9:30, and wailed again at 11, 1am, 3am and 7am. My earplugs helped, but couldn’t completely erase the plaintive wailing. I thought about going over, knocking on the door, and offering to walk the baby, since I wasn’t going to be sleeping anyway.

Rough night for both of us. I seriously considered moving my bed into the bathroom. If it happens again tonight, I will.

Wednesday, April 23, Day 4

April 24, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Tired, cranky, and tense, thanks to the inconsolable infant next door. Breakfast and a hot shower improved my mood before I Ubered over to the Rembrandt House for a three-hour tour (I can’t type that without hearing the theme from Gilligan’s Island). I booked it with Context Travel, based on the one other tour I’ve done with them at the Vatican Museum. http://www.contexttravel.com/city/amsterdam/walking-tour-details/rembrandts-amsterdam

Arrived at the Rembrandthuis and was delighted to discover the tour consisted of me, an American Rembrandt scholar for my guide, and a trainee docent, a Dutch woman from Rembrandt’s hometown of Leiden. Booyah! Let the education begin.

I was one enthralled client. Our timing was such that the man who does print demonstrations began the process to accommodate us. As he did each step, he explained both the how and the why of the process and how Rembrandt worked. Show and tell at its best. There were examples of the way Rembrandt changed plates over time, scraping away some figures, adding other details, how you can track the order in which a particular image evolves by putting the prints side by side.

He prepared to make a print on rag paper, explaining that Rembrandt also used linen, Japanese mulberry paper, and vellum. The demo guy used a decidedly anachronistic spatula to scrape the ink over the plate, then wiped it with cheesecloth, and finally his own chalked palm. One of those odd facts that will stick in my brain forever is the authentic tamp (instead of the spatula) was made from the skin of a dog. Since dogs don’t sweat they have no pores, and their skins were the best for not absorbing the ink.

Then he used the press to make a print. Magic! The print on the bottom is the one hot off the press.

Upstairs, in Rembrandt’s studio, there was another demo in progress; how Rembrandt made his paints. A woman ground organic pigments into linseed oil. I petted the brushes. Heaven.

My guide seemed to know pretty much everything there was to know about Rembrandt, his workshop, and clients. The Dutch trainee talked about the culture of the times. Big fun for me. Huge.

We parted in Dam Square after a brief walk around Rembrandt’s neighborhood. There was a funfair set up in the square, with carnival rides, a haunted house, ring toss type booths, lots of shrieking and screaming.

Welcome to hell.

I skedaddled around the side of the church to De Drie Graafjes café and ate a broodje on the second floor, watching the street scene below. Wandered afterward to the Nine Streets, known for boutiques of local designers/creators. Walked around until the no sleep thing cut my legs out from under me, and I headed back to my room. On the way, I passed a number of shops that reminded me just how seriously the Dutch take their cheese.

Very, very seriously.

Tomorrow, either back to the Rjiks or over to the outpost of the Hermitage museum for the Silk Road exhibit.

Thursday, April 24, Day 5

April 25, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Simple plan made the night before: visit the Hermitage Museum outpost in Amsterdam to see the Silk Road exhibition, then head back towards the B&B, with a stop at the van Loon museum or maybe the Albert Cuyp Market. Rain is forecast to start at 10am and that will decide how much walking around I’ll be doing. I put on my raincoat (the only time I have worn it. The winter coat has not left the bag it was stuffed in) and slip the collapsible umbrella in my bag.

Ubered over to the museum, which reminded me of an Apple store on the inside – curving white walls, glass and metal stairs, lots of interaction features – swipe your ticket over a sensor to be admitted, doors swing open as you approach, the audio guide is triggered from a point on the wall you swipe with you audio unit, like the self check-out at Kroger.

My experience with the Silk Road exhibit will be all tell and no show, since photographs were prohibited. It ranged from fragments of damaged, extremely faded wall murals, to an entire silk garment lined in squirrel fur, preserved in ice for over a thousand years. Multi-media elements included a stuffed dromedary, a two-story high wall projection/slide show of individual items in the exhibit, and audio of Tibetan monks chanting. There were sections on the archeological aspects, past and current, For me, the idea of the show was more interesting than the artifacts on loan. I think the Hermitage mother ship could have been a little more generous with what they made available for this.

I left on foot through spitting rain, toward the Museum van Loon. Passed by a bustling entry and peered inside at what turned out to be the Tassenmuseum Hendrikje, the Museum of Bags and Purses. I hesitated, but with a museumkaart, entry was free, so what the hay. Once inside I winced at the sign announcing a special exhibit – 50 years of Barbie! – but figured I could skip that, no one ever had to know. The collection is housed in a classic, canal view mansion, with the earliest objects on the top floor. One four-story climb later I walked in, and saw a goatskin drawstring bag with iron clasps from 1600. I was hooked. I loved it when they put a painting from the same era behind the purse – instant context. Like this:

The displays address the evolution of material and function. There are examples of beading, basketry, leather, plastic, and metal. Purses for brides and for chatelaines. Exhibits of what women carried, in various eras. So many of the purses were playful, inventive, or as hand held sculpture, like the clutch that mimicked a steamship. I pressed my nose against the glass more than once.

A cafe on the second floor had two formal rooms set for a high tea. They found me a table, slipping me in between the reservations.

I promised to be quick. Clotted cream, jam, and biscuits, how I missed you. I wolfed down crustless triangles of smoked salmon sandwiches, that biscuit, and a pot of Earl Grey. On my way out, I ducked into the gift shop. A Margaret Thatcher lookalike enthusiastically assisted me, and a mug, postcard, and one secret item later (a gift for Robert so I can’t include it here), I made it out the door. Guilty pleasures are the sweetest.

Walked on to the Museum van Loon, in the home belonging to the co-founder of the Dutch East-India Company. Interesting tension between the portraits of van Loon children by Dirck Santvoort and Nicolaes Maes, and a series of contemporary children’s portraits by artist Katinka Lampe they inspired.

Both disturbing, in their own way.

I revisited rooms multiple times. They had massive bouquets of fresh flowers throughout the mansion, a living version of Rachel Ruysch’s stilleven met bloemen paintings.

The formal garden behind the house was blooming in a palette of orange and purple and graced with a copy of the sculpture I last saw in the Louvre, Hercules carrying his son Télèphe.

Thirty more minutes of walking over bridges, dodging around bicycles and trams, and I was back at the B&B. It was a day that convinced me of how good it is to have a museumkaart in my pocket. and time to allocate as I wish.

Friday & Saturday, April 25-26, day 6 &

April 28, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Friday. Walked to Nine Streets, looking in the windows at things I things I can’t afford, but enjoy admiring. Stopped for apple pie and coffee (it’s a Dutch thing) and drew a couple of postcards. Cranked up a Rick Steves’ audio guide of the Red Light district. It’s a hoot, like having your pastor show you around. The guide discussed the church while prostitutes tapped on the glass to attract customers; a different kind of window shopping.

Inside the church, I visited Saskia’s grave (the first Mrs. Rembrandt). An art installation was in progress in a side room, involving embroidery on church chair cushions. In another alcove, a black & white animated movie explored the effect of religion on the artist’s ancestors. Just outside the Lady Chapel, another film ran; a heavily pregnant, naked, brunette woman leaned forward and collapsed in slo-mo, falling out of the frame, the film maker’s response to the Virgin of the chapel.

Following that, I had lunch in the church’s café, out in the garden. A note on my plate informed me that my soup was made by (formerly) sex-trafficked women. Amsterdam seems to relish contradiction and thrive on containing multitudes.

More walking, and I nearly stumbled over the bronze breasts and hand underfoot. Such is Amsterdam that I can’t tell what the artist’s intention might be. Shame? Pride? Weighing fair measure for money paid?

Crowds increased, testosterone rose. Walked into the New Church to use the bathroom, stayed for an exhibition of the top photographs of 2014. http://www.worldpressphoto.org/ The impact was the emotional equivalent of a punch in the stomach. I felt gutted by the fifth image, but kept going until it was done. Soldiers under fire, a man making IED bombs, domestic violence, collapsed building victims, cancer-riddled athlete, Boston marathon bombing, tsunami aftermath. There’s a lighter side; nudists, a subsistence farmer stirring plum jam, hermits in rakish leaf hats, bonobos. My favorite; a man bringing a sheep home for a festival dinner. The ewe sits calmly in his car’s passenger seat. The image captures the moment the man behind the wheel lights his cigarette and you think, eh, that’s a really awkward blind date.

“Occupied Pleasures” photo by Tanya Habjuqua

Walk back to the B&B past men unloading and setting up scaffolding, barricades, and port-a-potties, gearing up for the first King’s Day in 129 years.

King’s Day, Saturday. In orange socks and my orange polka dot scarf, I walked toward the museum through the Vondelpark, which Amsterdam sets aside on this holiday for children and their families. It’s a cross between a PTA bake sale, a yard sale of outworn clothes and toys, and kids playing violins or guitars, with a hat for tips. Not bad at 9am, but inside of an hour even this park on the fringes geared up from busy to crowded to crushed. I skedaddled to the Rijks. Lucky for me, it meant the museum was not slammed and I had a great morning there.

Since I was here the other day, oversized yellow post-its have popped up. They are a commentary on a common response to the art, and what it might mean looked at from another angle. I start following these because so many of them echo what I’m thinking, then give it a spin. It feels subversive, and I like the way it jostles my thinking. Here’s an example.

When I walked back to the B&B around 2pm, there was blasting music from boats packed to capacity riding low in the canal, drunks everywhere, a sea of orange people. Population on the sidewalks was at capacity. Enterprising people are selling access to their toilet for 1 Euro a pee.

Welcome to the orange jungle.

Depending on your point of view the atmosphere was either enthusiastically festive or borderline mob. I got pushed into the street a few times by the oblivious throng. And this isn’t where the party is – that’s in the center.

I called it a day, lazed around in my room, read a book and wished King Willem-Alexander many happy returns of the day.

Sunday & Monday, April 27-28, Days 8 & 9

May 5, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

It rained all day, from trickle to downpour. Had I just arrived, I would have suited up in my raincoat, most easily dried shoes, and umbrella and hit the street, or called Uber and ducked the drizzle entirely in one of the museums, or the royal palace. But it was a Sunday, a day I avoid museums because everyone else is there, and the royal palace was closed. The famous fields of tulips would not be a pleasure in the rain. At mid-morning I went out to the Screaming Bean for a coffee. The streets were deserted. I suppose most of Holland had a hangover. I ended up sitting at a table on a cushy banquet in a mostly deserted eatery, and reading for pleasure. When I noticed lunchtime had arrived, I went for one of their top end (19E) item, Five Tastes, out of curiosity.

It was artful and delicious, and looked fit for the Stedelijk. A plus for me, it was more like 25 bites (yes, I counted). On the minus side, the lobster bisque was indelibly salty. Nevertheless, I was pleased to eat something rather less hearty than bread and cheese. When I left, I picked up some milk and fruit at the market and went back to the B&B, after I admired the orange juice machine. I want one in my local Publix!

I decided to take the rest of the day off – read and nap. We all need a day of rest, even the traveler. Maybe especially the traveler. This trip has required sustained physical and spiritual exertion. I’ve been well rewarded for my effort, but it has costs too. I’ve really missed the sustaining companionship and consolation of my significant other. One of the excellent things about being bonded with someone is the daily opportunity to appreciate what he brings to the table. You can’t miss ‘em if you don’t go away, but I sure have missed him.

Monday, April 28, Day 9

A woman on a shopping mission, I walked 30 minutes to the Monday morning Westermarkt in the Jordaan, following my progress on Google maps on my iPhone. I ended up doing this most of the time – getting my bearings on a paper map first, then plugging my destination in on my iPhone and glancing down to make sure I turned left or right. It has served me well.

I had fond memories of looking for a souvenir amid the trinkets and treasures on my last trip. A photo I took in this market became this painting, Vermeer Recycled.

This market is designated for cloth primarily, and sure enough, there were bolts of fabric and zippers for sale, along with shoddy but cheerful teeshirts extolling dope and sex, and cheap scarfs (2 for 4E). The other area of the market, near the church, is higher end, with vintage bits and pieces, handmade ornamentation (calling it jewelry is going too far and not far enough) boho clothing, boots and sneakers, books and leather bound journals, fruit and veg stalls, and (hey, I’m in Holland) cheese.

I started at the very beginning and was funneled along between the tents of merch. I really do hate crowds. Shuffling along, crammed cheek to jowl, personal space erased, I felt like one in a flock of sheep headed to slaughter. It made me nervous for my wallet and my iPhone, and I kept a tight grip on both. If I had been younger, I would have been nervous for my virtue. However, I entered the shopping fray with a will, flipping over dozens of plastic wrap packages to choose two tee shirts (2 for 5E ) from a bin* and four pairs of leggings (2 for 5E) printed with images of models from the seventies ( my era!) newspaper print, tigers and tattoos.**

*When I opened them later, they turned out to be worth rather less than what I paid for them but good for what they were. Tissue thin material and the XL fits like a Small, but they are for the girls who like thin and tight, so win win!

**Major score. Emily could hardly choose between them, she loved all of them so much.

Very shortly the merch in booths repeated with blocks and blocks to go. I broke out at the next opening and rushed towards the church end along the open street. Remind me never to get on the subway at rush hour in Tokyo. Many women in hajibs and abayas moving at a deliberate pace, were polite and noticeably courteous, while the Dutch women, generally jolly and optimistic, were ruthless shoppers. No ‘excuse me’ or ‘pardon’ would induce them to step aside, and if they were zeroing in on something they wanted to purchase, they threw elbows like the NBA. A nation built on trade and tolerance, they take their haggling seriously.

From there, followed the Google maps directions to the nearest tram and journeyed to the Rijks. The Yellow Post-its I’ve loved to read were everywhere. A new guide to the museum’s collection was available, titled Art is Therapy, organized by Alain de Botton & John Armstrong. https://www.rijksmuseum.nl/en/art-is-therapy

It’s genius. It’s taken the museum’s artworks and offered them in a new light, one that reminds us, using specific works paired with interpretive texts, how art can offer solace, insight, and encouragement. I snapped up the guide and begin the best treasure hunt ever, with big yellow post-its marking the spots.

Here’s an example – first the painting, of the interior of a church.

And here’s the Post-it text, cropped for just the English version.

Here’s a snippet of the philosopher’s manifesto: “… the focus should be less on where an art object comes from and who made it, and more on what it can do for the museum visitor in terms of issues that concern us all: love and relationships, work, status, memory and mortality.”

Isn’t that delicious? Even if you aren’t in Amsterdam or planning a trip there, you can download the free Rijks app that includes a guide to this exhibit, and listen as the text is read and an image of the art is shown.

Do it.

Do it now.

April 29 & 30, Amsterdam Finale

May 25, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Tuesday was the last day of my trip, the day before departure. Packing was first, so I could figure out if I needed an extra bag. Everything fit in, even the gift. The key was having some items that were used up and thus space created, and an expandable suitcase. I walked to the Rijks to do a fond farewell. I had saved the Art is Therapy https://www.rijksmuseum.nl/en tour for this special occasion. Showed up, and the no line that hasn’t been there the whole time went all the way to the street.And these were folks with a museumkaart. I was staggered. Where have these people been? Of course, I went at 10 instead of 9. Who knew the difference was that great? As I assumed, but had never tested, the early bird finesses the line. It was starting to rain – and was forecast to increase as the day continued. Took me two seconds to decide to move on. Adios, excellent art at the Rijks.

And all your ships at sea.

I took the tram to the Royal Palace (plan B) and joined that line. It wasn’t too bad – maybe 15 minutes. Worse was the rule you had to leave you purse, no matter what size, in the coatroom. That line took half an hour. One old man in sunglasses and shoe polish black hair was the only person behind the desk. He moved with great deliberation, while the line increased exponentially. Free at last, with all my money stuffed in my pockets, I walked around the palace. Turns out there is marble in Amsterdam. It’s all here! Marble floors and pillars, marble statuary, even marble ceilings.

People often ask me, just what does a Key Grip do? I found a statue of one at work at the palace.

Lots of nice paintings, but difficult to see in the dark, formal, cold rooms that smelled like mildew and damp tourists. For once I felt sorry for royalty, stuck in these moldering, musty marble piles. Surely they have more comfortable, brighter rooms upstairs. I hope so. I was done in less than an hour and went back to the same line to get my purse. Another 30 minutes elapsed because it was the same elderly retainer. About 25 minutes into this shuffling line, someone called in reinforcements on a walkie talkie. As I was leaving, they were closing down the entire palace because too many visitors had come and they didn’t have enough personnel.

Raining steady now. Pulled out my umbrella after a few streets and set my Google maps for Spui, the outdoor antique market. Got there, and it was closed, due to the rain. Headed back towards the B&B, thinking lunch would be nice. Down a side street, I stopped at a hole in the wall that served french fries. Perfect! Crispy, smoking hot, salty, mayo on the side in a paper cone. The whole day brightened. A little further on I stopped in a bakery and bought a square of apple pie and a mozzarella/tomato sandwich for my dinner.

Back at the B&B, I saw the check-in email for the flight home. Looked at the flight online and saw some open seats in first class. I’m hoping I can buy my way in. (didn’t happen) Noticed they have changed the departure time for the third time, but not that much different, and tried to check in online only to get some kind of Dutch error message. My intrepid hosts, whom I cannot praise highly enough, straightened it out with a phone call. Thanks Oki and Frank!

The next morning I was up and out the door before 8am, en route to Schiphol airport via Uber. The first line stalled out when the DIY luggage machines quit. They look like a line of igloos. You place your bag inside the machine, it spits out a sticky tag you loop around your handle and a claim ticket for your boarding pass. A plastic dome comes down and when it goes back up, like a magic trick, poof, your luggage has vanished, on its way to the cargo hold of your plane. Only problem: three of the four machines jammed and the clueless tourists who were hefting their bags in were stuck waiting on the automated luggage check machine repair man. Eventually, order was restored, my bag was checked, and I tried to retrieve my VAT tax money. Another line and I waited in this one to be told I could only send paperwork to Paris via envelope. Not what I was told in Paris, but we’ll see. Finally at the gate where the security/customs crew waited. That was painless. Trans-Atlantic flight remains a grueling endurance feat for me, but my economy comfort bulkhead aisle seat, while not quite as comfy as business class, was tolerable. I sat next to an interesting fellow from the bayous of Louisiana, headed home from a stint on oil rigs in the Black Sea. He slept nearly the entire nine plus hours, and I read on my Nook.

When we landed at Hartsfield, medics boarded the plane to assist a stricken passenger seated in the tail section. We retrieved our bags and waited as instructed. My roughneck seatmate assessed the situation, muttered ‘go go go’ and hustled us out the door of the plane onto the walkway (bulkhead seats, remember?). I guess you don’t get to be an oil rig worker without a healthy dose of initiative. Off to baggage claim where a drug sniffing beagle passed up my luggage.

Through the customs gateway and into the loving arms of Emily, who in an awesome welcome home Mom gesture, painted my Prius rims.

Yeah, that’s how I roll.

Next trip, LA. June 4-9.

LA, My Way

June 2, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

The original idea was Robert goes to a film equipment expo, and I tag along and visit the Getty museums. There were industry related events, and transplanted ATL friends to schedule in around the expo and art. We made the arrangements, booking the B&B and plane tickets before I went to Paris. It was to be a part biz/part art/mostly romantic getaway. Much holding of hands and general canoodling was anticipated.

All the plans flew into the air when Robert fell and pulled his hamstring a week ago. His agony precluded him thinking about it at all, but I realized immediately that the odds of him making the trip had plummeted. I’d hoped the ticket could be reassigned to one of my daughters, but Delta nixed that – it’s a bonus companion ticket. You use it or lose it, unless we cancel both tickets. I did a little cost/benefit analysis, and decided to leave it up to Robert.

We were leaning toward canceling – and I was good with that – when he seemed to be making a truly awesome recovery. The trip was back on, with a few modifications to make it easier on Robert. Alas for him, Saturday he put in his usual effort and he paid the price. Last night and the night before were painful as the first night. We decided he’ll stay here and be pampered by Emily, and I’ll go solo, in the spirit of ‘life is uncertain, view art first.’ I’ve only visited the Gettys once before and I know they will repay my time and attention. I loved the views from the Getty Center.
When I visited the Getty Villa, I saw an exhibit on the ever popular Aphrodite. My favorite objects were the mirrors of retiring courtesans, dedicated to the goddess.
“You grant beauty, my Queen, but creeping time withers your gift. Now, since your gift has passed me by and flown away, receive, gracious Goddess, this mirror that bore witness to it.” How perfect is that sentiment for Tinsel Town?

I sat down and did my pre-pro for a solo trip. I made a day by day plan. I downloaded four Apps – two for the Getty, one for LACMA and one for Italian Art in LA. I’ll go to the Getty Villa only once and focus on LACMA and the Getty Center which are considerably closer to my West Hollywood B&B. I clocked the miles and predicted costs for UBER transport. I’ll meet some old friends for coffee one morning before I head over the Getty, but no other industry stuff. I made my suitcase list for the balmy (60-low 80s, no rain in sight) weather – think Paris in short sleeves, with a hoodie for those frosty a/c interiors. And my Chucks, bien sur.

There is still a possibility, albeit a very, very slim one, that Robert will decide to come along at the last minute. He’s going to pack a bag so that if he has a couple of decent nights he can jump in the car Wednesday morning. if not, all he has to do is unpack.

I’ll turn 64 while there. I should really download that John Lennon song before I go.

LA: June 4

June 24, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

I scampered through the airport TSA pre-check. It was green lights all the way until I was selected for additional screening. That included a pat down, running the beeping wand over my sillouette, swiping my palms with something on a paper strip, and doing the hokey poky in the infamous X-ray booth. On the upside, there was no body cavity search, and the security lady said, “Happy Birthday, darlin’. You have a blessed day,” when she was done.

Discovered we lost our treasured economy comfort bulkhead seats for the return flight when I requested the wheelchair. Fair enough, since that plane’s bulkhead is also an exit row, an automatic out for the infirm. Dang. Flight to LA not bad at all for me. I read and napped, Robert read a newspaper, went through his vast backlog of emails (7000+! Some going back to 2004!) and took half of a prescribed muscle relaxer. He seemed to do fine. In fact he did better than at home, because he was not as bored and frustrated with his temporary disability.

On arrival, Robert declined assistance – no, no I’m fine – until he walked the length of the jetway from the plane to the concourse, whereupon he cried uncle. I snagged a guy passing by with a wheelchair, and he pushed Robert through the LAX labyrinth of handicap accessible elevators, and wide, empty underground halls. The attendant was a Russian military brat until he was 10 when his parents emigrated to LA. He became a US citizen and just passed a battery of security checks in order to qualify to translate for hospitals and corporations. It was a long walk. I was very glad Robert succumbed and agreed to be helped. “Pain taught me what pride would not let me learn.”

We took the shuttle to Budget Rentacar which was a zoo. Go figure! A line so long it was out of the building and down the sidewalk. Robert secured a car and I ate my first meal in LA – spit temperature water, crumbs in the bottom of a bag of Fritos, and a piece of Vermont chocolate my daughter gave me for my birthday. I was desperate. Car sorted, Robert drove while I navigated via my iPhone Google maps, impersonating a SatNav.

The Little Cottage behind the Garden B&B is just as welcoming as we remembered. Joan’s on 3rd made up for my nasty lunch with some sublime selections for takeaway, including a gorgeous salad made of grilled fresh corn, jicama, red onion, edamame, fresh apple soaked in something, and a touch of cilantro. So so delicious. Robert had egg salad on ciabatta and a cappuccino. I heroically eschewed the ham and brie on a croissant, and went for turkey meatloaf, grilled snow peas, and asparagus, butternut squash salad, grilled heirloom carrots, and that grilled corn salad. Divine. I snagged a tiramisu and a chocolate roulade for desert, which I will eat tonight along with seconds of everything I ate for lunch. I am not made of stone. Yet.

On the walk back I see my first piece of indigenous LA graffiti; ‘Figure With iPhone Posture.’

We are having a little lie down now. Will probably laze around the rest of the evening. Tomorrow Robert drives me to the Getty Villa for the day, and he’ll visit a friend in Malibu and sit on his deck. Good times.

LA: June 5 – The Getty Villa

June 25, 2014 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

Gorgeous breakfast brought to our cottage dining room table by the couple who run the B&B. They’re a study in contrasts. Ahuva is an exuberant Israeli – part international sophisticate, part California earth mother, all bubbe. Bob is a goofy, laid back California surfer dude in his 60s , always ready with a quip. Their partnership gives the B&B its idiosyncratic vibe.

After inching our way through the dusty, drought-stricken; palm tree-lined streets of LA, and along the car-clogged Pacific Coast Highway, Robert drops me off at the Getty Villa. http://www.getty.edu/visit/villa/

The modern California world falls away.

I walk along the winding path through the gardens to the hilltop museum. The architecture is based on a Herculaneum villa. I pass by four gardeners kneeling alongside the walkway, in obeisance to Demeter, clipping stray twigs off the espaliered foliage, while a fifth sweeps up the trimming.

Entering the museum, I immediately notice the absence of water. Due to the drought, all of the water features are empty. The empty basins, the lack of sparkle from light reflected off the water, the absence of the gurgle and plash of fountains, has a big impact – more than I would have expected. It’s like a well-preserved body without a pulse. Throughout the museum, pools and fountains link one courtyard to the next, and the villa to the gardens. The lack of water gives it all a deserted, abandoned air.For a museum dedicated to a vanished culture from another age, this isn’t altogether wrong. I walk through the rooms on the ground floor, paying my respects to the gods, goddesses and heroes who are up to their fabled hijinks. http://www.online-literature.com/donne/865/

I climb the marble stairs to view the visiting Byzantine art exhibition. Martyrs with dour, accusing looks, squinty-eyed Virgins with dolorous faces, dim lighting. I compare this with the last exhibit I saw here, one that celebrated Aphrodite. It showcased objects associated with the goddess; sated sleeping hermaphrodites, drinking cups helpfully illustrated with amorous positions, courtesans’ poetry, and general flaunting of naughty bits. When it comes to content, the goddess of amore (Passion! Beauty! Desire!) wins hands down over Byzantium Christianity (tortured martyrs, long-suffering virgins, avenging angels).Flocks of children in school uniforms swirl in and out of the rooms, following adults wearing Educator badges, old people blink in the shade cast by table umbrellas, young couples eat their brown bagged lunches on the amphitheater steps, touching shoulder to thigh. The museum grounds feel occupied and reasonably full, but not crowded. The wisdom of requiring timed tickets to park and enter is immediately apparent. The Louvre should try this. No joke. I forgo lunch in favor of a high tea in the Founders Room – a smallish venue with wonderful views and more than I can eat, nicely presented on tiered cake stands. Well-trained staff leaps to fill my teacup every time it falls below a third of the cup.

Back in the center courtyard of the villa, I see a woman in a hadjib and jeans taking selfies, and a similarly slender, tatted-up man with a sleeveless hoodie do the same. It’s a California cultural mash-up of dueling silhouettes that works for me.

Strolling along the outer peristyle (covered walkway) gardens, I try my hand at taking my own selfie. Gah. The key is to persevere until one appears tolerable. Many, many pixels later –

A peristyle, or covered walkway,. The key is to persevere in various locales until one is tolerable.

Afterwards, I walk beside the long empty outdoor pool with statues stranded on dry outcroppings in positions that suggest aquatic cavorting.

he Outer Peristyle Garden

The walls, marble floors, and ceiling of the peristyle alongside the empty pool are painted with trompe l’oeil swags of foliage and historically appropriate decorative flourishes.

I walk through the lower gardens, until I find a long, grapevine-covered arbor. The dappled shade is wonderful to look at, lively but restful to the eye. I sit and read a while. This day marks my sixty-fourth birthday. I think how supremely lucky I am.

After his morning of visiting old friends, and afternoon lunch on the pier, Robert picks me up at 3pm, his (successful) strategy to avoid the worst of LA traffic, and back to the cottage we go.

Chi-town at Christmas

December 18, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

The day after Christmas we depart for Glen Ellyn, a charming suburb just outside of Chicago. I go to visit my bio-dad, a man of great aplomb and consequence. This is my fifth consecutive year for this trip, so it didn’t occur to me to write it up in Chasing Paint until the other day, but my special treat is a day in the Chicago Institute of Art. Robert drops me off at the entrance and we meet for lunch at the museum’s restaurant, Terzo Piano. Last year, I scored with Lobster Nachos (lobster in hollandaise over fries). Divine!

Not much prep required since I always go just around Christmas. The suitcase contents stay the same, and I can confidently predict the Lions outside the Chicago Institute of Art will be wearing wreaths and standing on Christmas present wrapped plinths. Today I’ll look up the special exhibitions at the CIA, and consider where I’d like to focus. It will be hard to top last year’s show ‘Art & Appetite’ – a still life artist’s dream exhibit. One twist is my curiosity about small scale sculpture. More on than anon.

Back to baking, decorating, wrapping and otherwise making spirits bright.