This morning kicks off at my old stomping grounds, the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir in Central Park.
We walk just a brief bit around the blue expanse as I wonder what could have possibly possessed me to run around this 1.5 mile loop every single day for months.
No more running, I'd rather sit on this silhouette couch.
The Guggenheim
I hate modern art. I unabashedly bash, unashamedly shame, and so often sneer at a genre I abhor. I will always choose oils of angels and lush landscapes painstakingly painted over haphazardly splatter and piles of yarn.
Still, even I can't deny the magic of the great Guggenheim with its descending swirling spirals and wondrous webbed-glass dome.
At the top is the Infinity Mirrored Room with its suspended balls of light so beautiful we break up our descent to see it a second time.
The rotunda is replete with the sculptures of Carol Bove, voluminous metal structures folded and bent to her exacting will.
The way she makes metal mimic fabric in the crumpling and the texture is quite unique,
and this imposing garden is a different experience from every angle.
(Bestie for scale)
A more permanent side room showcases some pieces I haven't discovered yet.
Young Horses make a deep and dark oil by Emil Nolde,
and Egon Schiele makes a moving portrait.
Finally, a museum we can finish. I love the sensible layout, the size of the spiraling walkways seeming to set their own rhythm and pace. I still loathe most modern art, but even I'll admit they picked the better bits of the bunch.
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