Botero strikes again

There was once a time, even in my relatively short sojourn in New York City, when the most obvious and convenient rendezvous point was “under the big clock in Grand Central Station.” Everybody knew about Grand Central and its rotunda is famous world wide and, of course, centrally located in Manhattan. So you could meet anybody there successfully; friend, relative and even that mysterious stranger with whom you’ve been corresponding. Works like a charm.

Lately, a little further uptown, in the new Time Warner building off Columbus Circle a new rendezvous point has been designated, at least for a short time. A huge bronze statue of Adam sculpted by our old friend Fernando Botero has been, er, erected in a main lobby of Time Warner and somehow New Yorkers, and other passersby, seem to think nothing of caressing Mr. Adam on or about his manly protuberance, thus causing that particular part of the sculpture to lose it’s natural patina and attain the sparkle and shine of freshly polished brass. I don’t know if this is supposed to be lucky or just people behaving badly but, I must say, the temptation to indulge is irrefutable. So in the future, when trekking toward culture and refinement at Lincoln Center, I’ll happily meet you under the big, shiny, uh, clock at Time Warner. Got it?

Art, Orlando & Brief Encounter

Art is mankind’s savior. If only the powers-that-be thought so too. Unfortunately, commerce takes precedence and it’s that short-sightedness that precludes the perception of how art can enhance and, yes, advance commerce. I think everybody professes to an appreciation of the arts but, really, it’s just not true. To too many people and, worse, to too many people-in-charge, art is an annoyance and unworthy of their attention. Sometimes I wonder if everybody in the U.S. Senate grew up under a paper box or something. Nothing but smelly old cardboard to give shape to the senses.

They are not only misguided; they are wrong. Art can transform. It can stir the senses. It can be an escape even if, sometimes, what you want to forget is just the pain of a bunion on the piggy that stayed home. In my opinion, admittedly sometimes not so humble, the most satisfying art rests in the expansive arms of live theater. Sometimes one can be incredibly moved by a particular sculpture (in the proper setting) or an individual soaring aria from Tosca (also in the proper setting) but, for me, sustained pleasure can only be had in a darkened theater where “performance art” holds sway. Theater can have all the elements of that great sculpture and that great aria and, yet, still sustain a story, recall a memory or flat-out toy with your heartstrings with the just the hint of guitar strings or the flash of an expanse of silvery fabric.

I have seen two theatrical endeavors over the last few weeks and both deserve mention here. Off-off Broadway gave me “Orlando” and Broadway gave me “Brief Encounter.” Both will shimmer in my memory for some time to come. Both moved me in different ways but somehow also similarly. What I mean is my chest filled; my eyes watered and my hard old heart softened in strange ways. As I said, only the euphoria of performance art can do this. I’m just so much putty in the hands of theatricality and both of these shows have me singing their praises…and I can’t even carry a tune. But my eyes, even now, are watering at what I’ve seen recently. I’m such a sucker for cheap sediment.