In this advanced enclave, an oasis of tolerance, one can be entertained at the public library designed in 1930, as the brass plaque declares, in zigzag moderne style, graze among the periodicals.
At the BAMFA, a venue to watch with furious intention, make sense of the spinning universe (God is quite unnecessary as the American messiah, Carl Sagan, foresaw from his starry perch, when there is science), following its 112 mil makeover.
The best is there for minor admission – a painting of a street corner in Vermont committed to canvas by George Ault in 1949, Heaven gathered in one place, before dawn – on another wall, massive, eye-smashing, a lesson in how to regard what we all face, a beloved father with Alzheimer’s, his brain putty, dissolving into the cosmos.
Or, it’s a young man pushing a cart, with the blood red eyes of a weasel, a casual murderer, perhaps, without the sanction of law, as he turns, stares you directly in the eye, says calmly, fuck you man.
So, pray tell, why does Joan Didion, perpetually glamorous, remain behind dark sun glasses in New York?