non-snow days

how strange to have a day "off" when it's a no-show of blizzard....

so in principle I am writing about Pascal ,but in fact, am scurrying about to find which is the perfect publisher for a book on Jon Schueler (such beautiful paintings of northern Scotland!dlay and I got to write about his present show at David Findlay Jr. gallery for the beloved Brooklyn Rail, I always love it), and not thinking about my seminar tomorrow in Translation/Adaptation, and then our panel of four on Translating Aesthetics, for Friday, with Josh Wilner and Wayne Koestenbaum and Alyson Waters and myself all unscripted and doing whatever we feel like -- my favorite kind of unplanned panel...

So much I want to read and write and see, and all these unseen exhibitions and the grand seen ones like the cubism Lauder gift, such fun going around with various friends to everything... that's New York, of course, even in the non-blizzard...

yes, so it happened, and the Picasso and the Camera opened tonight at the Gagosian and  it was and is glorious and anything John Richardson does assembles all these loving people around him, and that is why I wrote in the catalogue because he is so warm and brilliant, so it opened and we assembled
an all that
and yes, I finished the Brooklyn Rail critics page editing job, loved it, every single minute,
right, and then we went to the Florence Griswold House for me to assemble more about art colonies because of which, after speaking in Udine on Joseph Cornell and emily Dickinson and all that, we go to Bremen in northern Germany to go to Worpswede where my grandmother knew Rilke and knew very well Otto modersohn after Paula Modersohn-Bekcer died,
and tonight it seems we are talking about Cubism and I'm I think doing nothing but in principle, am, after giving my seminar on Borges and Beckett, well, it's on singularities
and I  hope never to have to let up until I have to let up, but not let down if I can help it

So it may seem trivial to drag oneself all over 25th street, to refind Hill Chicken (if that's the name) where I had with my friend Rachel Brownstein the best oldtimey crusty-crinkly-skinless thing thigh ever, and I did, and that set me up to work in the American Archives of Art documents about Frank DuMond, my painter grandmother's teacher and who did the murals for the ballroom in the Hotel des Artistes, the ancestor of the Cafe des Artistes -- they all lived there, the painters who worked in Old Lyme, Ct., at the Florence Griswold House, where we are about to go  -- before we leave for Udine in Italy, near Venice, where I am so delightedly going to speak on Joseph Cornell and Emily Dickinson, and Mary Caponegro, before we go to Bremen, where my grandmother used to live and worked out at Worspwede 28 miles away and we wil have ONE DAY there, before getting back down to Berlin and its museums, before, indeed, we return to New York, so I will pick up my seminar again, on Modernist singularities (what? what?) yes
and here's to Hill Chicken and its crunch