I went out yesterday morning to find the City deserted of street traffic and cars. There were parking spaces galore. It seems that everyone had left town. What to do? Walk across the Park to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
I really can't get enough of the place. And I especially love the Greek and Roman galleries, which are vastly improved since being renovated magnificently.
Mr. Husband and I took in a few exhibits, had lunch, and then saw a few more. I dipped into Schiaparelli and and Prada: Impossible Conversations right before we left, not spending nearly enough time to really take it in, and plan to return just to see it in a leisurely manner.
I find clothes fascinating, if only having been onstage for more than two decades. You learn to appreciate the theatricality of clothes being in a theatre, seeing line, form and fit for the illusion and story they create. Clothes, I believe, are about creating a narrative, one that is at once personal and iconic, that is, if one has a sense of style.
And style? I think it has everything to do with how one moves through space, both physically and mentally.
Great style, I believe, has a degree of verticality to it. It looks up, not down, and is poised rather than posed.
Having had to stand stock still for long periods of time onstage, one learns the difference. The person who simply stands there without poise isn't seen, or perhaps worse yet, stands out in the worst possible way.
If half of life is showing up, perhaps the other half is being fully present, that is fully vertical, after having arrived.