The Affordable Art Fair

I fell in love with this affordable-for-some oil on canvas painting by Martin La Rosa, an Argentinian contemporary artist who references the Dutch masters like Vermeer in his work. Some of his painting are still lifes with the paintings--like Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring tucked into a glass on the table next to the fruit (Views of Delft. I liked this simple painting that was going for $6000.

The fair was on at the Metropolitan Pavilion on 18th Street between 6th and 7th Ave. Hopefully it returns next year.

How Cool Is This?

Veuve Clicquot hosted polo on Governor's Island this past Saturday for the first time in 70 years. It took just two minutes on the Governor's Island ferry to get to this little green oasis surrounded by Manhattan's skyline. Pretty impressive. Pack a picnic basket and head out there. The ferry is next door to the Staten Island Ferry. Picture is courtesy of Veuve Clicquot

Keith and the Street

We were walking home tonight and at the corner of Prince Str. and Broadway, P turned to me and asked if the geometric patterned scratched into the concrete we were standing on could be Keith Haring. Could be. Had he not succumbed to AIDS at age 31, Haring would have turned 50 this year. I remember another time, walking home with A, when we passed Billy's Antiques & Props on Houston and saw Haring's iconic anti-apartheid statement. I should have taken it home with me.
If you're a fan, visit Skarstedt Gallery on the Upper East Side to view a 14-piece tribute to the artist. Look out for the early chalk drawing that Haring posted illegally on a blank advertising board in a New York subway station. Tues.–Sat. 10 am–6 pm, until June 28, at Skarstedt Gallery: 20 E. 79th St., skarstedt.com, 212-737-2060.

A MEDITATION ON SOUTH AFRICAN CITIZENSHIP

A magnificent poem capturing the horrific shock and despair at the xenophobic attacks in Johannesburg, Cape Town and Durban:

If being a South African means beating on the red door of a shack and demanding to see a green identity book – the dompas of citizenship, then I am a foreigner.

If being a South African means dragging a woman into the road to push up her skirt and drive my boot between her legs, then I am a foreigner.

If being a South African means sharpening my machete to split the skull of a man returning home from work, then I am a foreigner.

If being a South African means ripping an infant from the swaddling on its mother’s back to spit in its face wizened by terror, then I am a foreigner.

If being a South African means dropping concrete blocks on that mother’s head until it bursts like a ripe watermelon on the dry dust of my street, then I am a foreigner.

If being a South African means arrogating the roles of policeman, prosecutor, judge and executioner, then I am a foreigner.

If being a South African means hanging over my garden fence and watching the smooth skin of a man blister as he burns a live, then I am a foreigner.

For that skin was an infant’s once, caressed by a mother’s marvelling hand.

That skins is a man’s, and a lover’s hand passed over it, marvelling at its smoothness. That skin is a father’s, reached for in the night by a child afraid of the dark.

That burning skin was a man’s and if being a South African means I cannot feel that skin as my own

Then I am a foreigner.

-- Margie Orford, South African poet and author

Hitting the Wall

Quick! You still have two days to see Cai Guo-Qiang's retrospective "I want to believe" at the Guggenheim. I loved the installations, from the arrow-riddled tigers and boat to the wooden wreck in a sea of smashed porcelain. But most of all I loved the pack of wolves running into the glass wall, a piece that was made at the time that the Berlin wall fell, but also one that speaks to the lemming in each of us. Genius.

A Tale of Three Suppers

Tuesday: I went to Sanctuary T on West Broadway and Grand for dinner. This is a novel take on a tea store...it's a tea eatery. The food is light, healthy and delicious, but portions lean toward haute cuisine. Absolute must-haves include the wild black cod slow cooked in Lychee Tea served over a bed of asparagus, feta cheese & saffron sauce for $17, and the molten chocolate soufflé cake with chai ice cream and curried caramel sauce for $10.
Wednesday: A light salad Nicoise for about $13 at my stomping ground, The Pink Pony on Ludlow Street. Always so good. I alternate between this salad and the heart of palm with chicken.
Thursday: After an art exhibition in Chelsea, I went to Pepe Giallo on 10th Ave. between 24th and 25th Streets. Veal Scaloppini with spinach for $9.95. Can't beat it.

Quick Escape: City Island

I spent the night last night at Le Refuge Inn, the only place (seriously) to get a bed on City Island. It never fails to amaze me how easy it is to escape the skyscrapers. It takes exactly one hour to reach this historic seaport community located just beyond Pelham Bay Park in the Bronx and surrounded by the waters of the Long Island Sound and Eastchester Bay. And how strange to say, "I spent the weekend in the Bronx."
But we're not talking rappers and drug busts. City Island is a tiny strip of land surrounded by water. There are fish restaurants like Johnny's and Tony's and Sammy's and quaint houses. Le Refuge is an old Victorian-style B&B owned by a Frenchman named Pierre Saint-Denis and filled with interesting antiques. Rooms are a bargain for $135 including a continental breakfast. They also serve dinner -- French cuisine -- are Zagat rated. And if you do what we did -- go down to the harbor for dinner -- the whole thing will cost you $150! (I ate fresh shrimp cocktail, steamed clams, red snapper, corn on the cob, and an old-fashioned soft serve ice cream). Of course all sorts of heart-stopping deep-fried fare is also on offer.
Check it out: www.cityisland.com
And for accomodation: www.lerefugeinn.com