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Adrian at the Museum
Aug. 18th, 2002 01:00 pmI created this journal in the hopes that it would get me actually putting my internal monologues into words instead of just running them through in my head over and over again. So far, it's not really working. Let me back up then, and talk about my visit to the Met on Friday.
First of all, I hadn't thought I was going to go. The Costume Institute was running an exhibit on Adrian, a 1930s Hollywood film costumer and 40s-50s haute couture designer, but I'd given up on seeing it as it was closing today (Sunday). I mentioned it in passing to my mother on Thursday, and she suggested that perhaps my father could take me. He expressed reluctance. I said it was no big deal and not to worry about it.
Then comes Friday morning. The phone rings, and it is my father, telling me he is going to pick me up at 10 am and we are going to the museum. Telling, not offering. I try to demur. He gets belligerent. So here I am, off to the city with my father in one of his moods.
All of this is fine, except I should mention my father sort of has hypoglycemia, and when he hasn't eaten or drunk enough, gets cranky as all hell. By the time we hit the city, he was cranky beyond belief, but knew he was hungry, so we stopped to eat (treat on me... ugh that museum restaurant is expensive, but it was yummy). Baby was a total angel through all of this, and Dad was charming at the multitude of waiters who stopped by to ooh and ah over her.
(Let me note as an aside that everyone who coos at your baby wants to tell you about their own baby. Even if their baby is 33 years old right now and a professional teamster, the parents still want to tell you about their first gurgle and how cute their toes were. They never stop being babies.)
Then we saw Adrian. It was fascinating, or at least his stuff for the movies was. His private collections were OK. A friendly queen was ogling the gown made for Greta Garbo in "Queen Christina" with me and we had one of those little New York moments when we're both sharing details and tidbits we both know perfectly well but can't help clucking over in wonder and excitement. ("It was too heavy for her to 'float' in, she could barely move with all those sequins." "Did you know that was $2,000 of sequins in depression-era dollars?" "That's a lot of sparkle!") Then the friendly queen and I made eye contact, and it was all over. Whoops! We both thought, I'm talking to stranger in New York. Better look like I have somewhere important to be and move on.
So I did, I turned around and there's my father, hovering near the exit. I was wearing Gwen in her pouch on my chest, and he's looking irate and unhappy until I tell him I'm done and we can leave.
A brief stopover in Gauguin, then he was sugar-crashing again, so I took him to the cafe and asked for a blondie, realized I didn't need the calories, and asked for a banana instead. So of course he bought me the banana and the blondie, and looked hurt when I didn't want to eat the blondie. He then proceeded to binge on sweets. *Sigh*. That just means the next crash is harder and sooner.
Then we drove home, through a rain storm so thick that at 2pm we couldn't see a thing around us except a few headlights and the misty outlines of the Hudson River beyond the edge of the highway. I suggested perhaps waiting out the storm somewhere where there wasn't three inches of water on the highway, but he was having none of it.
On the whole, it was a pleasant day, despite the moods and nerve-wracking drive.
A note about Adrian's movie creations -- they were brilliant works not just of design but of iconography. Tracy Lord, Kate Hepburn's character from Philadelphia Story, was supposed to have a "brass heart," so her white gown is detailed with brass accents in an amazonian pattern. Subtle. Fashionable. But totally appropriate. Now I want to design movie costumes...
First of all, I hadn't thought I was going to go. The Costume Institute was running an exhibit on Adrian, a 1930s Hollywood film costumer and 40s-50s haute couture designer, but I'd given up on seeing it as it was closing today (Sunday). I mentioned it in passing to my mother on Thursday, and she suggested that perhaps my father could take me. He expressed reluctance. I said it was no big deal and not to worry about it.
Then comes Friday morning. The phone rings, and it is my father, telling me he is going to pick me up at 10 am and we are going to the museum. Telling, not offering. I try to demur. He gets belligerent. So here I am, off to the city with my father in one of his moods.
All of this is fine, except I should mention my father sort of has hypoglycemia, and when he hasn't eaten or drunk enough, gets cranky as all hell. By the time we hit the city, he was cranky beyond belief, but knew he was hungry, so we stopped to eat (treat on me... ugh that museum restaurant is expensive, but it was yummy). Baby was a total angel through all of this, and Dad was charming at the multitude of waiters who stopped by to ooh and ah over her.
(Let me note as an aside that everyone who coos at your baby wants to tell you about their own baby. Even if their baby is 33 years old right now and a professional teamster, the parents still want to tell you about their first gurgle and how cute their toes were. They never stop being babies.)
Then we saw Adrian. It was fascinating, or at least his stuff for the movies was. His private collections were OK. A friendly queen was ogling the gown made for Greta Garbo in "Queen Christina" with me and we had one of those little New York moments when we're both sharing details and tidbits we both know perfectly well but can't help clucking over in wonder and excitement. ("It was too heavy for her to 'float' in, she could barely move with all those sequins." "Did you know that was $2,000 of sequins in depression-era dollars?" "That's a lot of sparkle!") Then the friendly queen and I made eye contact, and it was all over. Whoops! We both thought, I'm talking to stranger in New York. Better look like I have somewhere important to be and move on.
So I did, I turned around and there's my father, hovering near the exit. I was wearing Gwen in her pouch on my chest, and he's looking irate and unhappy until I tell him I'm done and we can leave.
A brief stopover in Gauguin, then he was sugar-crashing again, so I took him to the cafe and asked for a blondie, realized I didn't need the calories, and asked for a banana instead. So of course he bought me the banana and the blondie, and looked hurt when I didn't want to eat the blondie. He then proceeded to binge on sweets. *Sigh*. That just means the next crash is harder and sooner.
Then we drove home, through a rain storm so thick that at 2pm we couldn't see a thing around us except a few headlights and the misty outlines of the Hudson River beyond the edge of the highway. I suggested perhaps waiting out the storm somewhere where there wasn't three inches of water on the highway, but he was having none of it.
On the whole, it was a pleasant day, despite the moods and nerve-wracking drive.
A note about Adrian's movie creations -- they were brilliant works not just of design but of iconography. Tracy Lord, Kate Hepburn's character from Philadelphia Story, was supposed to have a "brass heart," so her white gown is detailed with brass accents in an amazonian pattern. Subtle. Fashionable. But totally appropriate. Now I want to design movie costumes...
