vip in the city

The Happy Hooker

Started my “Crochet: An Exploration of the Basics” class at The Cooper Union this evening.

The class was held in the Engineering Building at 51 Astor Place. As could be expected, the group was made up entirely of women: ten in total, ranging in ages from their late 20s to their late 60s. During the obligatory introductions, I learned that eight of the ten women had prior knitting or crochet experience. Five minutes in, and already things did not bode well.

A little background: My mother is an expert knitter and crocheter. Growing up, we had a steady supply of beautiful, handmade sweaters, throws, bedspreads and pillow shams that seemed to bloom, as if by magic, off her rapidly clicking needles and hooks. Regrettably, these abilities do not appear to be heritable. Over the years, I had made a few feeble attempts to get knitting lessons from my mother, but each time, one or the other of us lost patience. So I never learned.

I signed up for the class with high hopes which quickly began to erode as it became obvious that I was going to be the student most in need of “extra attention.” As the instructor — a cheerful, and infinitely patient woman named Lisa — explained to the rest of class the mechanics of a starting chain stitch, nine heads bobbed silently in seeming immediate comprehension. Whuh? I stared at my new yarn and tried to figure out how to hold the crochet hook. Despite my best efforts, I dropped it — three times over the course of the class, each time sending a loud PING! reverberating off the walls of the otherwise hushed classroom. Why oh why did I have to buy a metal hook? As the others in the class moved on to placing their first row of crochet stitches, I struggled with not tangling my fingers in the loops of the alarmingly knotted yarn.

“Don’t worry: the first row is the hardest,” Lisa soothed.

Row? I stared helplessly at the jumble of wool in my hands that seemed decidedly more wad-like than row-like.

Lisa made her rounds, clucking encouragement and approval to my classmates. When my turn came, she stood behind my chair and fell into a contemplative silence.

“Oh… my. Well, let’s see what you’ve got here.” She delicately plucked the hook and yarn from me and held it up for closer inspection, turning it slowly to examine the entire lumpy mess from all angles, while the beginnings of a furrow formed over her brow. “Hmm. Well… this isn’t so bad,” she added. Unconvincingly.

“What do you do when you get to the end of a row?” someone called from across the room.

“Chain one up, turn and reverse the stitches,” she called back. To me, she murmured, “I’ll be right back,” with a reassuring (sympathetic?) pat on the shoulder. From the center of our crocheting circle, she held up her sample swatch and demonstrated the technique for all to see.

Within minutes, the cries of “Ah!”, “Look at that!”, “Cool!”, “Hey, I think I’m getting this!” filled the room. Even my fellow newbie seemed to be cruising along. Under my breath, I began to swear.

Lisa returned to my side. “Ahem. Okay, now. Don’t worry, we’ll get this,” she assured me, all business. “Let’s start over.” She handed me a pair of scissors.

While the rest of the class moved on to the double and then triple crochet stitches, I cut line and began anew. And two hours and forty-five minutes into the three hour class, I did get it. Sort of. My neck was stiff and my fingers ached, but I had something resembling crochet as I knew it:

Towards the end of class, Lisa talked us through a simple — hah! — pattern for granny squares to attempt at home. Looks like I’ve got some catching up to do before next Thursday night.

Public Art (but no Music)

Walked to TriBeCa during lunch to purchase crochet supplies for my first class. On the way I passed through the ”Alexander Calder in New York” exhibit in City Hall Park — five large scale “stabiles” (as Calder called his freestanding, nonmoving sculptures), created between 1957 and 1976 and on loan from the Calder Foundation and the Whitney Museum of American Art through March 2007.

The exhibit includes one of Calder’s signature mobiles — not displayed outdoors, but suspended inside the City Hall rotunda. Made a mental note to check that out sometime soon.

Always enjoy seeing public art in random places. Barrelling through the financial district, head down, in your own world, or talking into a cell phone, and then suddenly — bam! — an unignorable, massive, bright red Calder at your feet.

The first of the two Philharmonic in the Parks concerts in Central Park was canceled due to thundershowers that rolled in, blackening the sky late in the afternoon. By concert time, the skies had actually cleared somewhat, but the grounds would have been wet and muddy and not at all pleasant for lawn lounging. Weather permitting, the orchestra performs Beethoven’s Fifth next Tuesday, in keeping with the tradition for mass appeal.

Which recalls to mind the popular “Beethoven’s Wig” series created by Richard Perlmutter. Simple concept: taking classical melodies and writing — or rewriting — lyrics. So The Fifth Symphony would be sung:

Beethoven’s WIG… is very BIG
Beethoven’s wig is long and curly and it’s white
Beethoven takes his wig off when he sleeps at night
Because it’s big
It’s very big
Beethoven’s WIG… is… BIG!

And so on. I remember engaging similar efforts in preparation for those “Name that tune” exams in high school music class, to less witty and commercially-recognized effect. Almost surprising that these discs didn’t hit the market until 2002, considering the glut of Mozart Effect-fueled “classical music for babies/children” collections in the mid to late 1990s.

Witty stuff, though I think that if I were trying to instill an appreciation for classical music in my children, I’d still be more likely just to play them the originals.

Met BH for drinks in the neighborhood. Now that he’s a father of twins and living in New Jersey, his opportunities for socializing are relegated to late night drives into the city after putting the babies to sleep. Over rounds of rapidly melting — and later, rain spattered — frozen margaritas, he waxed nostalgic about his single days as a Manhattanite, and brought up the subject of Internet dating services. I explained that while I could see how it might be a good way to meet a lot of people, I didn’t think that online dating was really my thing, especially after that little dalliance I had with the Nigerian diplomat ended on such a disappointing note. I’m still waiting for my millions.

Bodies

The steaminess set in around 3:00AM, after I shut down the bedroom air conditioning and drifted off to a fitful sleep. Too soon, I was jolted by the rude blaring of my alarm clock. I crawled out of bed reluctantly and spent the better part of the morning in a hazy, pensive state.

Met SN for lunch this afternoon at a Japanese place on William Street. Actually, the spot was only nominally Japanese, as they also prepared Korean chap jae (which I ordered) and Chinese mapo tofu (which he ordered) alongside their sushi and teriyaki items. Despite the popularity of such eateries, I still find the hodgepodge of Asian cuisine offerings a little disconcerting.

After work, CS came downtown to meet me for BODIES…The Exhibition at South Street Seaport.

According to the site:

A human specimen is first preserved according to standard mortuary science. The specimen is then dissected to show whatever it is that someone wants to display. Once dissected, the specimen is immersed in acetone, which eliminates all body water. The specimen is then placed in a large bath of silicone, or polymer, and sealed in a vacuum chamber. Under vacuum, acetone leaves the body in the form of gas and the polymer replaces it, entering each cell and body tissue. A catalyst is then applied to the specimen, hardening it and completing the process.

End results are remarkably vivid and endlessly fascinating. Several of the cadavers were posed to illustrate the interconnections between muscle and bone in action. Referring to one body arranged to mimic a man taking a jumpshot, I remarked to CS that it would have been funny if the basketball in his hand were also dissected to show the peeled back layers of orange and black rubber. She giggled at the idea, earning us a few disapproving glances from the other attendees, who no doubt assumed we were deriving more prurient amusements.

Immaculate and amazing dissections, including one of the entire central nervous system. One gallery exhibited the immensely complex network of arteries, veins and capillaries comprising the circulatory system. The vessels were injected with a coloring polymer that hardens, and the remaining tissue was chemically removed in a process known as “corrosion casting.” What remained behind were the delicate branches, devoid of internal structure and displayed in dramatically spotlit glass cases: organs, limbs and one entire human body. The effect was eerily beautiful.