Whilst dining last night in the Shiney Apple spotted Savion Glover, that tapdancing sensation. And, really, if he wanted to not be spotted he'd have a hell of a time with all those enchanting dreads and all.
Had a spectacular day of wending and wending and looking and watching. And, of course, thinking.
Found myself amongst the clothing of dead Nan Kempner, the socialite who wrote a book about entertaining, a sort of gossipy cookbook. The Met now owns her clothes. Laura and I marvelled at some items, chortled at others, mainly the 80s-era brandishments.
Why were we all so excited about such brandishments - the complicated collars, wrapping coats. I told Laura that I had a gray coat I was especially proud of back Then - a wrap coat that required scads of patience to get all affixed into place with its Japonaise, kimono-inspired wrapping on the inside.
The tour guide gave her quippicisms to the gaggle of ladies following her, marvelling at the cuts and fabrics (Yours Truly was truly aghast at the jacket lined with ... squirrel) and such and concluded with a controlled Q&A. She did proffer up the fact that Nan Kempner (who was about seven feet tall and from the looks of her clothing weighed about eighty pounds) has three children and her daughter, an artist, lives in the Village and is overweight. I said aloud, somewhat loud enough for the tour guide all dressed in orange and short of stature and also peculiar of stature so that she did resemble an Oompa-Loompa could hear - Geez, that isn't very kind.
Onwards now to more more more.
Before planing and deplaning once again.

Art starry Love.