It may be grad school but there are field trips. However, no bus, box lunch nor over-sized name badge in the shape of an animal. To see August Sander's spot-on portraits of types at The Met and then on to Metro Pictures to see (again for me) Cindy Sherman's self-clown-portraits. Barbara Gladstone next door had the day's greatest surprises, a sculpture show that skewed one's depth perception with work that delves in unexpectedly on itself, in cast steel and fiberglas. Anish Kapoor.
Boarded the 6 to 72 and right about 23 in came what was the day's first surprise, all 5'8" of her, about 55 and dressed for dancefloor success.
Paying little attention Yours Truly was thinking, thinking, thinking when I heard Her say to no one in particular, well, a seated no one, Let me sit down before I break my ass. I thought Ah, here's the 6 Train Oracle to greet me, guide me. But then.
She sat and then a few stops later I sat next to her. She was busy, reaching and sorting on her lap an extensive array of makeup that she was slathering (hold onto that word, make it last a good three seconds) colors all over her face. Red Nike swooshes on cheeks and forehead and chin. Then blended in. Eye liner, shadow and then... navy blue and silver sparkles tossed on top and underneath her eyes with abandon. Across from both of us were two 12 year old girls and a woman about the same age as the makeup lady whose faces at turns expressed humour, horror and then sorrow at the sad and careless/free exploitation of the sparkles.
She toddled off at 59, giving herself the sign of the ol' cross four times before detraining, perhaps to apply for a job at Scores, perhaps to meet her lover.
She left us plain faced riders feeling grateful we had not personally, mentally chosen to board the P or the I.
Painted Lady or the Insane trains.
Trained Love.