![[Gypsy Rose Lee by Fred Palumbo, 1956, World Telegram & Sun]
Sorry for the geek out, but I am still reeling from last night, one of those “only in NY, kids” evenings that confirms the reason why each of us at one point or another threw together a few possessions and decided to make our new home on the floating concrete tribute to art and commerce. I kept trying to freeze time and press each minute to my palms, but unfortunately I don’t have superpowers.
I made it (barely) to the opening night of Gypsy and found myself oddly plopped in the middle of the theaterati (a girl doesn’t name names, but needless to say, producers, critics, and dramatists I have admired for years were breathing on me), the silver engines that keep the marquee lights on. They all dressed for the affair, bowties and envelope clutches and paisley silk and backless sequined confections. And then she came on, and though it was all a blur, I’m quite sure that there are certain moments in the theater where a person is so perfectly matched to a role that they—and everyone watching them—enters a trance. Oh yes, and Arthur Laurents, 90, who wrote the book for the show and directed it nearly 60 years later, shuffled out during the final curtain call, small and humble and beaming, and it became clear that New York is one of the only places that one can sustain a life of making art for that long, uninterrupted, cyclical.
Afterwards, we ducked in to one of those cavernous midtown eateries—the kind that still puts on the chandelier and white napkin show after 40 years—for buttered mussels and chocolate mousse. It only started to rain once we were in the warm cab heading downtown.
Not to sound cliche, but I fucking love New York.](http://media.tumblr.com/lDJ4lgWNt74hf17mRUcyUQZq_500.jpg)
[Gypsy Rose Lee by Fred Palumbo, 1956, World Telegram & Sun]
Sorry for the geek out, but I am still reeling from last night, one of those “only in NY, kids” evenings that confirms the reason why each of us at one point or another threw together a few possessions and decided to make our new home on the floating concrete tribute to art and commerce. I kept trying to freeze time and press each minute to my palms, but unfortunately I don’t have superpowers.
I made it (barely) to the opening night of Gypsy and found myself oddly plopped in the middle of the theaterati (a girl doesn’t name names, but needless to say, producers, critics, and dramatists I have admired for years were breathing on me), the silver engines that keep the marquee lights on. They all dressed for the affair, bowties and envelope clutches and paisley silk and backless sequined confections. And then she came on, and though it was all a blur, I’m quite sure that there are certain moments in the theater where a person is so perfectly matched to a role that they—and everyone watching them—enters a trance. Oh yes, and Arthur Laurents, 90, who wrote the book for the show and directed it nearly 60 years later, shuffled out during the final curtain call, small and humble and beaming, and it became clear that New York is one of the only places that one can sustain a life of making art for that long, uninterrupted, cyclical.
Afterwards, we ducked in to one of those cavernous midtown eateries—the kind that still puts on the chandelier and white napkin show after 40 years—for buttered mussels and chocolate mousse. It only started to rain once we were in the warm cab heading downtown.
Not to sound cliche, but I fucking love New York.