Man: You all set here? Me: What?

A whole week has flown by since I last posted anything here. That seems impossible, but then again there haven’t been any dull moments, which would account for the slippery swiftness of time. I left you dangling on the eve of my presentation to the house of Paul Mellon. At the allotted time I was removed from the safety of my library carrel and marched to the lecture theatre, one senior curator in front and another behind in case I made any sudden dashes towards the emergency exit, or knowing my luck, a broom cupboard. We walked into the lecture theatre and my blood ran cold – it was vast and the seats were filled with many people. I felt my heart rate increase as I was seated in the front row and told I was first on. My mouth went dry, my palms started sweating and felt a little giddy. I was announced and I went into autopilot. I remember scanning all the faces in the audience and wondering how on earth I got here, while a stream of words came out of my mouth. At some point the words stopped. I even managed to make a little joke and they all laughed politely and then I was amazed to receive a warm round of applause. I left the hall feeling unexpectedly elated, and went off to find some strong coffee. Not an easy thing to find.

At midday I was taken out for lunch by a senior curator who specialises in maritime art. It was a sushi restaurant, and while I can just about manage the chopsticks without too much comedy, I seemed to have ordered rice with everything which turned out to be almost impossible to eat in a civilised fashion while holding an intellectual conversation about the spaces of modernity in mid-eighteenth-century London with somebody I am more than slightly in awe of. The rice refused to travel from dish to gob in any polite fashion or via a socially acceptable route. I said I wasn’t all that hungry actually, snapping my chopsticks and throwing them across the restaurant. In my mind.

The next day I had another meeting with another person who I only know through books she has written and exhibitions she has ‘curated’. She was the font of all knowledge, and I felt like a double-or-drop contestant as she passed me open book after open book, files, photocopies, maps, photographs, notes and cabbages until I fell off my chair in a heap of intellectual paraphernalia and ephemera. I left with a Crackerjack pencil.

Enough of all this. On Saturday morning I set off for Boston. I caught an early train from New Haven and was soon sitting back watching New England’s coastline slide past. The train sped past harbour after harbour, all filled with neatly-moored, expensive-looking yachts bobbing up and down on the perfectly blue water. White church steeples poked up above huge, detached houses with vast porches overlooking the sea. As the train left Providence and headed inland towards Boston the scenery gradually became more Hopper-esque, deep red abandoned buildings with broken windows in windswept bush, overgrown roads and the occasional warehouse where people hung about smoking in the bright sunlight. Can you tell I didn’t get much reading done on the journey?

In Boston I found my hotel – a great little family-run place converted from an old brownstone boarding house in the South End. I then set off to walk the Freedom Trail – well, it has to be done. It wasn’t just me doing it though, and what with the heat and the crowds , and the route which seemed to take me into the most ‘touristique’ parts of the city I began to question the validity of this walk. By the third graveyard I was flagging, but I made it across the bridge to Charlestown trying to ignore the burning hot wind and the sensation that the tops of my ears were developing the consistency of pork scratchings. Once at the top of Bunker Hill (no relation to Benny) I could think of no reasonable excuse not to climb up the obelisk, until I got halfway up and remembered it was about 40C. I emerged after 292 steps (and rather attractively dripping wet with a quantity of sweat more commonly associated with horses) at the top, only to be rewarded with a view of Boston through some rather murky and yellowing perspex windows. I won’t do that again in a hurry.

The Freedom Trail ticked off the 'things to do in Boston' list, I made a bid for my own freedom and wandered aimlessly. This way I discovered some far more interesting and pleasant parts of the city, well away from the tourist hotspots, although I did happen upon the ‘Cheers Bar’ – yeah, right. The further into the South End you get, away from the fashion houses and fancy restaurants, the more interesting Boston becomes. I began to like it, but I had been walking for nearly 8 hours and my knees were beginning to buckle. I stocked up on beer, wine and food from a deli and headed back to my hotel room/studio. Feeling refreshed, I headed out onto the mean streets and found a bar where I sat in a corner drinking Sam Adams and no one seemed to notice me. I was like a ghost. Boo!

Sunday was hotter than ever. I don’t think I have ever experienced weather like this. I dashed from one patch of shade to the next as I made my way to the Museum of Fine Art. And what a fine art museum it is – quite possibly the most outstanding art museum and collection I have ever visited. I walked in at opening time (10am) and handed over my $20. Only stopping briefly for a coffee I lost track of the time until a security guard told me the museum was closing now. Seven hours had passed and it was not long enough. I sauntered back to the harbour, cooking the back of my neck in the process, and ate a picnic of olives, cheese and crusty bread while watching the dozens of yachts peacefully gliding across the still water. As afternoon turned to evening I made my way back to Back Bay station and found an empty seat on the Amtrak train back to New Haven, slightly redder than when I set out.

So, that was Boston. And this week has been paintings paintings paintings, with a few more paintings for good measure. It’s all good.