Cloistered

Sunday: By 7.30am I was back on the train and heading towards Grand Central Station. Soon after 9am I was sitting on the steps of the New York Public Library, munching on a croissant, slurping coffee and leaning back on the plinth that supports Fortitude, one of the stone lions that flank this iconic building within which I had spent many a happy day back in 2004. But this wasn’t a day for libraries. Instead I took the subway up to 86th Street and headed across to the Met where 2½ hours were mysteriously lost as I wandered through room after room of European paintings. The crowds of camera-wielding tourists were at the Met alright, but they had come for the Alexander McQueen exhibition, leaving me to enjoy the incredible art collection with only the occasional sleepy security guard for company.

I had arranged a rendez-vous at the Cloisters for 2pm (sounds dodgy, but I'll leave it in), but my carefully planned journey fell apart at the seams when, like a disoriented tourist, I was unable to find the necessary bus stop. I abandoned the bus option and legged it across Central Park to grab a subway train that would take me all the way up to 190th Street – I’d never been so high! The discomfort of melting on superhot underground platforms was quickly forgotten when I emerged from the station to magnificent views across the Hudson from this unexpected vantage point. It was nothing like the Manhattan I am familiar with, more like being suddenly transported to some tropical island. I made my way through a peaceful park until I came to The Cloisters museum. This place has to be seen to be believed. I can’t do justice to it here. Suffice to say if I'd been taken there blindfolded and then asked me to guess where I was, I would have said Tuscany. If you go to NYC, go to The Cloisters – I guarantee you will be amazed. Next time, I’m going there for the whole day.

After the museum had closed for the day, I reluctantly made my way back downtown, where I was pleased to discover the delights of the Strand Bookstore near Union Square. More time evaporated so that I managed to catch the 9pm train back to New Haven with only minutes to spare – quite fortunate given that the next one would have involved a 1½ wait and a seriously late arrival time. So that was the last New Haven/Manhattan trip, and the following day marked the beginning of my final week at Yale, a week which involved a frantic struggle to complete my research, lunches and evening drinks with curators and academic staff, and then reluctant goodbyes to new friends and to Yale. On Friday morning I was back on the train and on my way to upstate New York via Massachusetts.

New Haven, new heat

It’s been a busy period. Period. During the rest of the time I spent in New Haven, which was up until last weekend, I barely stopped to think, let alone to write anything on this here blogarithm. I’m fairly sure that nobody would be interested in a blow-by-blow account of those days, so here are some edited highlights.

As if there wasn’t enough for me to do and see at the YCBA, I decided that what I really needed to do was to pay a visit to the Lewis Walpole Library in Farmington. This involved catching an early morning train from New Haven Union station to Hartford. Once there I took a taxi for the 20 or so mile journey to Farmington. Here the houses are big, and Palladian columns on the front of your house are de rigueur, as is a flagpole sporting the stars and stripes, the bigger the patriotic-er. Wilmarth Lewis was a 20th-century collector of all things Horace Walpole and Strawberry Hill-related, and, as I understand it, he bequeathed his fine collection to Yale. I received a warm welcome at the library, and I was astonished to find the thirty or so works in which I had indicated an interest (in an email sent the previous day) all set out ready for my inspection. The reading room was already occupied by half a dozen studious scholars and I tried to unpack my things and start work as quietly as possible so as not to disturb the hushed and reverential atmosphere. I started up my laptop, and for some unknown reason – this has never happened before or since – it suddenly began to emit a loud high-pitched and continuous bleep. The scholars looked up from their work and glared at me as I frantically tried to stop the excruciating din. In my acute embarrassment and frustration I was on the point of resorting to smash the laptop against the edge of the table when the noise finally ceased. The scholars shook their heads and returned to their dusty tomes as I tried to recover my composure. Apart from that, I had a most excellent time and found some fine Thames –related images, especially caricatures and paraphernalia relating to the building of Westminster Bridge and the Adelphi.

I managed to choose the hottest day in the history of New England hotness for this trip, and when the only train back to New Haven was delayed for an undetermined length of time (Amtrak seem to take a very flexible approach to timetables) I was stuck between a stifling waiting room and a platform which promised to fry passengers in the unforgiving heat while they waited. For once I was deeply grateful to get back to my air-conditioned apartment.

The following day I tried out the Beinecke Rare Books and Manuscripts Library at Yale. This extraordinary-looking building houses 500,000 volumes and several million manuscripts, enough to send any researcher into paroxysms of delight. I set up shop at a desk between painted portraits of Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas while the most obliging and accommodating library staff delivered 17th and early 18th-century documents for my inspection. There was even a research assistant ready to help with any questions, so helpful that I think he might have drafted a chapter for me if I’d asked him nicely.

I had planned to spend the weekend in Manhattan, but the heat had reached an intensity that made even short forays outside of air-conditioned environments incredibly uncomfortable. For the first time I was stuck inside my apartment. By midday I’d had enough of that, and headed off to the Yale Art Gallery. I had no idea what an amazing collection was held here, practically on my doorstep. Housed in a Louis Kahn-designed building (Kahn was commissioned by Paul Mellon as the architect for the YCBA) which is intriguing enough in its own right, this gallery is stuffed full of fine examples by major artists representing everything from early Renaissance to modern and contemporary. My day was saved. Later that evening the temperature seemed to drop a little and I took the opportunity to wander around the Yale campus, something I hadn’t previously had the leisure time to do. The clock towers rang out a succession of tuneful chimes, and across the road on the green the sound of a soul band filled the air, attracting a large and appreciative audience. I found a nearby restaurant terrace where I sat and ate delicious slices of portobello mushroom pizza washed down with ice-cold New England lager. Not a bad day but it was no Manhattan adventure. I resolved that the following day I would head off to the Big Apple come what may.