This week was a hypoglycemic whirl. We began our Lenten diet a little late- driven by middle-aged expanding waistlines rather than religious aspiration. The problem with diets is that the planning required to carry them out makes you food-obsessed. On Saturday we stocked the fridge with enough low glycemic vegetables and fish to feed he five thousand. By noon on Sunday, ravenous from a long cold dog walk, we decided to distract ourselves from hunger pangs by going to the Met. As always, we got lost in Roman antiquities and while backtracking through Polynesian facemasks became subliminally drawn towards the courtyard café and there came to ruin. Clearly, there’s no going back from a mushroom vol-au-vent appetizer. Realizing this fact, we ditched the diet, polished off a lamb ragu with pint of ale, and, caving completely, chased it down with warm chocolate and pear tart. There was just enough time left after all that to stagger off and take in the new exhibition on “Impressionism, Fashion and Modernity”.
The pictures were a fabulous frenzy of white frocks, bustles and stripes, taffetas and corsets, crinolines and kid gloves. All immortalized in paint by the Impressionists endless quest for modernity. For the most part, the Manet’s and Monet’s painted their mistresses adorned in the latest swag.
Two things struck me. The first was the sheer beauty of the clothes and the artistry of the seamstresses. Even the most hip among the viewing audience looked drab and badly dressed by comparison. The second was the psychological depth of the paintings by Mary Cassatt and Berthe Morisot. When viewed next to those of their male peers, they provided an intriguing counterpoise. The men’s paintings were beautiful and had far more immediate appeal but were essentially decorative. Those painted by the women were devoid of the coquette and their relationship to the painter took center stage.
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