Artwork by Elizabeth Peyton

This past weekend was a pretty ambitious one, and, as such, potentially worthy of blogging about: Friday night my friends Kara, Kyra and I trekked up and over to Music Hall of Williamsburg to see Teddy Thompson, supported by The Grey Race and warbling nymph sister act, The Pierces – who did shimmy and harmonize, and live to harmonize and shimmy another day.

Saturday began innocently enough at the Art Departmental store, along that dismal stretch of 3rd street by the Gowanus Canal. In a flimsy attempt to Blackout for the day, I told my friend Patti ahead of time that we would ‘have to make a plan without using cell phones, like they did in the olden days. The object was to rendezvous at this shop, because she was picking up some things there to drop in Art Spiegelman‘s mail slot (related to her job at the Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum, about which more to follow). We were blissfully united, sans the interference of phones, and she said, “Wow! my dad told stories about people meeting like this! It was 1979 and if you missed your friend, you’d have to wait until next week and hope to run into him at the Polish donut shop.”

Shortly thereafter, I caved almost entirely in my resolve to do without Power, riding the subway to Manhattan. I think more than anything what I gained from the first ever Blackout Sabbath was a poignant taste of what life must be like for Amish people, or certain other Luddite religious sects. So much bargaining with oneself. Hmm, well, we want to ride on rollercoasters, yes? Indeed. I suppose, you could look at it this way: Someone else is actually operating the electricity. So I’m still golden!

An old college professor of some of ours, Kitty Brazelton, and various fellow composers were performing original compositions (some newer than others) in the open air, in the middle of Cornelia Street. It was kind of like a Modern Music Block Party and we ran into another old music professor there too.

In our quest for a non-packed spot to grab a bite to eat, we struck upon the utterly deserted and enchanting back garden dining area of Burritoville at the corner of Bleecker and 7th avenue. We had the place to ourselves and my friend was happy with her burrito.

We were really on a roll and wound up seeing My Winnipeg, Guy Maddin‘s latest offering, at the IFC Center. It is atmospheric, dreamlike, aesthetically moving if you have a place in your heart for antique black and white flourishes. I think it may have lulled many of my fellow viewers into a somnambulist experience of their own. And perhaps this was the intention. I stayed awake and became sentimental about hockey as always.

Sunday I went up to Connecticut with Patti for the opening of Elizabeth Peyton: Portrait of an Artist at the Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum in Ridgefield. They also run a special bus up from Chelsea for New Yorkers willing to brave the wilds of Ridgefield on a day trip. Cheese platters, pretzels, and white wine were ample, as were unsubstantiated ‘sightings’ of Marc Jacobs who was on tap to be one of the big names in attendance. Everyone agreed that Stephanie Seymour was there, looking hot. Although I did not, in fact, witness this firsthand.

If you are a fan of Elizabeth Peyton’s paintings, you might really enjoy catching a glimpse of the at times harsh photographic reality of her subjects: unfiltered through Peyton’s trademark pillowy-lips and willowy-figure o-scope, more than one of the mounted snapshots may find you wondering aloud, “Could my life, too, be presented to the world as beautiful and luxe, and teeming with limber beauty boys? If only I made a little extra effort in that direction with my watercolor paint box.”