Brother Love

The morning before my brother dies, a small bird flies from a nearby tree into the wall of my house, and falls to the deck below. This is not a particularly novel occurrence. The wall is a large expanse of glass that distressingly mirrors the surrounding woods. It also offers a clear view of what typically happens next.

Sometimes the bird will die instantly. Other times, it is merely stunned, rests for a few minutes, then flies away. This time, the process is more protracted. The bird lies on its side, very still for a few seconds, then rights itself. It remains this way for a long while, its eyes open, its breathing rapid and visible. I watch, my own breath held. Then, it turns its head, left and right, and left again, signaling more alertness. Over several minutes, its body revives, suddenly appearing full, waiting to take flight. I exhale. I walk away, then quickly turn back. The bird is gone. It has flown away. It has survived. And so, too, I think, will my brother, who is lying in a hospital bed 7,000 miles away.

This is how it is as I remain mired in ‘anticipatory grief,’ the psychological term used to describe the sorrow that begins days, weeks—even months—before death will have the final say. I indulge in elaborate magical thinking. I look for symbolism in everything, anything that offers an alternative to the dread that has taken up residence in my consciousness. A week earlier, I watch a random tennis match on TV. A player is on the brink of defeat, but somehow, defying predictions, survives arduous point after arduous point, to eventually emerge the winner. It is not just a tennis match; it is a talisman; it portends something much larger. Coming back from the brink, rising like a Phoenix from the ashes, is surely what my brother, too, can do.

This is the thing about desperation’s grip on me. I see only what I want to see—because it is all that remains, all that I have left. The morning before my brother dies, I see a bird that skirts death, and lives to see another day. But I see this too: a bird is there, and then—in the blink of an eye and the turn of a head—it is gone. Like my brother. 💔

Defending Djokovic

In July 2013, The New Yorker published a profile of Novak Djokovic, entitled,The Third Man, a cinematic reference that encapsulated Djokovic’s role as the proverbial third wheel in tennis’ two-man drama: the Roger Federer-Rafael Nadal rivalry. The Serb had spent the previous 2 years eclipsing those revered icons with a string of on-court achievements that included 5 grand slams titles and a stranglehold on the #1 ranking. Yet, tennis remained ambivalent about Djokovic. Given that his ascendency had come, as it surely had to, at the expense of the game’s two most popular players, the reluctance to welcome him into this hallowed milieu was understandable. Time and continued excellence was all that was needed, one assumed, to right this ship; respect from fans and pundits would surely follow. Seven years on, Djokovic is still World #1, while Federer and Nadal wrestle with the twilight of their careers. And he still is, unquestionably, tennis’ third man, trailing his rivals by a hair in the Grand Slam race, and by a wide margin in the court of public opinion. After being defaulted at the spectator-free 2020 U.S. Open last week, for inadvertently hitting a line judge with a carelessly flung tennis ball, the pundits piled on.

Djokovic had it coming, Rennae Stubbs, the ESPN announcer, intoned. He’d been smacking tennis balls in anger over the course of his career; his luck simply ran out. Patrick McEnroe was both glib and strident. The default was, no argument about it, the right decision. Later, announcers took to sharing the latest anti-Djokovic tweet from Nick Kyrgios, tennis’ authentic bad boy and tireless Djokovic troll, who was busy reveling in Novak's misfortune, all the way from Australia. (Kyrgios has presumably been forgiven for charming on-court tactics that include making salacious comments against an opponent’s girlfriend.) Billie Jean King tweeted her approval of the decision with an unequivocal, ‘the rule is the rule.’ The tennis historian, Richard Evans, writing on Tennis.com, offered headline-grabbing ‘credit’ to U.S. Open referee, Soeren Friemel, for defaulting Djokovic. When was the last time a sports official was given his own glowing headline? Try imagining the likelihood of that, were it Federer getting the boot from Wimbledon or Nadal from the French Open.

It’s an accepted truism that Novak Djokovic doesn’t garner the same level of public adulation that Federer and Nadal do, but the reason for that remains murky. To be sure, Djokovic has robbed both Nadal and Federer—and their tribal fan bases—of crucial chances to further burnish their legacies. It’s no fun playing spoiler, but Federer and Nadal have done plenty of spoiling of their own, mostly to the detriment of each others’ legendary careers, but also at the expense of a generation of young guns—yet, they've only been lionized for it. Objectively speaking, Djokovic has been a great and gracious champion, displaying none of the vulgarity that was Jimmy Connors’ trademark, or the petulance for which John McEnroe became famous. Djokovic’s youthful reputation as boastful winner pales in comparison to Federer’s self-congratulatory match assessments early in his career, as he breezed though major titles. Djokovic’s speeches in defeat, impressive English proficiency and all, have been easily more generous than Nadal’s. He has won matches with the entire stadium rooting against him, and earned the right to extend a middle finger to the crowd—but instead, has let his tennis do the talking by inevitably lifting the trophy. For all this admirable poise and self-control, Novak Djokovic has been inexplicably saddled with the reputation of a hothead, a man out of control.

“He’s benefitted from neither the fawning praise given Federer’s artistry nor the hard-won admiration accorded Nadal’s resilience. ”

Lukewarm media coverage has helped foster Djokovic’s outsider status. He’s benefitted from neither the fawning praise given Federer’s artistry nor the hard-won admiration accorded Nadal’s resilience. TV journalists, including players-turned announcers, like Patrick McEnroe and Chris Evert, have unabashedly declared their reverence for Federer on their social media platforms. Patrick McEnroe, by his own admission, won’t crown Djokovic the superior player until Djokovic equals Federer’s haul of 20 Grand Slam titles (Djokovic has 17)—never mind Roger's losing record against Novak, including 3 defeats in Wimbledon finals. One of the more jarring moments of the 2019 Wimbledon Final between Djokovic and Federer was the sight of Mary Jo Fernandez and Chris Evert, both ESPN employees, jubilantly standing and clapping in glee as Federer arrived at match point. Commentators are fans, too, but this unseemly public display of partisanship reflected a lack of professionalism startling to longtime tennis enthusiasts.

And now, we have the 2020 U.S. Open debacle—and its obvious comparison to the last notable tennis brouhaha: Serena Williams being docked a game in the 2nd set of the 2018 U.S. Open final, en route to a straight-sets loss to Naomi Osaka. While nowhere near as consequential as Djokovic’s elimination—Williams was coming back from maternity leave, and Osaka was winning the match handily even before the penalty—the application of the rules by umpire Carlos Ramos was greeted with immediate, righteous condemnation by both fans and commentators. No less a rule breaker than Billie Jean King accused Ramos of unfairly penalizing Williams. The sports journalist Sally Jenkins, riled to the point of irrationality, claimed in a Washington Post editorial that Ramos should have let Williams, clearly in a heightened emotional state, simply vent (and vent and vent). Jenkins bizarrely posited that Ramos recoiled at being called to task by a woman, and that he was, indeed, a 'thief,' who'd stolen the moment from Osaka, Williams, and us—entirely absolving Serena, the sport's elder stateswoman, of any responsibility in having come undone by her young opponent's sustained brilliance. Dubiously, Jenkins swatted aside Williams’ resume of unsportsmanlike conduct (which includes a violent threat against a lines judge) anointing her ‘one of the most courteous and generous champions in the game.’ To tennis aficionados long accustomed to Williams’ barely disguised contempt for being runner up, this was news. For all the outrage Carlos Ramos’ decision elicited in the heat of the moment, time and distance has rendered his judgment valid, if not praised—mainly because Williams herself, despite still feeling victimized by the decision, knows it wasn’t her finest hour. Her behavior since then has been exemplary, even in the face of crushing losses on the game's biggest stages. Jenkins, fittingly enough, authored a 2015 article about Djokovic for the Washington Post, following his comprehensive defeat of Federer in the just completed Wimbledon final. In it, she asked, “How great does Novak Djokovic have to be, to be fully appreciated?”

The answer had actually come weeks earlier at the 2015 French Open. There, still seeking the one major title that had eluded him, and despite finally beating his Roland Garros nemesis, Nadal, in the semis, he lost a heartbreaker of a final to Stan Warwinka. Standing on the podium, runner-up plate in hand and visibly shattered, he was given an extended full-throttle ovation from the French crowd, a display of genuine affection he’d never before experienced in victory. What Novak Djokovic had to do to be appreciated, it turns out, was to be less great. All he had to do was lose.

Image: Getty Images

Saarinen’s Glamorous Escape

New Yorkers heading out of town to escape summer's stifling heat have a tantalizing new getaway at John F. Kennedy International Airport—one that, preposterously enough, remains firmly planted on New York soil. There, amidst the chaos of perpetual construction and the madding crowds, lies the newly opened TWA Hotel, an exquisitely appointed, 512-room revelation—appended to a Mid Century masterwork, ravishingly restored and refurbished—that's equal parts exhilarating journey into a glamorous past and glorious refuge from an inelegant present.

It's been a long time coming. Eero Saarinen's exalted TWA Flight Center, a breathtaking composition of soaring ceilings and dramatic curves, and one of the great built works of the 20th Century, opened to rapturous reviews in 1962 (a year after Saarinen's untimely death at 51), its technological splendor capturing the zeitgeist of the jet age and the irresistible romance of air travel. Its wide open, glass-fronted interior, all jaw-dropping volumes and dynamic forms, signaled the seemingly endless possibilities that lay ahead for the remaining half of the 20th Century.But what lay ahead, it turned out, was the rapid evolution of air travel for which the terminal, created for the largest carriers of the day, was not prepared. Bigger planes and hoards of travelers rendered the TWA Flight Center obsolete within a few decades of its opening, its glory days a thing of the past, in tandem with its namesake, Trans World Airlines, now speeding towards financial decline.

Closed to the general public since 2001—the same year TWA filed for bankruptcy—Saarinen's masterpiece was finally listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 2005, mercifully escaping demolition, but sitting mostly dormant for the next 15 years, no longer an airline hub, yet impossible to envision as anything else. The plan by the Port Authority of New York to turn the building into a hotel could easily have gone wrong. Airport hotels are, by definition, forgettable—generic, necessary evils en route to (or from) memorable places—and what sort of indignities, one had to wonder, would be placed upon this architectural gem, in the name of room service?

“New York now has a hotel capable of seducing travelers into lingering in the borough of Queens, before moving on towards Manhattan’s famous skyline.”

But a superb collaboration involving three New York design firms—Beyer Blinder Belle Architects, who oversaw the historic renovation; Lubrano Ciavarra Architects, who designed the adjoining hotel rooms; and Stonehill Taylor, the interior design lead—have given New York City a minor miracle, something approximating a transcendent experience at a crucial American moment; a space capable of vaulting us from stultifying present to electrifying past, from a despairing national mood to an age of unbridled optimism. New York, a global destination, now has a hotel beguiling enough to be a destination itself, fully capable of seducing weary travelers into lingering for a night or two in the borough of Queens, before moving on towards Manhattan's famous skyline.

Beyer Blinder Belle deserve the bulk of the credit for undertaking a massive historic restoration project, which included the removal of unsightly additions (and no small amount of asbestos), repairing structural damage, updating safety elements, and, ultimately, giving Saarinen's visionary achievement shiny new life. A cursory look at vintage photos shows the structure's gorgeous interior to be virtually unchanged, an airy atrium of platforms and swooping staircases, offering views from above and below, and in every direction. The original Sunken Lounge, surely the world's grooviest conversation pit, remains the building's epicenter, a show-stopper with built-in seating newly reupholstered and swathed in the same vivid red hue of the carpeting underfoot, all the better to show off the pure white pedestal silhouettes of—what else?—Saarinen Side Tables by Knoll.

The 512 guest rooms are not, in fact, located in the historic structure, but divided between two wings that flank the main attraction, accessed via the original red carpeted tunnels that once led passengers to their gates—an ingenious idea that affords many rooms unparalleled floor-to-ceiling views of Saarinen's building. Other rooms have views of the runway, sans the noise, thanks to uncommonly thick, sound-proof glass. Interior design by Stonehill Taylor is clean and legible, with a color scheme of black, white, and red: bespoke dark wood, crisp white linens, classic black rotary phone (yes it works), and a splash of red provided—fittingly enough—by the unmistakable form of a Knoll Saarinen Womb Chair.

Meticulously researched period details—mirrored martini bar, vintage Life magazines; fridge stocked with TaB diet soda; Nancy Sinatra wafting through the lobby—could have turned the TWA Hotel into a time capsule of no particular relevance, save its value as an awe-inspiring relic of the past. But it's a measure of Saarinen's genius—and the clarity with which his greatest building has been restored and revived—that stepping into this Mid Century emblem feels less like a nostalgic rewind than a present-day gift. A gift from a Finnish-born architect who, more than half a century ago, left us with a timeless reminder of what American greatness looks like.

Elegy For a Cat

Minky, the cat, died this morning, after having lived, by all accounts, a good life. 

For an estimated decade, he had freely traversed our hilly, wooded Long Island neighborhood, belonging to no one, yet so robust and clean, so polite and confident that everyone assumed he belonged to someone. And then, just like that, he belonged to us, charming us with his sweet face and handsome markings, his cuddly form and ready affection—and his fur, so soft and silky, it spawned the silly name with which we saddled him: Minky, soft as mink.

In the 5 years he spent with us, Minky, the once solitary wanderer, surrendered to a communal life of on-demand feedings and incessant coddling, regular brushings and full-fledged indulgence. When he wanted solitude, he had that too, in a room of his own, on our sheltered patio; built by hand, a modernist abode, with flat roof and picture window, a comfortable, cushioned spot from which to reflect on his fortunes, and keep watch over his domain, his eyes and ears ever tuned to would-be interlopers.

The indignities of a litter box were not for Minky. We tried to train him, but he knew better than to acquiesce to our desires. Instead, he attended to his personal affairs outside, no matter the weather, alerting us to his intentions well in advance. He’d saunter over to a spot far from view, conduct his business discretely, and assiduously hide the evidence under leaves and twigs and soil—and then, return, a renewed spring in his step, to our open door.

Minky lived as he had wanted to, and died as many of us would wish to: at home, warm and safe on a chilly winter’s morning, a fire burning brightly, wrapped in loving arms.💔

David Bowie Lives Underground

David Bowie's death 2 years ago was a seismic moment in music and culture, but in his New York City neighborhood, it was a deeply personal loss. Having made Manhattan his home for the last 2 decades of his life, Bowie, an Englishman, was amongst those outlandishly famous people who managed to somehow walk the streets of this American city freely, sans bodyguards and disguises, participating in the downtown pleasures available to ordinary New Yorkers—the uneven cobblestone streets of Soho and the wide open vistas of Washington Square Park—while, no doubt, rueing its less scintillating indignities—like perennially dirty, jam-packed subway stops.

“The David Bowie being feted here isn’t the global superstar, but the downtown New Yorker, who chose to live—and die—in an apartment around the block.”

Which is precisely what makes David Bowie is Here, an inspired, intimate underground installation at Bowie's once frequented subway stop, a soulful piece of ephemeral art. As most Manhattanites know, the real David Bowie event is happening in Brooklyn. There, at the Brooklyn Museum of Art, David Bowie Is, a major retrospective composed of archival material—personal objects, costumes, handwritten lyrics, music videos—organized by London's V&A Museum, is shaping up to be New York's cultural event of the year, never mind the season. At the Broadway-Lafayette subway stop, though, the David Bowie being feted isn't the global superstar, born and raised across the Atlantic, currently being lavishly celebrated across the East River. Here, underground and across grimy walls and worn turnstiles, resides the local David Bowie, the downtown New Yorker, who chose to live—and die—in an apartment around the block.

Organized in concert with the Brooklyn Museum's retrospective, this satellite show is the brainchild of Spotify, which has made ingenious use of the generous subterranean real estate available at this subway station, decorating the walls, pillars, turnstile entrances, and, most compellingly, the exposed iron beams between the station's 2 floors, with images of Bowie from every period of his career. Quotes by the singer, in which he articulates his feelings about New York, and a neighborhood map of his favorite haunts, complete a picture of an artist and the city which figured prominently in his career and life: concerts performed, albums recorded, plays authored, and a domestic life lived with his wife and daughter—a city which, towards the end of his life, he rarely left.

David Bowie is Here, like most things in NYC, is a fleeting experience, remaining on view through May 13th, a mere four weeks after its opening. But New Yorkers interested in a more lasting memento can purchase subway MetroCards emblazoned with the singer's face. A suite of 5 cards, each bearing a different Bowie visage, is on sale only at the Broadway-Lafayette station, in a limited edition of 250,000, immortalizing both David Bowie is Here—and a time, not long ago, when David Bowie was still here.

After the Election, Subway Therapy

Artistic expression, we know, rarely emanates from a place of equilibrium and serenity. In New York, where neither equilibrium nor serenity comes easily, the days and weeks following the 2016 Presidential election brought a brand of psychic dissonance not seen since 9/11. Which explains why Subway Therapy provided a potent, if ultimately feeble, salve. The brainchild of Matthew ‘Levee’ Chavez, a New York-based artist, the Subway Therapy project is a collaborative endeavor which requires the participation of passing strangers, and banks on a simple premise: give frustrated and perpetually vexed subway riders Post-It notes and a pen, and they will write.

“When people are overflowing with emotion, help channel their energy into something good,” explains Chavez. “Subway Therapy is about making people smile, laugh, and feel less stress. I believe people grow and learn through dynamic conversation.” With stress at its zenith on November 9th, Levee parked himself in the tunnel of the 14th Street subway stop in Manhattan, and encouraged New Yorkers of disparate origins—but an overwhelmingly single worldview—to record their outrage and sorrow, dissension and shock on tiny colored paper squares; and then, one by one, adhere them to an endless expanse of tiled subway wall.

“With stress at its zenith on November 9th, New Yorkers recorded their outrage and sorrow, dissension and shock, on tiny colored paper squares.”

Part art piece, part theatre, part protest movement, the post-Election Subway Therapy project remained, ultimately a classic New York City enterprise: a spontaneous collective experience, a portrait in resourcefulness, an imaginative stab at quelling the chaos of an unthinkable moment. It was also, surprisingly enough, quite pretty, presenting a vivid mosaic of color that, for a few dreary weeks, enlivened the grey and harsh florescence of subterranean city life, while beckoning even the most harried subway traveler to stop and read, if not write.

Sticky notes spread to other subway stops, most notably the Union Square station, one of downtown’s major hubs, which played canvas to an ever-thickening paper display of aphorisms and affirmations, exhortations and exclamations, each hastily scribbled in marker or pen or pencil. Governor Andrew Cuomo made a visit (and a written contribution), and scores of tourists took it all in, jaws dropped, reading, filming, saturating their Instagram feeds. Like many a New York City experience, Subway Therapy proved ephemeral, the notes methodically taken down in mid-December, their impact duly noted and recorded for posterity. The New-York Historical Society stepped in to preserve a portion of the Union Square display, and then offered up its own entrance wall to keep the project alive through Inauguration Day. Only in New York.

Womankind

To hear Susan Sarandon tell it, we’ve got plenty of time for a woman President. Yes, she’d like a woman President, the actress and political activist has said, but she wants the ‘right’ woman—by which, she means, Hillary Clinton is not that ‘right’ woman. Implied in this conceit is that there are plenty of Presidential-caliber women waiting in the wings, and if Hillary would just get out of the way, the ‘right’ woman would surely emerge to win over Sarandon’s whole-hearted support.

Whether Hillary Clinton wins or loses on Tuesday, America stands on the cusp of an historic moment, and for those who view Clinton with irrational contempt (Sarandon falls into this category), it is an immensely maddening moment. Rooting against cultural advancement is a deeply frustrating and particularly embittering thing, partly because it is, in the end, a lonely endeavor. For—and this should be duly noted—Clinton’s much-touted unpopularity is mostly a piece of American lore. If Hillary Clinton becomes ‘leader of the free world’ on November 8th, the ‘free’ world’s response—make no mistake—will be equal parts unbridled jubilation and unprecedented relief. Try being on the other side of that.

“It should be duly noted that Hillary Clinton’s much-touted unpopularity is mostly a piece of American lore.”

No one knows this better than Clinton herself, having played would-be foil to our time’s other landmark political moment in 2008. Like much of what Clinton has accomplished, the grace with which she handled her Primary defeat to Barack Obama, her refusal to succumb to the seeds of bitterness, rarely gets the credit it deserves—as if it were a given that a hard-fought race automatically engenders grace. Bernie Sanders’ slow burn and protracted letting-go provided a stark contrast to Clinton’s concession speech eight years ago—one that, in today’s considerably more mean-spirited climate, looks almost quaint in its surrender. And, lest we forget, should Clinton win on Tuesday, an apotheosis of graceless defeat looms menacingly on the horizon. (Though, one suspects, grace from the opposing side will be at a premium, irrespective of the outcome).

The irony of Sarandon’s ‘right’ woman thesis is that there may never be a more rightful woman to assume this rarefied mantle than Hillary Rodham Clinton at this very moment. Because if this interminable political season has exposed one thing starkly, it is just how much latitude is still accorded a man, and just how much a woman must still accomplish before she’s allowed into the same hallowed arena. The chasm that lies between our two choices—whether on the basis of intellect, experience, character, or fortitude—is historically monumental, shockingly clear. But, at this late date, it is also moot. Its relevance matters only inasmuch as it stands as a testament to how much voters are willing to overlook or forgive—in a man.

If it’s true that politics is personal, there has never been a more personal election for women (and, yes, men) than this one—and how those personal feelings manifest themselves in the voting booth will say something, for better or worse, about who we are. Susan Sarandon will have plenty of company in dismissing this occasion as simply one in a long line of opportunities to come. But those of us who know better, who understand gravity when we see it, won’t be so cavalier. We’ll vote with an eye toward history, wholly in awe of a singular woman and her Herculean feat in the face of impossible odds—and raise a glass to womankind.

Images: Pentagram

Zaha Hadid's Architectural Audacity

Zaha Hadid was that rarity in the architectural word: a superstar architect who was a woman. And if that sounds like anything short of miraculous, just try naming another woman architect famous enough to be identified by her first name alone. Le Corbusier opted for a two-word pseudonym, but Zaha was architecture’s first single-name star. That she was also a non-Westerner, and a Muslim, to boot, made her rise to the pinnacle of her profession one of the more astonishing stories in contemporary architecture. All of which makes her unexpected death last week—a fatal heart attack at age 65—a tragedy of epic proportions for the same reasons that the death of any iconoclast is: when, we’re left to wonder, will we see anyone like her again?

There was, of course, no one like Zaha Hadid, and her gender was the least of the reasons why. Hadid, quite simply, upended notions about the built form in ways that had been unprecedented before her arrival, translating seemingly impossible dramatic swoops and soaring waves into fluid, technological masterworks. Everything from the laws of gravity to the limitations of material application seemed to be defied by Zaha Hadid’s most famous buildings—beginning with her first realized project, the Vitra Fire Station in Weil am Rhein, Germany (1993), and culminating in the instantly iconic, award winning Heydar Aliyev Center (2013) in Baku, Azerbaijan.

“A groundbreaking career rarely comes without a price, and for Hadid, the lone woman atop the rarefied male-dominated milieu of architecture, the price was a string of sneering adjectives.”

It was easy to believe that Hadid’s fondness for undulating curves was a statement against the rigidity of geometry, but it was the plainly geometric compositions of Russian Constructivist artists—specifically, Kazimir Malevich—with their sharp angles and floating planes, that first ignited her belief in a different kind of architecture, one in which beautiful abstractions could be translated into gravity-defying buildings.

But a groundbreaking career rarely comes without a price, and for Hadid, the lone woman atop the rarefied male-dominated milieu of architecture, the price was a string of sneering, personality-based adjectives. She was difficult, brash, intractable, aggressive, a diva, it was said, again again, as she kept racking up a string of ‘firsts’—first woman to win the Pritzker Prize (2004), first woman to win the RIBA Royal Gold Medal (2016)— criticisms, however true or false, that were suspiciously outsized in relation to her professional accomplishments.

Zaha Hadid herself was all too aware of architecture’s (and the world’s) double standard, but she was, thankfully, too busy building a world-class architectural practice to recoil (publicly, anyway) at being labeled (and, finally, eulogized) as a ‘female architect.’ As Tegan Bukowski, a young designer practicing at Zaha Hadid Architects, wrote last week, “Zaha did not want to be defined by her gender, and she didn’t define anyone else that way, either. In her studio, she offered my female colleagues and me a chance to prove ourselves equal to our male counterparts. She quietly created an environment where I could look around and see women in positions of power next to men, not in spite of them.” That, ultimately, may rank as Zaha Hadid’s most significant architectural contribution—an achievement for which only a woman, only Zaha, possessed the audacity.

Image: Steve Double

David Bowie's Magic Act

In some ways, the most audacious act of David Bowie’s life was his death. 40 years on from the creation of Ziggy Stardust and The Thin White Duke, he had receded from the music stage, had all but disappeared from public life. And then—like magic—Bowie was back. A new album, good reviews, a reminder that he was still here, still making music, still had some things to say. But then—just like that—he was gone again. This time, for good. Quietly, privately, by his rules alone, David Bowie orchestrated the most elegant disappearing act in recent memory.

We shouldn’t be surprised. What made Bowie the public (and secret) icon of discerning music buffs and social misfits, fashion obsessives and visual artists, giggling teenage girls and anguished teenage boys was his ability to catch us completely off guard. Just when we thought we had seen it all, he was there, showing us something we had never seen before, touching a nerve. Decades before outlandishness became the new normal, before subversion a pop cultural phenomenon, before Prince and Madonna, Iggy and Gaga, he stood alone in his power to induce gasps, make us stop dead in our tracks to look and listen—again and again.

Singer, actor, playwright, producer, painter, art collector, father, friend. Bowie, for all the glitter and artifice that defined his most famous alter egos, was that thing most of us aspire to be: the well-rounded creative being. So, maybe we shouldn’t be surprised that this week he managed once again to catch us completely—shockingly—off guard. In an age in which it is possible to think we know everything before it is anything, David Bowie showed us just how it feels to know nothing. In death, as in life, he did what all great artists do: he took us all by surprise.

Crossing Paths

My only brush with celebrity stalking begins and ends with the great Spanish artist Antoni Tàpies, who died last night at the age of 88.

It began one afternoon, many years ago, when, armed with a map and an address, I set out alone on the perfectly unfamiliar streets of Barcelona to find Tàpies. That the day didn’t, in fact, end with a Tàpies meeting was, in retrospect, fortuitous, for the fact that I hadn’t given much thought to what exactly I’d say were I to find myself in the same room with him. But on that sunny, spring day, the quest to find Tapies seemed, to me, the only reason to be in Barcelona.

Antoni Tàpies had mastered every medium with which I’d wanly flirted—drawing, painting, printmaking, graphic design, poetry–and that, I thought inexplicably, was something he should know. My determination brought me, circuitously, to a massively imposing, unmarked wooden door on a fairly desolate narrow street, one that I sheepishly knocked on, only to be greeted by a smiling woman who said, yes, this was Tàpies’ studio, and no, he wasn’t there; and, then, in a gesture unthinkable to a New Yorker, invited me in for a tour.

A back room was lined with flat files in which scores of Tàpies’ prints were stored, and she asked me if I’d like to see some of them.  There were immaculately organized lithographs and etchings, heart-stoppingly gorgeous embossings, richly colored, overlaid with Catalan scribbles–and there were crosses, of course, his famous crosses. Some prints were recently made, yet to be exhibited anywhere, and she removed them from their files, one at a time, carefully placing them on a table for me. Just for me.

I may have been there for an hour, maybe more. I thanked her for her kindness. She apologized for Tàpies’ absence. I left, as dusk approached, not quite sure of the way back to my hotel. I was leaving the next day, or was it two days? I couldn’t remember just then, and it didn’t matter much.  I had come to Barcelona.  I had come to find Tàpies. And, in a way I could scarcely have imagined, I had.

Image: Fundació Antoni Tàpies