It's been a topsy turvy weekend weather wise. Friday was all sunny and mild, more like a brilliant autumn day than a day in early December. On our way to the galleries uptown Lynn and I walked across Central Park among massive trees baring their gnarly branches. The allée of American Elms looked like two rows of giants suspended in a modern dance movement, their limbs stretching and contorting every which way. We saw the Gerhard Richter show, which was such a treat. In his 40 years of painting, Richter has explored every possible genre from photo realist to abstract, something that irks many critics. The show at Marian Goodman includes some large squeegee paintings from the last decade, all of them a visual feast in colors, texture, and technical virtuosity. No reproduction can fully capture the luxurious feel of the oil paint gliding across the canvas and the subtle layering of colors in these works.
On Saturday winter announced itself suddenly, and we woke up to a freezing rain that turned into soft snow by the time we went to Lily's piano recital in the afternoon. It was dreary all day long, and we trudged around town in the damp cold. This morning, the brilliant sun returned but brought with it a biting cold air. Light pours through the windows, and silence reigns outside. The sky is clear and blue. Not a soul stirs on the street. I love mornings like this. But they never last long. The desire to hold onto to those precious moments, to stop time, is always overwhelming, like these lines from Faust express so well:

If I should say to the moment,
Stay awhile, you are so beautiful,
Then you may clap me into irons
And I will willingly perish.

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