My favorites, though, are the two paintings that capture not only people but music. For Rehearsal of the Pasdeloup Orchestra at the Cirque d’Hiver Sargent, a talented pianist and lover of modern French symphonic works, especially those of Gabriel Fauré, puts himself in a seat high above the orchestra and captures the energy of the musicians and almost the music they make. It’s that evocative.

Capri Girl on a Rooftop, made in 1878, shows a scene described by Sargent’s friend Frank Hyde, who recalled rooftop parties where local women performed “tarantellas on the flat roof…We watched the effect of the graceful figures, silhouetted against the fading twilight, and, for a background, Vesuvius with his dark purple mantle and crown of fire.”

But the show-stopper here is Madame X, a notorious painting that comes with a backstory and has its own gallery. In Sargent’s first version of this painting of Virginie Amélie Avegno Gautreau her sparkling shoulder strap sexily slips off her right shoulder, but he later painted the strap back in, after the picture caused an uproar during the 1884 Salon. Below is my photo of the exhibition’s curator, Stephanie L. Herdrich, speaking at the press preview on April 21st. As the assembled crowd quieted down she began her remarks by noting that here she was, “standing in front of my sidekick, Madame X.”

This is a beautifully designed and curated show, and that it culminates in a gallery devoted entirely to the story of Madame X is just another gift to museum-goers. Titled “The Paris Salon of 1884,” this space recreates the original exhibition using projections of paintings that were shown during that year. I arrived early, and to my enormous delight found this spectacular woman, dressed to nines in 3″ heels, a short black dress with a large pink bow, her cape drooping sexily down her shoulders and a classic string of pearls around her neck:

When Sargent sold Madame X to the Met in 1916 he wrote that this portrait was “the best thing I’ve done.” A hundred and ten years later, his famous painting has found a new, widely appreciative audience. Run, don’t walk.

I never saw so many people taking a selfie with a pigeon but I understand why: this bird is truly magnificent. Thank you Iván Argote for “Dinosaur,” and High Line Art for choosing this iconic New Yorker for The Plinth. To read my tribute of pigeon photos on the High Line, click here….

On September 3rd, Glenn Ligon’s Untitled (America/Me) will go up at 18th Street, and in anticipation of the billboard’s return — what happy news! — I’m posting some of my favorites from across the years, with hearty thanks to Cecilia Alemani, chief curator and High Line Art director, for bringing back this singular exhibit space. These are in no particular order, except I’ve started at the beginning, with Joel Sternfeld, the High Line’s muse.

For a look at other works — including opera, sculpture, and more — visit my companion website, HighLineBookcom.

During the course of my research I learned a lot more about the history of this landscape so many of us love so dearly, and I wanted to share one story that particularly captivated me. I’m pretty sure that the very first essay I wrote as a child was about the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire, so in a way I’m coming full circle here. To begin, have a look at the Gansevoort Pumping Station in the first decade of the 21st century; it’s the handsome brick building in the center of the farmers’ market:

Designed by the architectural firm Bernstein & Bernstein, this station had five pumps, each of which could deliver 2,700 gallons a minute through the city’s High-Pressure Hydrant system, which was developed in 1909. On Saturday, March 25, 1911, workers at this station were notified of a devastating fire at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory in Greenwich Village, and the FDNY raised the water pressure in the hydrant system to help members battle the fire in a building that no sprinklers. One hundred and forty-six garment workers were killed that day, including 123 women and girls, many of whom were young Italian, Eastern European, and Jewish immigrants.

In later years the Gansevoort Pumping Station became a cold-storage warehouse, part of the municipally operated Gansevoort Market Meat Center, and in 1984 Premier Veal moved in. Efrain Gonzalez’ photo below shows how it was soon decorated by a Lower East Side graffiti artist who painted murals of cows on the sides of the building. These were, in later years, targeted with paintballs by animal activists.

The station was torn down in 2011 to make way for the new Whitney Museum. Sitting below that magnificent building on Gansevoort Street, designed by architect Renzo Piano, is another layer of High Line history.

A number of years ago I took this photo of a woman painting a painting of a woman painting a painting in the European paintings wing of the Metropolitan Museum.

I thought of her yesterday morning when I had the great joy of attending the Met’s press preview in advance of the re-opening of the European Paintings Galleries, which the museum’s director, Max Hollein, described as “a completely new re-hang,” in which the curators “gave renewed attention to women artists” and took into account histories of class, gender, race, and religion. The goal of the show “Look Again: European Paintings 1300-1800″ was to create new cultural and artistic dialogs outside the more traditional focus of national schools of art and geographic distinctions. The galleries have been closed, for the most part, over the past 5 years as the Met renovated the many skylights — they embrace a total of 30,000 square feet — that make this wing so distinct. It was a beautiful, sunny morning and every space was filled with natural light. I had to lie on a bench to get this shot (you can see my left sneaker peeking out…) and the security nicely ignored me as I made myself comfortable. This is a place I’ve loved since childhood.

You need a lifetime to appreciate the nearly 800 works in these 45 galleries, many of which have been restored or borrowed from other departments in the Met. (According to curator Stephan Wolohojian, they extend over 2 acres and represent 9,000 gallons of paint.) My favorite gallery is “The Artist’s Studio,” which features ten paintings made between 1538 and 1955 showing the creative work in process. The featured work is Kerry James Marshall’s monumental “Untitled (Studio),” and also includes a few works by women, including a wonderful self-portrait by Elaine de Kooning (from 1946).

Most striking about this new wing is the adjacencies the Met’s curators achieved, which feel surprising and modern in a space that also feels unequivocally timeless. There are too many to mention, but a stunning example is Picasso’s “The Blind Man’s Meal” from 1903, which hangs next to El Greco’s “The Vision of St. John.” Another pairing, on the same wall, puts Picasso’s “The Actor” (1904-05) next to El Greco’s “Saint Jerome as Scholar” (1610).

In another gallery, Max Beckman’s modern triptych, “The Beginning” (1946-49) hangs side-by-side with Jean Bellegambe’s “The Cellier Altarpiece” from 1509.

The new galleries, filled with old favorites and new surprises, open on November 20th.

This week the newest park in the Hudson River Park system, Gansevoort Peninsula, opened on the former Pier 52, just south of Little Island and across the highway from the Whitney Museum. I will be writing more about this place, and its long, strange, history, but for now I offer some pictures and a few thoughts.

If you’ve lived in New York City for your entire life, as I have, the idea of a beach in Manhattan is pretty outrageous. I was dubious about this one from the moment it was announced several years ago, but going there on a hot, sunny day and seeing the happiness abounding — in folks of all ages — had a softening effect. This place is a little miracle.

The best part of Gansevoort Peninsula can’t be experienced through photographs: it’s the sound of the waves of the Hudson River lapping against the rip-rap. Yes, there’s garbage and all kinds of junky stuff washing up with the water, but this is New York City. We expect that. Soon there will be droves of kayakers, paddle boarders and kite surfers stepping off the broad, smooth stones that were placed here for easy launching into the river.

Another thing I love about this park is the way David Hammons’ “Day’s End” sculpture, a work that memorializes the history of the piers in West Chelsea, casts its long shadow across the beach. It’s here, but not here, just like the pier it replaced. And lest you forget you’re in New York City, the park’s designers have helpfully placed a manhole cover at the western edge of the beach, in the boardwalk. See photo below and, as always, click to enlarge the image.

But my favorite part of Gansevoort Peninsula is its history. Soon I’ll be sharing more photographs, including some rare images I found in the Municipal Archives, and telling the fascinating and truly strange history of Thirteenth Avenue. This park occupies the last patch of the lost avenue, and its history is truly remarkable. More soon.

The Skycam offers a 24/7/365 view of a particular “bend in the river” that was important to Church and also played a key and unprecedented role in the fight to stop a nuclear power plant that would have been built in Olana’s viewshed. I became somewhat obsessed with the SkyCam during the pandemic, and collected more than 400 screenshots that show the same, fixed, view in different light, times of day, seasons, and weather conditions. During those days the camera captured the essence of those first months of lockdown: the fact that we were fixed in place but everything was constantly changing around us. Olana graciously gave me permission to share some of them here. I’ve assembled them in collages to make it easy to see the dramatic shifts that occur as time goes by.

Walking around my neighborhood in West Chelsea I’ve been observing another form of resilience that’s much quieter, humbler, and so much more powerful. Take a look at this tree….

This London Plane (Platanus x acrifolia) stands near the corner of Tenth Avenue and 22nd Street. According to my neighbor and longtime caretaker of Clement Clarke Moore Park across the street, Allen Oster, it was planted sometime in the mid-to-late 1960s. Thanks to the fantastic New York City Street Tree Map, a project of the Parks department that identifies every street tree in town, it has its own ID number: 1425868.

The London Plane, an immigrant like so many of us, is the most common tree in New York City, making up about 12% of the Street Tree Map’s population. It has a story to tell about real strength and resilience, but you have to look closely to get the message….

When 1425868 was just a young shoot, the folks who planted it encircled the tree with an iron frame to protect it. The tree grew, but the iron didn’t budge. So this gorgeous piece of nature did what Nature has been doing since the beginning of time: it adapted. It grew around, and over, the iron frame. Eventually, it swallowed it whole. If you approach this tree and look closely, you’ll see real New York Strong: bits of rusty iron peeking through smooth bark.

Walk around it and you can almost hear 1425868 telling its story of resilience. Well, the cage was getting smaller and I was getting larger. Rather than capitulate, I grew around it, let it become a part of me. But I left windows here and there so the bipeds could see my past, and know my struggle, and learn from it.

Allen pointed me to a tree on the northeast corner of Tenth Avenue and 21st Street, which has what’s likely the same sort of “cage” that 1425868 had. According to the Street Tree Map this is a Thornless Honey locust (Gleditsia triacanthos var. inermis), number 1425114.

It too was determined to thrive so it devoured its jailor, in true New York style.

A bit farther uptown, on 87th Street, men were working near another Thornless Honey locust (no. 1444816), and permitted me to take a photo of what we normally can’t see: the deep mass of roots that thrive below street level.

All these trees have survived much more than their iron cages: Hurricane Sandy, and more recently Henri and Ida; countless dogs who lift a leg while passing by; pests and fungus; salt from the snow plow; the indignities of concrete and asphalt; construction sheds; cigarette butts, etc. They just keep growing in their own way, slowly, quietly, relentlessly, reliably. They don’t write op-eds and post on social media about how awesome and resilient they are. They don’t care if you notice them, but if you do, they’ll gladly share a bit of their story.