“I am my own muse, I am the subject I know best. The subject I want to know better.” ~ Frida Kahlo

I was aware of the Frida Kahlo exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts ~ a surprisingly moving affair, especially the photographs of her various medical accessories. Apparently they were taken in the intimate space of her bathroom after she had died~ a stark, sad, poignant reminder of where life had once been. The physical shell of an artist’s soul is rarely what we would like it to be ~ maybe that’s why some people make such great artists. Perhaps pain is a necessary albatross of artistic talent. That doesn’t make it any less sad.

There was also an Henri De Toulouse-Lautrec exhibit, celebrating the vibrant posters of the Moulin Rouge and Parisian nightlife. This too came tinged with a sorrowful undercurrent. Like Kahlo, he had been broken by his physical body. In a sense, both artists were trapped in their own cages, longing for nothing more than to break free from their respective chains.

“I am not sick. I am broken. But I am happy to be alive as long as I can…” ~ Frida Kahlo

“Everywhere and always ugliness has its beautiful aspects; it is thrilling to discover them where nobody else has noticed them.” ~ Henri De Toulouse-Lautrec

“I wish I could do whatever I liked behind the curtain of ‘madness’. Then I’d arrange flowers, all day long, I’d paint; pain, love, and tenderness. I would laugh as much as I feel like at the stupidity of others, and they would all say: ‘Poor thing, she’s crazy!’ (Above all I would laugh at my own stupidity.) I would build my world which while I lived, would be in agreement with all the worlds. The day, or the hour, or the minute that I lived would be mine and everyone else’s ~ my madness would not be an escape from ‘reality’.” ~ Frida Kahlo

On our way out we stopped in the gift store. There was one silk jacket that remained, and it looked just as I remembered it: a pale, powdery blue, with gray cranes embroidered onto the bottom third, accented by the exaggerated vibrant vermillion of their crests, like drops of blood… like drops of beauty. It wasn’t my size, but I did not mourn leaving such beauty behind.

The sky was still gray, but the water was holding off. We hopped in an Uber to the Boston Public Garden…

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This little street in the South End, a couple of blocks away from the condo, reminds me of Europe. That’s one of the charms of such an old city ~ the influences of the mother countries remain. The lion rests just nearby Cafe Madeleine, where I make an early morning run to get us some sustenance: croissant, pear crumble, and a fancy colorful fruit tart. Somehow, the rain continues to hold off. We are heading to the Museum of Fine Arts to see the Frida Kahlo exhibit, and perhaps find silk jacket I’d seen on my last visit but foolishly neglected to purchase at the time. (It has since haunted me, not unlike a certain Louis Vuitton ombre coat from 2002 that still occupies the otherwise-rather-empty room of regret in my mind.) A gray start to the day doesn’t necessarily spell doom but it is a warning of sorts.

Overcast days are better for photographs anyway, softening the harshness of direct sunlight. Not that food like this needs any help in the looks department.

And the cherry blossoms would look lovely in a raging snowstorm, which luckily did not arrive (though nothing would surprise us at this point). Two large Kwanzan trees framed the Museum of Fine Arts, in glorious full bloom, heavy with pink prettiness. They greeted us decked out in their seasonal finery, welcoming all with the embrace of spring. We ascended the stone steps and began our brush with art…

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As often happens for our anniversary weekend, the Kentucky Derby was taking place somewhere (I assume Kentucky) so the hats and fascinators and people watching were about to turn splendid. Not many were turning it out on Friday night, but every day should be a hat day, so I flipped one on for photo purposes only. 

I purposely left the itinerary vague for this portion of the journey, as I wasn’t familiar with what we might find at the harbor. The Palm Restaurant wasn’t quite in the Seaport, and with questionable weather I kept us closer, which meant the Boston Harbor Hotel. More than a happy compromise, the bar at the hotel was one of those wondrously old-school places ~ dark wood and moody lighting ~ with an abundance of classic and new cocktails on the menu. My idea of heaven. Andy’s too, especially when he discovered they could make a Brown Derby, his new favorite.

Our exuberant server, who found just about everything we did or said ‘a true pleasure’ smiled and kept us supplied with special chips and peppers and olives. Heaven just kicked it up a notch.

I opted for the Last Word, my spring go-to cocktail, and continued feasting on the small bites before us. A group of fancily-attired young people walked by ~ a prom or something similar was happening and they were boarding a ship. The world conspired in celebration.

I don’t spend much time in this section of Boston ~ and I should. It’s classic and historical. It reminds one of how important this area once was with its reliance on incoming ships. The same stones that line some of the streets have been here for hundreds of years. These stones saw the American Revolution. They were washed with the blood of soldiers. They have endured silently, watching with blind eyes, waiting with no sense of time. There are ghosts here too. That’s part of the wonder of Boston. Steeped with the stuff of history, it lives and breathes in and of the past. Not in a dusty, antiquated way ~ in a vibrant, life-affirming stance ~ stalwart and enduring ~ the kind of history that now finds two middle-aged married gentlemen hurrying to a fancy dinner at The Palm…

The restaurant was just across the street. Andy switched to a Hemingway daiquiri (not quite as good as the ice-filled version that Hawthorne serves, which is the one that won Andy over a few years ago). Memories build on memories, and the tapestry of our shared history is richly woven into shared days and nights like filaments of gold, sparkling with love and happiness and wonder…

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The weather report for the entire weekend looked dismal and grim. Rain was scheduled for Friday, Saturday and Sunday, and though I’m loath to take those reports with anything but a grain of salt, it looked best to expect and prepare for the worst. Fantasies of a spring fashion wonderland would need to wait for another weekend. Still, one has to hope for a glimpse of sunlight, or at least wear a Burberry trench to make the best of it. It also helps to have an arsenal of peppy scents to brighten the mood.

To that end, and our anniversary weekend beginning, a bit of Tom Ford’s ‘Venetian Bergamot’ was in order. It had been a birthday gift from Andy on my 40^th, and one that still takes me back to the Judy Garland suite at the Lenox Hotel, where we were greeted with a lion and a bottle of champagne.

Itinerary in tow (Andy likes a plan just as much as I do, thank you very much) we made a soft landing into town, relaxing into the weekend after a rainy drive. So far, the wet stuff was not affecting Boston. Buffeted by the sea, we were somehow skirting the showers, but the threat of rain was omnipresent in the gray skies, so we stayed close to the condo. It remains the best place to be during a storm.

While the April showers extended their stay into this month, the May flowers refused to be daunted, and for the remainder of our weekend the flowering trees and bulbs would make a dreamy backdrop for all our Boston enchantment.

A chartreuse bleeding heart lit up our walk along the Southwest Corridor Park, while a canary poppy nodded its wet head, shaking off the rain and beaming in radiance. We headed to the harbor, and all felt right with the world…

{To be continued…}