I should have been clued into the extraordinary socioeconomic experience awaiting me by the modern art museum-esque lobby and guided walk to the elevator, but I really wasn't prepared for the door to open out into the entryway of what turned out to be the entire floor of the building (not to mention a gorgeous terrace with at least 10 square feet of lawn and view of actual stars)
Complete, btw, with an air hockey table that was flanked by ORIGINAL AND SIGNED Warhols and Lichtensteins (that reference is particularly for the roomie and the subletter)
Plus this Warhol:
Which was conveniently located next to it's appropriately colored art companion:
As to be expected, the young man who owned the apartment had not one but three refrigerators. Of course keeping beer separate from food makes sense, but color me fascinated by the separate and specifically calibrated wine cooler disguised as a kitchen cabinet.
This young man, by the way, he's 26. In defense of my absence of Warhols, he's also a Bermuda trust fund baby, but good lord the night of direct interaction with opulence was not lost on me.
Every now and again its healthy for me to experiencer what life is like for those non starving artist types out there in New York City. Some people just don't realize how much they have, and how little others have.
It was even more valuable to realize via direct immersion in money, (DAD STOP READING NOW) champagne, free table service at clubs, and (OK DAD YOU CAN START READING AGAIN) all the associated accoutrement that money CAN buy a lot of things... but the Beatles were right: "money can't buy me love."
No comments:
Post a Comment