Not quite fully rested or completely without traces of the crud I picked up in Roma, but more or less shipshape.
On the way in, an interesting view.
Hot sour soup and platitude.
Alas the place has slipped a bit, though lunch isn’t a good measure. A better measure is that at this time of day there are lots of tables. That wasn’t the case ever before.
I have been exploring in the American Wing if the Met, mourning the loss of our colorful metal buttons.
I have liked some American painters such as Eakins, Bellows, Sargent, Homer. Here is a striking painting by Winslow Homer of a Civil War vet turned farmer. His uniform coat and water canteen are cast on the ground. His back is to us, as he looks to the future. But the image if the scythe and the cut grain strewn in the ground are awful reminders of the horror of the newly ended war.