Leaving the Empire State Building we once again headed underground to catch a subway to Brooklyn.  I had never been there and was curious to see what life was like in the New York City’s most populous borough.  We surfaced near Bedford Avenue and 7th Street in what appeared to be a simple neighborhood of apartments above shops and restaurants.  We walked several blocks, and though the sidewalks were far less crowded than those in Manhattan, we did find a group of young hipsters engaged in a photoshoot for who-knows-what.  It seemed entirely appropriate given the environment.  Miriam visited the Built by Wendy shop, but only browsed a few minutes before we strolled back to take the subway back to Grand Central and the Metro North to White Plains where we watched roller derby at the WFTDA Regionals.  More about that later.

Day Four

Our full schedule had prevented us from seeing a couple things in Manhattan that I was eager to see, so on Saturday, while Miriam watched roller derby in White Plains, I took the train into the city and explored a bit.

My first stop was, of course, Grand Central Terminal, where, once again, I enjoyed a cupcake from Magnolia Bakery.  This one was cinnamon with a delicious swirl of icing.  We had been at Grand Central each day of our trip, but I hadn’t really bothered to walk outside the building, since we usually caught the subway from there.  That Saturday, on my own, I decided I should see what was around the old building.  I walked out the doors onto Pershing Square, walked a little way down the block and took a photo.

The scale of Grand Central Terminal is massive; the ornate details are astonishing.  In marble over one door appear the words:

TO ALL THOSE WHO WITH HEAD HEART AND MIND TOILED IN THE CONSTRUCTION OF THIS MONUMENT TO THE PUBLIC SERVICE THIS IS INSCRIBED

Inside, enormous chandeliers light great rooms with high ceilings.  It’s a wonder to behold, and a fitting introduction to the city to anyone who arrives there.

From there I meant to visit the Museum of Modern Art, but I struggled to find the most practical subway route.  I knew the best place to get off, but when I exited the car at that station I was confronted with a sign informing me that the station was closed that weekend.  I had to get back on the subway and exit at a less proximate station and walk.  In the end, I would have done just as well walking the eleven blocks from Grand Central.  In any event, I still made it to MoMA and saw neat stuff along the way, including St. Thomas Church on 5th Avenue and 53rd Street.

The Museum of Modern Art is in a rather unimpressive building.  Indeed, so nondescript is it that I didn’t even feel compelled to take a photograph of the exterior.  Inside, however, it is suitably modern, with a great atrium open to several floors.  I paid for my admission (nothing in New York City is free) and began exploring the art.  The first pieces I saw were not impressive.  Indeed, among the first I saw was one that was simply insulting.  The Mythic Being Village Voice Series by Adrian Piper consisted of framed pages from a newspaper.  The title plaque next to the “art” indicated that eleven different individuals or institutions contributed funds for its purchase.  For fifty cents and the price of a few picture frames I could have made the exact same thing.  Anyone could have.  It’s precisely this sort of fraud that leads the public to believe all modern art is a scam.  It isn’t, of course, but it’s easy to feel that way sometimes.  And when you see what hangs on the wall just a few rooms away, Piper’s piece rightfully appears weak.

I walked from gallery to gallery enjoying the genuine masterpieces on display in every room.  I passed Van Goghs on the way to Picassos, Matisses, Braques, Kahlos, Monets, Mondrians, and more Picassos.  There was wonderful sculpture, including mobiles by Calder.  The biggest disappointment was Dalí’s Persistence of Memory.  I’ve never thought much of Dalí in the first place, and I hadn’t even cared that this famous picture was at MoMA, but when I happened to pass a painting surrounded by a small crowd I decided I ought to look.  It was no bigger than a sheet of notebook paper.  Indeed, I think I may have said out loud, “you’ve got to be kidding me” as I walked past.  I think everyone else was underwhelmed also.

I found several things at MoMA that I loved.  Christina’s World has been a favorite since I was a child, and that was just hanging on a wall by an escalator.  The exhibit on modern design was fascinating, and really heightened my awareness of the banality of most of the everyday objects that surround us.  Take a look at any chair or table in the room you currently occupy.  Are any of them works of art in their own right?  What about the objects sitting on the table?  A ribbon fan on display was a perfect example of how designers used to create ordinary things both functional and beautiful.

Far and away my favorite work of art at MoMA was their magnificent Klimt.  I love all Gustav Klimt’s pictures, and had seen Mäda Primavesi two days before, but Hope is among his best, and what I was most looking forward to seeing at MoMA.  I stared at it for ages, as did many other people standing near me.  When I go back to Vienna I intend to visit the Belvedere and the Secession Building.

Leaving MoMA I made a last minute decision to walk up to Lincoln Center.  Along the way I stopped by Steinway Hall just to say I had.  It’s almost directly across the street from Carnegie Hall, and all the great pianists who give recitals there select their instruments at Steinway and Sons and have them delivered to Isaac Stern Auditorium.  As far as pianos go, Steinway is as good as it gets, and they still make them in New York City (and Hamburg).  You can see the process of making a Steinway piano in a film called Note by Note: The Making of Steinway L1037.  And don’t miss “How Does a Piano Get to Carnegie Hall”.

I passed some wonderful architecture near Columbus Circle, and there at Broadway and 58th Street stands the building that houses the Museum of Arts and Design.  No. 2 Columbus Circle, has an amazing history, and for a building that nobody outside of New York City knows or cares about, the Wikipedia entry for it is remarkably thorough.  In a nutshell, the building was designed by Edward Durell Stone and completed in 1964.  The “Lollipop Building”, as it was called, had few fans, since it was, by almost all standards, remarkably ugly.  It had almost no windows, but that was functional, since it housed an art collection.  In 2005 the building was ripped down to its skeleton, and the facade we see today is far worse than what came before it.  Even those who criticized the Lollipop Building find No. 2 Columbus Circle uglier than ever, and entirely lacking in architectural merit.  I agree.  Here is a site with many wonderful photos of the building as it once appeared.

Lincoln Center occupies several square blocks, which makes sense, since it’s the home of Avery Fisher Hall and the Metropolitan Opera House, among others.  The Met season was beginning only days after our visit, opening with a new production of Das Rheingold that was the talk of the town.  Posters were everywhere.  I went inside the Met Opera Shop, where they had hundred and hundreds of opera recordings as you might expect.  I was quite tempted to buy, but I am glad I saved my money, because the place I went next was unlike anything else I have ever seen.

The last time I visited Manhattan was 1989, and though I was old enough to appreciate that I was looking at Rockefeller Center or Radio City Music Hall or Central Park or the World Trade Center, I was not old enough to control my itinerary.  So, I didn’t get to see some of the things I would have liked to, like the view from the top of the Empire State Building, or the incomparable paintings inside the Museum of Modern Art.  This trip, however, was all about doing the important New York City stuff, and it could hardly have gone better.

Day One

We left from Orlando on a Wednesday morning and touched down at the Westchester County Airport before noon.  That made the most sense, since we would be staying in White Plains during our visit.  The flight was half-empty, and though another passenger was initially seated next to Miriam and me, the stewardess offered him his own row, and Miriam and I enjoyed the extra room.  I love looking out the window of the airplane, and Miriam always lets me have the window seat.  On this trip I recognized Jacksonville, Savannah, Chesapeake Bay, and the coast of New Jersey, before discerning Coney Island, and Manhattan off in the distance.  The suburbs of Connecticut looked pleasant and friendly as the plane shifted to a more south-westerly course for landing.

We took a taxi from the airport to our hotel, the Crowne Plaza.  Our eighth-floor room was handsome, with a large corner window that overlooked the intersection of Maple Avenue and Hale Avenue, and the charming homes on a hillside to the southeast.  The hotel offered complimentary shuttle service anywhere in the city of White Plains, and during our stay we took advantage of that luxury.  Though the distance to the train station was not considerable, the path is circuitous, so a free ride was the way to go.

The train station in White Plains is on a platform just west of downtown.  I was not well-versed in the particulars of the New York City Metro, or the Metro North Railroad, and we wanted tickets for both.  The clerk advised us that our best bet was a ten-trip off-peak pass, with accompanying subway pass.  The total was around $60 per ticket.  Off-peak hours are after ten o’clock in the morning until four o’clock in the afternoon, and then after six- or seven o’clock at night.  The price for a ticket that included peak hours was substantially higher.

While we were waiting for the next train to Grand Central Terminal, a woman in a long khaki coat repeatedly cut to the front of the ticket line to ask the clerk questions about the next train.  I thought her actions were incredibly rude, but she looked very rough and flustered, and assumed she was having a bad day.  When we took our seats on the train I had already forgotten her, but then we heard a woman in a thick Long Island accent pestering a handsome English couple with rather personal questions: “Where do you work?  How much money does that pay?  How expensive is your house?”  And so on.  I thought it was unbelievably impolite, and I half expected the Britons to tell the lady to shove off.   But, like good Englishmen, they took it in stride, and humoured the lady for the entire forty minute ride to Grand Central.

Grand Central Terminal is amazing.  First, it’s enormous.  The ceiling is painted with a huge zodiac, beneath which is the circular information desk, topped with a four-faced clock.  Hundreds of commuters are walking this way and that, and hundreds more tourists are taking photos at any given second.  At the north and south ends of the main lobby are two balconies, under which, through arches, corridors lead to an astonishing array of shops and restaurants, plus the various subway lines that connect to Grand Central.

On our various travels, we have become proficient users of public transportation.  Perhaps the biggest challenge for us when it comes to riding an unfamiliar subway in a new town is learning which lines run which directions.  Once you descend the stairs in a Metro station, all sense of direction one has while above ground is lost.  Thankfully, New York City streets are numbered, and Manhattan is long and straight, with lines running, by and large, north and south.  Just look for the signs that indicate whether the train is heading downtown or uptown and you’re good to go.  The only other challenge (and this one is unavoidable), is determining whether it’s better to exit the subway at one stop or another when it appears that your intended destination lies halfway between.  But we managed during our trip, and we went all over New York City.

Our first destination on our first day was the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  We walked the few short blocks to the steps along Fifth Avenue facing elegant mansions, and ate hot dogs in the sunshine before heading inside.

In general, Mrs. Hill and I are thorough museum-goers.  We look at every piece, and read most of the information posted next to each piece, and typically spend many hours exploring.  We did not have the time to do that at the Met.  We spent so much time perusing the Egyptian wing of the museum that we had to skip the Greek art and the medieval art, as well.  The European paintings were astonishing, of course; the sculpture was, too, and I was even fond of some of the modern art, particularly Untitled by Anish Kapoor, a large concave work composed of hundreds of reflective hexagons.  From a distance of several feet it reflected nothing distinguishable.  But moving closer you could make out your own shape, and at a distance of a few inches it became even more mesmerizing.  There was a fascinating round room with a mural depicting the gardens and palace at Versailles painted along the entire length of the wall.  The room had bizarre acoustical properties.  My favorite area of the museum, though, was the reconstructed Greek Revival facade of the 1822 Branch Bank of the United States which once stood on Wall Street.  Beyond the worn stone threshold was room after room of amazing antique furniture organized by period and style.  Today’s rich live in squalor compared to those of yesteryear.  The stairs from the Chicago Stock Exchange Building made me lament that craftsmanship is dead.  Still, I was most touched by something entirely simple: an embroidery sampler stitched by fourteen-year-old Sally Cornelius depicting Adam and Eve in the Garden, beneath which appeared the words, “This I have done to let you see what my parents did for me”.

From the Met we headed back to Grand Central, then took the express shuttle to Times Square.  The density of the crowd there was astonishing.  Throngs of people walking briskly, or stopping hastily to snap photos of family and friends standing at the center of the Western world.  I found it slighty overwhelming, and could easily imagine how one prone to sensory sensitivity might find Times Square oppressive.

We needed to kill some time before heading to dinner.  We had decided to eat at Sardi’s, located in the heart of the Theater District.  When we arrived we were seated right away.  It is a fancy restaurant where fancy people eat.  It is also amazingly expensive.  Our meal was one of the priciest we’ve ever had.  Alas, mo’ money don’t mean mo’ tasty: the food wasn’t that great.  But we paid for the experience of eating at Sardi’s, and, in that regard, I do not regret it.

It had rained during our dinner, which was surprising, and we dodged lightning on our way back to the subway to catch the return train to White Plains.

The next installment: New York City, Part Two.

First things first: the Washington Monument is an amazing structure when you consider how old it is.  It’s like a 50 story skyscraper built of stone blocks, with no steel to reinforce anything.  Inside, it’s clear that gravity holds this thing together.  The security procedure was, again, rigorous, and that alone must sharply reduce the number of visitors that can be accommodated daily.  The elevator takes you to a landing at the very top of the obelisk, and the mark on the floor indicates a height of 500 feet.  There are two small windows on each face of the pyramidal section of the monument, and depending on which direction you face you see either the WWII Memorial, Lincoln Memorial and Arlington, Virginia; the Capitol and RFK Stadium; the Jefferson Memorial and Reagan National Airport; or the Elipse and the White House.

The Jefferson Memorial requires a hike, but is well worth it.  I love classically inspired architecture, and this structure has about as many columns, steps and pediments as you could fit into a respectable design.  Plus, inside there’s a great big statue.

The National Archives is not far from the Smithsonian Museums, and is a handsome building in its own rights, with a fine dome.  Beneath that dome, of course, are our nation’s most precious possessions: the original Declaration of Independence, Constitution and Bill of Rights.  You know you’ve got some good stuff on display when you decide to keep the Magna Carta off in a corner somewhere.  The cafeteria there was surprisingly good (and very surprisingly affordable), and the elevator was fancy.  Plus, it was at the National Archives that I saw the only authentic Lincoln document of my entire trip, a letter in his own hand.  The Library of Congress has two copies of the Gettysburg Address, and the National Archives has, I believe, the Emancipation Proclamation, but they are too delicate to display for more than a few days each year.  Still, I was glad I got to see something, at least, that bore Lincoln’s own signature.

Time didn’t allow a visit to the National Gallery of Art, alas, but I did go through the sculpture garden.  Most everything in it sucked big time.  But they did have a Calder stabile, so that was nice.  One evening I took the Metro to the Dupont Circle stop and visited the Phillips Collection.  It’s an art museum in an old mansion in a neighborhood that now houses many of the international embassies.  I am very glad that admission was free, because I really only was interested in seeing one thing there.  I made a pretty weak attempt to imitate a painting, too.

So, I missed the National Cathedral, Cedar Hill, the Bureau of Printing and Engraving and the FDR Memorial.  The National Museum of American History and Ford’s Theater were closed, and my White House tour didn’t come through.  But I’ll go back someday.  Huzzah!

We left Gainesville on Tuesday morning before sunrise.  In fact, I probably slept only three hours the night before, and Miriam didn’t sleep at all.  We were at Gainesville Regional Airport by 5 AM, and in Chicago by 10 AM (Central).  Midway is apparently the neglected step-child of Chicago airports.  We took a shuttle bus into the city, and arrived at our hotel hungry.

To solve that problem we started walking, past the busy hot dog vendor in the plaza downstairs from us, and ate instead in Millennium Park, which is a magical place.  Many others were there to picnic as well.  The weather was perfect – in the low 70s and breezy with white fluffy clouds over head.  As we ate our hot dogs we listened to an orchestra rehearse Wagner.  From there we crossed the gardens and Grant Park, stopping at Buckingham Fountain (which is enormous), before arriving at the Field Museum.  I had visited the Field Museum when I was a child, but that was so long ago I can recall very little of it.  I doubt I loved it as much then, too.  Everything was amazing, including the T. rex, the plant and animal dioramas, the cases of minerals, and the building itself.  They even had a temporary exhibit about mythical creatures, including the Unicorn, and I got to touch a narwhal horn which was once presented as having come from the mythical beast.  As Jeff might say, I harnessed the power of the Unicorn.

After all that walking we stopped and had delicious iced novelties at a stand along Lake Michigan.  It was the best snow cone in history.  For dinner we took a cab up to the tourist-centric Navy Pier, but I was determined to ride a huge Ferris Wheel, and we did.  It was great.  The moon was rising over the lake, the skyline of the city was spectacular.  It was one of life’s perfect moments.

I spent most of Wednesday with Burt, who, unfortunately couldn’t come to town by train, and had to drive instead, spending what must have been a fortune to park.  But we had lunch together, then took the subway to the Shedd Aquarium and Adler Planetarium.  At closing time we went out and sat on some steps by the harbor.  The weather was splendid, but it was as bright as could be.  The city looked majestic.  Once Miriam was finished with her work activities we all had dinner at Giordano’s, right around the corner from our hotel.  It was delicious, and filling.  Burt had to be heading home, but Miriam and I walked over to Millennium Park again to listen to an orchestral concert.  We heard Respighi’s Pines of Rome.  There were so many people out enjoying the evening, and we decided to do the same, once again visiting the popular sculpture Cloud Gate, which everyone seems to love.

I had the next day to myself, and I spent the morning walking around the Chicago River and taking photos of the architecture.  Our hotel was right near the Wrigley Building and the Tribune Building, and just a stone’s throw from Marina City. Then I rode a bus down to the Museum of Science and Industry, which is on the south side of the city.  Along the way the bus passed by an amazing number of old townhouses with fabulous steps and doorways.  I was impressed how even at such a distance from the Loop district, great numbers of people live in high-rise buildings, each of which must have impressive views of the city skyline or the lake. I had been to the Museum of Science and Industry when I was a child, and I remember at the time looking through the periscope of the U-505 submarine and seeing an old car parked in an alley.  They’ve since moved the captured Nazi vessel to its own subterranean wing of the complex. The tiniest part of the exhibit made the biggest impact on me.  It was a metal identification badge with an eagle on a swastika, above which are the words “GOTT MIT UNS”.  What a disgusting claim.  The museum has the largest, and therefore coolest model train layout I have ever seen.  I played with it for a long time.  Proof that it is a big museum: the 727 suspended above the aforementioned train layout and full size locomotive. I stared at the Foucault pendulum for a long time trying to understand it, to no avail.  Admission was free; bus fare was only $2, and we passed Soldier Field on the way back.  In the evening we went out to dinner, then explored the theater district en route to see Wicked at the Oriental Theater.  It was a fancy place, and I was a bit surprised that I actually enjoyed the show a great deal.  Credit must be given to the lead actresses, especially Annaleigh Ashford who played Glinda.  I can’t imagine enjoying anyone more in the role (except, perhaps, Kristen Chenoweth, but that’s no surprise).  I have seen video of other actresses in the role, and I know I would not have liked the show as much had I seen someone else in the part. In any case, the story and feel were far enough removed from The Wizard of Oz that I never found myself comparing the two, which is good because nothing could live up to that standard, particularly Arlen and Harburg’s music.

Friday, the first day of summer, promised to be one of the best of my life.  I spend the morning doing more walking around, up Michigan Avenue with its lovely planters to the old Water Tower; along the river across its bridges; and to the Merchandise Mart. What amazes me about Chicago is how an Art Deco building like the Merchandise Mart can coexist with the nearby Gothic, French Renaissance, Structural Expressionist, Beaux Arts, Neoclassical and Chicago Style architecture.  Even the horribly ugly Daley Center is rendered less offensive by its proximity to much handsomer structures.  All I can say about the afternoon’s pilgrimage to Wrigley Field is that it was a dream come true.  It seems smaller in person, but is beyond a doubt the perfect place to watch baseball.  For the record, I paid almost $180 for two tickets in section 240, at the end of row 13; the paid attendance was 41,106; the Cubs beat the White Sox 4-3 off a home-run in the bottom of the 9th.  I was glad to call my dad during “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”.  We beat the crowd back to the Addison station and made our way via bus to a store called Penelope’s in a neighborhood near Wicker Park.  The shop girl explained the abundance of young people was due to the relatively low rent (her three-bedroom was $1,000/mo.)  Miriam bought some nice new clothes.  We rode the train back to the Loop and visited the Art Institute, where we saw many wonderful sculptures and famous paintings.  They even had furniture.  We got in one last evening walk before a late dinner.  The city still felt very safe at eleven o’clock, and the weather was cool and the sidewalks busy.

The next morning we met up with an old friend of Miriam’s, drove through the downtown one last time then had a delightful time at the Brookfield Zoo (gallery coming soon).  We stayed Saturday night at a great hotel nearer to O’Hare.  It was a much better value than the considerably more expensive Hyatt Regency on Wacker Drive. We spent all of Sunday travelling home, including what seemed like an eternity at Hartsfield-Jackson in Atlanta.  I was sitting on the wrong side of the airplane to get a good shot of Gainesville as were were descending, but I got this shot of Waldo Road.  We arrived home at six o’clock on Sunday evening after leaving our hotel at 6:00 AM that morning.  It was a tough day.

I love Chicago, and if it weren’t ludicrously cold for months on end I would want to live there.

 Maybe I just need more education.  I recognize that the more you learn the more you can appreciate things that once appeared to make no sense.  And I am apt to defend abstract music that others may call noise.  Towards the end of the semester, as I was leaving a class in the Music Building, there were a hundred identical metronomes set up on a brick wall, all clicking away at different tempi.  It was György Ligeti’s Poème Symphonique.  There are no actual instruments, and, by its very nature the music has a huge degree of unpredictability and every “performance” will be different; the metronomes swing back and forth until they stop, at different times depending on how much they were wound.  I wouldn’t compare it to the Missa Solemnis, but for what it is it’s okay. 

Of course, nobody can put a price on a hundred clicking metronomes.  And if they could, it wouldn’t be $86 million.

With 2004′s daylight robbery of the Munch Museum in Oslo fresh in my memory, this week’s theft of four Impressionist works from the Bührle Museum in Zürich has me enraged. A Cézanne, Van Gogh, Monet and Degas were snatched from the walls and tossed in a waiting van while the robbers held staff at gunpoint. Meanwhile, two Picassos were swiped last week.

Thank god the Munch masterpieces turned up relatively safe in the end, but you can never be sure what will happen to stolen art; these paintings are in danger.

What I don’t understand is how this can happen. Certainly, I do not wish that any bystander should risk their life fighting off an armed robber, but don’t these museums have any sort of security? The average Wal-Mart deposits less than a hundred thousand dollars per week, but they still send two armed guards in a bulletproof truck to pick it up. These paintings are worth over a hundred million dollars. Do you think that if a museum had a hundred million dollars in cash sitting on a table they wouldn’t have armed guards standing right there?  It’s not a difficult risk-management assessment to make.

We found easy parking along the west wall of the garden, and made our way inside where people were enjoying hot cider and cookies, and dancing to holiday songs sung live to a piano accompaniment. Almost immediately I saw people from my work whom I had no idea would be there. We chatted a while, then Miriam and I went upstairs and browsed the gallery of local art, and took particular interest in the historic photos of Gainesville. This history of this fair city is a special interest of mine.

Then, after some time, we made our way outside where we enjoyed still more refreshment, in the form of hot cocoa and chocolate chip cookies. All of the above was completely free. We paid $7 to take a ride in a horse-drawn carriage around the Duckpond, where the streets were lined with luminaries. It was wonderful, and everyone was so nice, though we covet their historic mansions. Then I got to pet horses.

Finally, it was dinner at Big Lou’s before heading home full of food and Christmas cheer. Gainesville really is great.

This weekend was the Downtown Festival and Arts Show, which takes place every year in November. Mrs. Hill and I have been many times, and this year’s was much like the others, with countless booths of framed photographs, handicrafts, paintings, sculpture, and so on. There was also an array of unhealthy carnival-style food, like funnel cakes, and a booth that had just about everything people usually eat, but in fried form. There was free cheese, and even Sonic was there.

What was fun about this year’s festival was seeing so many people we knew. Dan and Heather were there with Ayler, looking happy as ever, and our other friend named Heather was there with her boyfriend Brian, enjoying an unusual day off from his job at Sweetwater Branch. Plus, on our bike ride downtown, we saw Danielle, our hairdresser, watering the plants in her front yard, and we stopped and chatted.

The weather was perfect, the dancing was entertaining, and the Spammobile was there.

The suit alleges that the Stata Center is plagued by drainage problems and dangerous accumulations of snow and ice. Forgive my ignorance, but doesn’t the Massachusetts Institute of Technology have any engineers?

It serves them right as far as I am concerned. Walt Disney Concert Hall has received good reviews from people I know, and its design is certainly distinctive, as are many of Frank Gehry’s other museums and public spaces, but he seems to me to be marketing novelty over utility with many of his inhabited structures, to wit, the “Dancing House” in Prague and the Gehry Tower in Hannover. I hope the judge in this case laughs in the faces of M.I.T.’s lawyers and dismisses the suit. They should have known better.

Music can be a more satisfying cerebral experience if we let it move us physically. When we hear a chord we like in works by Sibelius or Mahler, our brains want to shout out “Yeah!” When an orchestra builds the timbral mass in Ravel’s Bolero, we want to break out of our seats and dance and show how good it feels. Stand up, sit down, shout, let it all out. As the managers of Lincoln Center contemplate renovations, I say rip out some of the seats and give us room to move.

Yes, Mr. Levitin’s thesis is that music, since the dawn of time has been inextricably linked with dance and jubilation, ergo, it seems unnatural to sit quietly with our hands crossed while listening to classical music in concert. “Most of us would be shocked if audience members at a symphony concert got out of their chairs and clapped their hands, whooped, hollered and danced — as people would at a Ludacris concert. But the reaction we have to Ludacris or U2 is closer to our true nature”, writes Mr. Levitin, seemingly with surprise. Defecation is closer to my true nature, so would that make it okay at a concert?

Mr. Levitin’s op-ed is littered with so many illogical statements it is astonishing that it was published in a major newspaper. His entire irrational argument, however, seems to be rooted in one faulty premise:

Music and dance have also always been a communal activity, something that everyone participated in. The thought of a musical concert in which a class of professionals performed for a quiet audience was virtually unknown throughout our species’ history.

That may be so, but novels and chess and open-heart surgery were virtually unknown throughout our species’ history. That doesn’t mean that the societal conventions that we have established vis à vis those activities are invalid. Cavemen painted pictures at Lascaux in the Paleolithic era, 16,000 years ago. It wasn’t until relatively recently that we hung paintings in public museums. Does that mean we should allow children to take crayons to the walls of the Uffizi? Of course not.

The facts are these: there are some activities for which our culture has prescribed standards of acceptable behavior; classical music is an inherently cerebral art which often requires considered attention be paid in order to appreciate its subtleties.

There is an overwhelming body of music that has been written with the expressed intent of inspiring dance. Enjoy it in whatever way makes you happy. But Sibelius and Mahler–just to cite Mr. Levitin’s examples–didn’t write dance music. Even Ravel’s Bolero–even Ravel’s La Valse–were composed as concert music, to be listened to by an audience seated quietly in chairs, tapping a foot, perhaps. Those gentlemen never imagined that people would one day be able to enjoy recordings in their own homes. For you dancing, hooting-types, shout your hearts out in privacy. But when you’re at a concert, keep still and shut the hell up.