SNAPSHOTS OF THE EDGARS AND NEW YORK

by Melodie Johnson Howe

James Lincoln Warren strode through the ballroom of black-clad guests wearing a white dinner jacket, his red silk handkerchief dripping from his chest pocket like blood.

It was nice to hear the acceptance speeches from the Edgar winners. Most were gracious, witty and thankful. But the show itself was without humor, and a few pontificating writers didn’t help the mood. Do the Edgars need an emcee?

Stephen Ross, who was nominated for Best Short Story, flew in from New Zealand. He’s a lovely man and I was glad I got to meet him. James put together one of his famous dinners at the Algonquin Hotel. Stephen, Steve Steinbock, Charles Todd, and Linda Lou Long drank, laughed, and swapped stories. I love it when men gossip. My lips are sealed.

And here is a photo of the infamous group and the legendary painting of the Algonquin Round Table writers

Sitting with Linda Landrigan and Janet Hutchings at the Edgars was an honor and a delight.

The weather was hot, muggy, rainy, and sunny. Lenore, whom I’ve known since we were thirteen, came up or down from Vermont and stayed with me. When I wasn’t doing business or Edgar-related festivities, we went shopping. We even had a Dior “make-over” at Saks. We bought lipstick and eye liner with the same enthusiasm and laughter we had when we were fifteen. Alas, I also bought some brushes and potions that at the time seemed absolutely necessary, but now that I’m home I don’t even remember what they are for or how to use them. Oh, and Lenore returned her lipstick.

We went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and saw an interesting if not exciting show of 19th century German and Danish paintings of the artists’ own rooms. Maybe it’s the writer/voyeur in me, but I love peering into windows and rooms, glimpsing not my life but someone else’s.

Then we took in the ever-dazzling impressionists, and I was reminded how much I like the so-called “minor” artists Villard and Bonnard. And how Monet’s haystacks thrill me more than his water lilies. And Degas’s sharp wry eye still grabs at my throat.

When we were leaving the museum I was also reminded why I love New York. It is a hard-edged, even cruel, city that is way too expensive. But it is bursting with enthusiasm and filled with the dreams of artists and writers.

The last night I was there Lenore and I walked to the theater (after we couldn’t get a cab) by way of Times Square. The square is an assault of neon commercialism and narcissism. It was so blatant and ugly that I longed for the old Times Square of hookers and peep shows.

I have to admit that, feted and sated, we both fell asleep during Tom Stoppard’s play, “Arcadia.” We left during intermission.

I’d like to end this column by saying we got the son-of-a-bitch Osama Bin Laden. Terrorism will not end, but he’s finished. America did not forget.