So it was the Statue of Liberty’s birthday the other day—and I missed it.
Sorry, big copper statue that lacks a central nervous system and thus cannot feel bad that I neglected to wish it a happy birthday!
It may or may not (see the photo heading up this blog) surprise you that I fuckin’ love the Statue of Liberty. I have no idea why.
I did fall, hard, for New York City when I was a theatre-mad teenager, but my ardor was focused on Broadway, not the harbor. And yeah, my bitter little heart swells a bit at The New Colossus, but the poem wasn’t added to the site until 1903.
Maybe it was print of the magnificent work of the Pail and Shovel Party, submerging the Lady in Lake Mendota:
I’ve got a color print of the original incarnation (it’s since been recreated) that I’ve been meaning to frame and hang.
For all of my troubles in Madison, I loved the town and the university; maybe it was the merging of the two places (Montréal was yet to be for me) where I felt This is where I’m supposed to be that fixt the Statue in that bitter little heart.
Or maybe it’s just watching it get taken out in all of those disaster movies that made the impression.
Anyway, I’ve probably mentioned once or thrice before that I think the Statue is the bee’s knees, but why not use the occasion of missed birthday to once again send my regards to the Old Broad.