From New York With Love: The Frick Collection
The Frick Collection, New York. Photos by Joseph Coscia Jr., Nicholas Venezia and Olivia Merola
Dear Reader,
It wasn’t raining yet, but the heavy air flirted with the promise of a spring shower. As we wandered the winding paths of Central Park toward the Upper East Side, the city felt older somehow. Horse-drawn carriages passed without irony, and the willowing trees canopied the city skyline. It was like stepping into a not-so-distant memory—a version of New York just softened at the edges. We didn’t rush. Time moved differently that morning—not like the countdown-clock pace I’ve been stuck in lately, but something with more grace. Slower. With breath.
As we stepped out of the park onto Fifth Avenue and East 70th Street, the limestone mansion of The Frick Museum came into view—grand, quiet, and anchored in another century. The former Gilded Age residence stood like a memory, seemingly untouched by time. But of course, even memories require pruning. The museum reopened just weeks ago, in April 2025, its newly renovated spaces honoring the integrity of the original 1914 home, while gently ushering it into the present. It felt like nothing had been changed, only enhanced—that time was given room to settle rather than be replaced.
Wandering through halls washed in emerald green, dark wood, and gold-leaf frames, I felt surrounded by more than just paintings. The images breathed with the lives of those painted on them. French windows opened onto the revitalized 70th Street Garden overlooking the park, letting in a gentle light that felt both current and centuries old. Photography wasn’t allowed in most of the rooms, except for the Garden Court, which only deepened the historical feeling of the visit. The absence of the phones made everything quieter. More likely to forget what year it was.
I found myself drawn to the women. Their presence lingered in subtle glances, poised bodies, tired eyes, cradled children, quiet power. They felt connected—gazing not just at us, the passing spectators, but toward each other, across centuries. Virgin and Child (French, ca. 1390-1400) though saintly, also carried the weariness of a tired mother. Centuries later, Motherhood by Eugène Carrière echoed her in a soft, monochrome blur of browns and creams.
As I climbed to the second floor—now open to the public for the first time since the museum’s reopening—walking through them felt less like visiting a gallery and more like uncovering the private memory of a home.
I left the museum, and the earlier heaviness of the air had swelled into a gentle, warm drizzle. Naturally, I’d forgotten an umbrella. Channeling the women of The Frick, I pulled my denim jacket over my head—not quite a sacred cloak, but the gesture felt familiar. Maybe I was speaking to them from the 21st century.
The city moved as it always does, with a steady industrial hum, but the rain gave it a watercolor softness. I walked down 5th Avenue this time, no longer on the winding roads of the park, the concrete emanating that rainy-dirt smell that returned me back into the present. And here I was—the modern Madonna.
From the present—just barely,
Olivia
Virgin and Child, French, probably Burgundian, ca. 1390 - 1400 and Eugene Carriere, Motherhood, 1880s. The Frick Collection