Yesterday at the Modernism Show at the Armory a tiny Yoko Ono in head of us in line, cap pulled down over her eyes, scurrying in to look at Deco jewelry and scurrying out with men on intercoms detailing her movements. In an era of the Revenge of Democracy she is another victim.

New York is claustrophobic in the extreme; all these exhibitions featuring the junk of the past, all the Sunday brunchers crammed into miniscule, boiling hot eateries. It makes you want to fly away into the fresh air and breathe. I know I can never live here forever.