From the museum

“The Philadelphia Museum of Art is a house of artistic and intellectual prostitution.”

I do some work as the morning sunlight spills in, before visiting the Phoenixville public library to print out a parking slip and a Staples receipt.

At Staples, they don’t even look at the receipt. They tell me that they only accept responsibility for “technology” products for 14 days after sale. After that you have to speak to the manufacturer. They replace the faulty USB stick anyway, but I’ll not buy them in the US again.

Next stop, congested highways on the way into Philly. The drive takes over an hour, but I navigate the exit ramps and tram tracks to my parking space on N Front Street, handily located near the Fillmore. The box office opens at 12 and I’m the first person there to get a ticket for tonight’s Umphrey’s McGee concert.

It’s a beautiful day and I take off my jacket as I walk across the city to the museum of art. The route bypasses downtown, starting in the rundown industrial district of Fishtown, cutting along Brown Street through some modern, low-end housing schemes, before following Fairmount into more hip and affluent areas.

The current special exhibition is Old Masters Now, a sample of the John G Johnson collection, donated in 1917. He had over 1000 pieces, some on permanent display, and this exhibition showcases the breadth of his interests (http://www.philamuseum.org/exhibitions/864.html). There’s lots that doesn’t interest me, but still plenty that does - especially the Dutch Golden Age selection.

After the exhibition, I move on to the permanent galleries. It’s the hoard of more modern works that’s really what I come for (European 1850-1900& Contemporary). Matisse, Cezanne, Monet, Manet, Pissarro, Sargesnt, Van Gogh, Dali, Mondrian, Duchamp and so many others. Often, not just a single work, but whole walls or rooms.

I take a rest. Drink a coffee. The museum closes at five, but I take a walk around the second floor - earlier European works and Asian art. As well as paintings, there are sculptures, fountains, stone archways, tea houses. I can’t take any more in - and anyway, it’s time to leave.

Outside, on the Rocky Balboa steps, a horn player is busking the dusk. The notes pierce the cool evening, downtown posturing under a rippled grey sky.

I return across town to my car, exchanging jacket for jumper, then go to the Front Street Café for a Tostada Grain Bowl - a mountain of lentils, salad, radish and avocado, with a generous helping of pickled jalapeño.

Fortified, I go to the Fillmore for two bands I be never heard of. First up Hayley Jayne and the Primates - a short set with strong vocals and choreography. Then Umphrey’s McGee for two long sets of a prog rock, heavy metal, psychedelic fusion.

I’m buzzing. Culture shocked. Exhausted. Driving along dark, wet, deserted freeways listening to Lark’s Tongues in Aspic. I stop at a garage and buy a decaf and a chocolate bar, which I consume back on First Avenue before crumpling into bed.