Last Sunday was spent at the Guggenheim—an idea that I seemed to share with half of New York (likely the Fashion Week attendees who wanted to squeeze in a visit before jetting off to London)—so what I thought would be an hour of silence and solitude was actually one spent navigating flocks of black winter coats, with brief moments of observation squeezed between Excuse mes. No matter. People-watching is half the fun, anyhow, especially when two of those people include Lily van der Woodsen (or Kelly Rutherford, after a quick Google) and beau. (Gossip Girl has been out of sight, out of mind for nearly a decade until I saw Rutherford. How things have changed in just a few years; remember when Serena, Blair, and select company were the inspiration behind every fashion blogger’s Polyvore back in the day?) When I was able to make it through the crowds to read the fine, vinyl print, I skimmed just enough to understand the hullabaloo surrounding Hilma af Klint. To my untrained eye, Klint’s paintings seemed childlike—almost unrefined because of how abstract they were—but this was my own bias convoluting perception. I was (wrongly) comparing to what was familiar (the later works…