So last week I was feeling a little down. Work has been stressful. I have been juggling a lot outside work getting my next real estate project up and running. It’s been overwhelming, to be frank. But I was fortunate enough to have a professional development workshop at The Met to give me a little breather.
Anytime there is a workshop at a museum, we usually are granted passes to go see the exhibits. Most of the time though, I run out immediately after and head directly back to school to supervise the after school program. For some reason, last Thursday was different. I decided that it was okay to take some time for myself and stay and linger. I also decided I was going to go to parts of the museum that I haven’t been yet (which eliminated the Frank Lloyd Wright living room, one of my favorites). Boy am I grateful I had the intuition to stay. It definitely was the sort of self-care I that I needed, but didn’t realize I needed.
Now I'm not sure what other people think about when they are in art museums. I remember as a kid just not understanding why people would circle around, look at stuff quietly and read little blurbs on the wall. The whole thing seemed absurdly boring to me. Luckily now, I feel differently. I'm still not sure I'm doing it right or "getting the exact meaning" behind every work of art. But I enjoy feasting my eyes on cool stuff and I can certainly appreciate the craftsmanship, time and effort that has gone into each piece. In fact, that is what I marvel at the most.
The first section I headed towards was the Modern Art section. Having read The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt last year, I was curious to see if I could find it. Spoiler alert-- I couldn’t. Apparently it’s housed at The Hague in the Netherlands. And, on top of that, the particular section of the museum described in the book was roped off from the public. Another fail. But that’s cool because I definitely saw some amazing and unexpected pieces as I worked my way back there.
The first stop was this breathtaking room with an art deco painting that covered all four walls called the City Activities with Dancehall by Thomas Hart Benton. Anytime I see art deco, it reminds me of my mother-in-law because she loves that style. It is her aesthetic. It has grown on me over the years too partially because of her fervent love for it, but also because I was privileged to work in 30 Rockefeller Center for a few years when I first moved to New York. This painting very much reminded me of the Rainbow Room, the brass work of that building, and glamor of it all. And of course, who doesn't love The Great Gatsby, set smack dab in the heart of Art Deco's heyday? (By the way, if you don't love the Great Gatsby, we can't be friends, sorry. It will just never work).
This particular painting swept me away with the colors, the movement, the romanticism of it all. It left me hoping that this decade could be as lively as the roaring 20’s a century ago, minus the crash at the end of course (although, history will probably repeat itself there, too). I definitely creeped into one of those tours, hoping the docent wouldn’t notice me. Which she did not, whew. It was pointed out that the artist included himself, his wife and his child sitting on his own knee in the corner of the painting because he wanted the legacy of his work, which included his family, to last forever. It left me wondering, what's my legacy going to be? Do I even have one yet? What will I create that lives on beyond me? Or will I even be able to create something that lives beyond my time here?
Then as I moseyed along (cause that's what you do in an art museum, you mosey, right?) I came up to a piece that, despite being painted in 1928 by Edward Hooper, was immediately recognizable, titled From the Williamsburg Bridge. I thought well, I'll be damned! because this view hasn't changed one bit. I can't tell you how many times I walked over that bridge, especially in the four years I worked on the Lower East Side and lived in Williamsburg, and I can say with total and utter shock that despite the almost 100 years of urban development, this little snippet withstood the test of time. Perhaps that is because the artist chose to focus on what many would consider an insignificant little vignette. He didn't paint the full bridge including the cityscape in the background, which would timestamp when the painting was created. Instead he focused only a more universal, and difficult to pin down shot. A simple sliver of the bridge at the bottom with the main focus reserved for the view of the tenement houses' flat roofs meeting the sky. For true New Yorkers, it's like he is letting you in on an inside secret. The moment you spot this image, for those who are "in the know" they can pinpoint exactly what bridge it is and revel slightly in the fact that despite all the griping about "change" and "development" in the city, somethings truly do remain authentically, and genuinely New York forever.
Around the corner I was drawn to a painting that reminded me of Mr. Big and Carrie's intended wedding, you know, the one that was supposed to happen moments before it is called off in the first Sex and the City Movie? Only this painting seems to capture the what should have happened that day, had Mr. Big's not gotten cold feet in his fancy, leather patent shoes. The piece was titled The Cathedrals of Fifth Avenue and was painted by Florine Stettheimer in 1942. The dress reminded me of Carrie's daring fashion choices which she alone seems to be the only person in the universe capable of pulling off. And the color scheme utilized by the artist seemed to capture and embody the glamor of her life and all of her "pops of color." The image was romantic, and over the top. All that was missing were Miranda, Charlotte and of course Samantha, there to cheer her on.
But of course, I realize this painting had nothing to do with Sex and the City at all. Hmm. Interesting...
After being smittened and seduced by the lure of New York all over again through these three paintings, my eyes were immediately assaulted by some darker images of my adopted city. The seediness left me a bit uneasy because I also was quite familiar with her alter ego as well.
A painting which I don't know the name and couldn't find on the Met's website (and yes, I should have taken a picture of the blurb so I know, help!) stopped me dead in my tracks because it was too relatable and ominous. It encapsulated what I was feeling that day and to be honest, right now in my current career. This image was an exact reminder of the reason why I needed an afternoon off to meander through an art museum to unwind in the first place. This dreaded feeling of being professionally trapped, tightened in my chest as I empathized with the men stuck in the cubicles, peering out anxiously. Although I don't work in a cubical, and my job isn't as monotonous as this, there are parallels. Education has a predictable and rigid cycle each year. And it has an overwhelming amount of bureaucracy that preaches innovation but clings fiercely to traditional hierarchy and outdated, arguably ineffective for certain populations of students, systems and structures. Navigating that each day erodes my soul. The longer I stay in public education the more infuriating it becomes and simultaneously the more numb and removed I become from it. I never wanted to end up in a position where I was that burnt-out-teacher, reliant on my 8-2:20 job for stability and a sense of identity. The steady paycheck lured me in and got me comfortable. But recently, I realized if I'm really honest with myself, I need a change. I recognized the deep pull within me to break out of that rut. Oh god, please don't have me end up being a little eye peering out of a hole day in and day out!
After that tailspin of panic in my mind, I kept it moving, quickly. That painting hit too close to home. Show me another painting, any painting for goodness sake!
It wasn't long before my eye caught this remarkable piece titled the Apartment Houses, Paris by Jean Debuffet in 1946. It also was dark, but a in a good way. It reminded me of a night I had in Paris when I was backpacking solo years ago. I was insistent on not using a map and just popping up off the metro anywhere and walking. I ended up in one of those neighborhoods devoid of tourists (for obvious reasons) and just walked and walked. It wasn't the Paris of my dreams, or in any way the sexy Paris we conjure up in our minds, but it was the Paris of reality for many. That experience stuck with me. I'm not sure why to be honest, but it did and this painting brought me back to that moment.
What drew my eye to this painting, besides the gray and black tones, was the texture of it all. No photo can do it justice. I wanted to reach out an touch it, but I didn't of course, because even I know that would be inappropriate (see? #adulting folks). These buildings were like none other. The "grimy" sense of them was intriguing. This couldn't be paint, or at least not paint alone because the way the buildings jutted out from the canvas were bumpy, and rugged. What the hell was that I wondered? Upon reading the plaque next to it, it mentioned that the medium was a mixture of "charcoal and sand" (if I remember correctly). I have since thought of that painting every day and pondered how I could attempt to create a painting for this huge blank spot in my living room, using the same medium. Literally. I'm not joking. I have thought of it every. day. since. Maybe that will be a project I do in #2020theyearofCreating?
Then I got to an image that you can probably see why it spoke to me if you read my previous blog post on investing. It's titled Gala Eludard by Max Ernst 1924. To me it looked like a dude with money floating out of his head. His forehead was a scroll of paper peeling forward. Did that make him shallow? If so, uh, oh! I must be shallow too cause I think about money a lot. His eyes seemed to be startled. It's jarring. I pray for this guy. Hope he has good medical insurance? He's gonna need it with his head peeling like that...
Finishing up that section I then wanted to seek out those super luxurious European rooms that were rescued from demolition. I had heard about them before and was in need of feeling a little "bougie". You also know my love for decor, architecture and solid craftsmanship. I can honestly say, that second did not disappoint. It was like stepping back in time. The tapestries, the moulding work, even the flooring was unbelievably elaborate. Having some experience working on houses myself, I marveled at how they were able to reclaim all these items, including the walls and flooring, and then reinstall and refurbish them an entire continent away from where they were originally located. I mean the sheer logistics of that is nuts! But thankfully they did because I enjoyed the hell out of stepping back in time, albiet inappropriately dressed of course, and feeling as though I had just sauntered into a parlor as a prominent guest to an estate. I think I need an official title now? Eh? Duchess of Clinton Hill?
Then noticing the time, and the need to return to the 21st century, I figured I should probably start heading home. As I started weaving my way in the direction of the exit, or at least what I thought was that direction, I came across an exhibit that caught my eye. Well, let me be completely frank, the blue focal wall with the black and white prints is what drew me in. They popped. What a perfect display! And I thought what harm would it be if I just checked out one last exhibit?
The exhibit is a limited one titled Félix Vallotton: Painter of Disquiet and the piece that drew me in was a series of block prints entitled Intimites by Felix Vallatton which were fantastic. They were little glimpses of rendezvous that ranged from intimate and romantic, to intriguing, to questionable. Apparently these little wood block prints are the originals and the only prints that were actually made. The artist destroyed the blocks immediately afterwards to ensure that no one could duplicate them. What a clever metaphor for how these trysts existed in real life. These little stolen a way moments were highly situational and only conjured up out of set of super specific dynamics between two lovers (or in some cases, non-lovers). Each encounter, only existed in that single moment before it vanished entirely, well, apart from the memories that lingered in the minds of the two individuals involved.
So there you have it! That was my day at #TheMet. I left inspired, rejuvenated and my creative juices were definitely flowing. I'm not sure what other people think about when they visit art museums, perhaps they have a much more sophisticated thought process that me. But it doesn't really matter because I had fun and I definitely felt a need to do that more often, especially considering I live in freaking New York City!
And one quick tip before I go: take pictures of all the names of the paintings you like as you visit them. It literally took me HOURS of research to find them afterwards on their website because I literally didn't take a split second to do that. Epic fail. I will say though, a side benefit was that as I was looking for those specific items online, I came across a lot of other cool pieces that I didn't have a chance to see, but which inspired me even more. So I guess it all works out in the end, eh?
And for the love of god, if anyone knows or can find out the name to the one painting I couldn't locate, I would forever be grateful if you would leave it in the comments section!!!! I might even consider naming my next dog after you, which is a very coveted honor in my household!
Happy meandering,
Mack