Saturday Night Special

Ways of Seeing

Before going to the NY Phil’s Contact! last night at the Grace Rainey Rodgers auditorium, I figured I’d spend a few hours soaking up some culture in the rest of the Met Museum. I love museums, mostly as I know next to nothing about art, isms and the like, which means I can just shut off and absorb and not have to think like a critic. Yes, I went to the Met on a Saturday afternoon, and yes I went to the Met on a grey afternoon which means even my corners of solace were mobbed by tourists with cameras strapped around their necks and multifarious city guidebooks (including some from Time Out–noice!) in a myriad of languages. But, fueled by an $8 glass of wine and a $3 Crumbs cupcake from their American Wing cafe, we soldiered on through some favourite European spots into the modern wing. Which is where I was reprimanded by not one, but two guards on two separate occasions.

I consider myself fairly low-key, especially at museums. I walk, I don’t touch things, I take the odd photo if I find something particularly striking, but I generally only take them if there isn’t a giant No Photo sign. But I’m also young, which means I know nothing about art (or classical music). And I have an invisible neon sign on my forehead that invites trouble, just like Larry David. The first guard told me I was standing in front of a piece for too long and that I needed to “Move along.” Uh….okay? I thought the thing about museums was that you could go and spend the whole day looking at one piece. Hell, I spent 90 minutes staring when I saw my first Pollock. I thought she was joking at first. She wasn’t. So, Anish Kapoor, I’m sorry but I didn’t get enough time to contemplate your installation. I’ll try to sneak in another minute or so next time. Equally weird was the guard who told me I couldn’t point at a painting as my partner and I were discussing pointillism, noting the rippling effects of light created in the tiniest brush strokes.

So let me get this straight, Met: You want me to come to your museum. You’d prefer it if I paid full price instead of giving you a dollar or finding a button on the sidewalk outside and slipping that on. You then want me to buy as much stuff from your gift shop (which I once worked at) as I can carry. But I can’t look at or reference the stuff you have on display?

At least you guys give good concerts. Maybe we should just casually date again. No more weekends, just really dead quiet Wednesday afternoons from now on. I think I should start seeing MoMA and Brooklyn Museum on the side again, too.

However the Met was nothing compared to the post-Contact! errand running at the Strand. While not a literal translation, the interaction between me and the store was perhaps best illustrated by Julie Delphy in 2 Days in Paris (linked since embedding is disabled). I know you Stranders are hurting less than museums and other arts institutions, but you’re still a perfect example of what’s keeping people away. Hundreds of people would kill for your jobs, you few and proud bibliophiles who can sling paperbacks and tote bags for a pretty sweet salary. Just because you’re well-read doesn’t mean the world owes you anything, so stop acting like it–especially with people who want to buy your wares and continue to subsidize your paychecks. Since you have every book in existence in your flagship, check out Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential for a swift reality check.

And arts managers, do the same. If you don’t care, if you don’t want to be in your job, give it to someone who does, because they’re going to accomplish way more. Lead, follow, or get out of the way.

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