First Saturday
There are days when I feel like I might as well live out in the middle of rural Wyoming for all the advantage I take of the opportunities in this city. And there are people who, I am convinced, can sense that train of thought from miles away, and use it as leverage to convince me that I really want to go to Brooklyn.
Mary, I'm talking about you.
Now, I haven't missed a subway stop since the first week I lived here, and I'm still kicking myself for Saturday night's snafu--but hey, who doesn't like wandering through entirely foreign territory in the dark on the dubious instructions of a cop who was clearly at least somewhat baffled by the question?
So I got to see the Mueck people, which I frankly found troubling, if only because 1) they were all so real, and 2) they were all so sad. And the fact is that I am unsophisticated in many ways that I like to think are charming, and one way is that I like pretty, but more than that, I like happy endings. I feel like a tortured face or a depressing twist is a creator's easy way in to counting as an "artist"--if the last few minutes of Casablanca had gone the other way, the rest of it would still have been exactly the same caliber of film, but no one would even remember its title. You make it sad, you make it art. And it's not fair, and I refuse to contribute to the fraud, so...
...even so, when the guy behind me started whining that the models weren't pretty, and shouldn't art be beautiful? I had to mentally draw the line. It's true that the sculptures aren't pretty (or happy), but they are extremely attractive/compelling. They are art. I am glad that I got to see them in the museum, and just as pleased not to have them in my home, you know?
So maybe the guy had a point, after all.
And the Annie Liebovitz exhibit was a lot of fun--particularly the side-by-side portraits of W. and Michael Moore, both with their respective posses. I'm sure that I was happier about the placement than either of them would be, but even the lovely technique failed to make either man seem especially likable. The massive landscapes ("I feel seasick," a woman murmured) and discreet sprinkling of celebrities would have charmed me even if that hadn't been the point at which I discovered that Andrea and Eric's water bottle did not contain water.
No wonder they were so gung ho about checking out the "dance party" in the 3rd floor hall--and really, how many chances do you get to dance to hits of the 30's-70's until 11:00 in the middle of a museum?
Actually, it's not quite as much fun as you'd think. We decided we would rather debate stalking, homelessness, and eugenics over sushi instead.
That's harder to do in rural Wyoming, I think. And that was what I had to keep me warm once I realized just how far apart Brooklyn and Washington Heights are in the middle of the night.
Mary, I'm talking about you.
Now, I haven't missed a subway stop since the first week I lived here, and I'm still kicking myself for Saturday night's snafu--but hey, who doesn't like wandering through entirely foreign territory in the dark on the dubious instructions of a cop who was clearly at least somewhat baffled by the question?
So I got to see the Mueck people, which I frankly found troubling, if only because 1) they were all so real, and 2) they were all so sad. And the fact is that I am unsophisticated in many ways that I like to think are charming, and one way is that I like pretty, but more than that, I like happy endings. I feel like a tortured face or a depressing twist is a creator's easy way in to counting as an "artist"--if the last few minutes of Casablanca had gone the other way, the rest of it would still have been exactly the same caliber of film, but no one would even remember its title. You make it sad, you make it art. And it's not fair, and I refuse to contribute to the fraud, so...
...even so, when the guy behind me started whining that the models weren't pretty, and shouldn't art be beautiful? I had to mentally draw the line. It's true that the sculptures aren't pretty (or happy), but they are extremely attractive/compelling. They are art. I am glad that I got to see them in the museum, and just as pleased not to have them in my home, you know?
So maybe the guy had a point, after all.
And the Annie Liebovitz exhibit was a lot of fun--particularly the side-by-side portraits of W. and Michael Moore, both with their respective posses. I'm sure that I was happier about the placement than either of them would be, but even the lovely technique failed to make either man seem especially likable. The massive landscapes ("I feel seasick," a woman murmured) and discreet sprinkling of celebrities would have charmed me even if that hadn't been the point at which I discovered that Andrea and Eric's water bottle did not contain water.
No wonder they were so gung ho about checking out the "dance party" in the 3rd floor hall--and really, how many chances do you get to dance to hits of the 30's-70's until 11:00 in the middle of a museum?
Actually, it's not quite as much fun as you'd think. We decided we would rather debate stalking, homelessness, and eugenics over sushi instead.
That's harder to do in rural Wyoming, I think. And that was what I had to keep me warm once I realized just how far apart Brooklyn and Washington Heights are in the middle of the night.
posted by Caroline | 12/04/2006 05:12:00 AM
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