Anyone who knows me well knows that I am not a fan of art museums. The truth is, art of any kind bores me to tears. I didn’t grow up surrounded by fine art. My mom bought artwork to match the carpet. And, my father once expressed an interest in “some really nice velvet paintings at the gas station.” Now, when it comes to “serious” art, I can stare at paintings of fruit bowls and hundreds of different interpretations of Jesus’ crucifixion for only so long. I just feel that my time could be better spent anywhere else than in a dimly-lit art museum. Or, as I recently discovered, better spent anywhere else than in a well-lit, famous art museum.

This summer, Tim and I spent a few days in New York. We were in town to see Bruce Springsteen on Broadway. We went in a day before the show so we could enjoy the crowds, smell, dirt, sidewalk urine and death defying crosswalks of Manhattan. The fact that the heat index was hovering somewhere around a stifling 94 degrees didn’t sweeten the cityscape. I couldn’t tell if my sneakers were melting into the sidewalk or if it was just caked urine on the soles. In any event, the morning we got there we found ourselves huddled under a small shade tree on 6th Avenue consulting our “Find Fun Things in NYC” app. “Hey, Tim said, We’re close to West 53rd. We could go the Museum of Modern Art.”

“I’d rather stand under this tree until the Springsteen show,” I replied.

“The show isn’t for another 34 hours.”

“I’ll wait. I have a bottle of water and a protein bar.”

Unfortunately, I lost that argument and once I got my sneakers freed from the sidewalk I followed Tim to the museum.

As “luck” would have it the MOMA (that’s how cool NYC museum people refer to it) was hosting a special photography exhibit that I thought might actually not bore me. I have always blamed my lack of interest in art on my short attention span. Ironically, I can easily spend two to three hours in the office supply aisle in Target without ever getting bored. Now, in order to get up to the photography exhibit we had to pass through numerous other galleries, including the metal sculpture room. Everything in that room was perched on pedestals. Most of the stuff looked like the “what the hell are these parts for?” table in my dad’s garage. Although, I was intrigued by the big, gold shiny lima bean that distorted my face when I got close to it. However, after 30 seconds of seeing what my out of proportion duck face looked like, I was ready to move on.

As we moved on we walked through gallery after gallery of strangeness. One room had nothing but large canvas panels of muted ivory and cream colored stripes. “Is this gallery sponsored by Wamsutta?” I asked Tim, “because I used to have sheets in this exact pattern. And this size too.” I felt like I’d already seen this exhibit on the bed and bath floor at Macy’s. In that same gallery I found this painting.

As you can see, like me, either the artist or the museum curator thought it was garbage. One of the more puzzling displays was enclosed in circular black curtains. Inside the curtained room was what looked like black bowling pins of various sizes hanging from wires. It reminded me of hanging salami in an Italian deli. There was no description or title of this “art.” I had a fleeting thought that maybe I wandered into a curtained off area that was under construction. To add to the ridiculousness, there was a uniformed security guard standing inside. I assume he was there in case someone had a burning desire to steal some black bowling pins (of various sizes).

It’s not that I think people who understand and appreciate modern art are more enlightened than me. It’s that I think they’re suckers. Take for instance the furniture section. Trust me, you won’t see any of this stuff at Art Van. Most of the furniture pieces were spindly, uneven, three legged torture chairs. Except for this one. All I could think of was that my Aunt Kay would have had a hell of a time covering that chair with plastic. I overheard some people standing near it making comments like “conceptual, intuitive, purposeful.” I don’t know what I missed, but those were not words that even entered my brain. To me it just looked like a chair made from giant tampons. I would have called it Monthly Necessity.

 

 

Also in the furniture gallery I found this unique piece.

Look closely, it’s just a tangled mess of wire hangers. An homage to Joan Crawford, I guess. I didn’t need to come all the way to the MOMA to see jumbled wire hangers. I see this same sculpture every time I drive by the dumpster behind the One Hour Martinizing on the corner. Enlightened art enthusiast or sucker?

When we finally made it to the photography gallery, the first exhibit we encountered were two walls completely covered with photos of women in various stages of giving birth. There must have been close to a thousand photos captured in different mediums. Black and white, Polaroid, 70s faded, and even some in living Kodak color.  All were taped to the wall. All were gross. I saw parents hurrying their children past this graphic display of vaginal openness. Who takes these photos? Who collects them? Who thinks they’re art? I could have lived the rest of my life without ever having seen that display of crowning heads, tangled limbs and umbilical cords spilling out of some strange woman’s woohoo.

Needless to say, we hurried through the photography exhibit. The top floor was one that I felt much more comfortable in. In fact, Van Gogh’s Starry Night was on display.  It looked much better than the one I got at Pier One Imports. At least on the top floor there were artists that I’d heard of and paintings that made sense. I was especially taken with the paint splatters of Jackson Pollock and Picasso’s odd view of what women look like. Two eyes on one side of the face. A nose precariously dangling off a cheek. Jawlines with right angles sharper than a knife. After studying these paintings some of the women started to look familiar. And then it hit me.  They looked like most Hollywood actresses after plastic surgery! Picasso – not so odd anymore.

Our last stop was to the outdoor garden sculptures. There was a snowman in an ice chest, a yellow Virgin Mary that everyone was taking selfies with and this. Is it a droopy seven? A kicking leg with no body? Something that fell off the roof? I have no idea. All I know is that by the end of our visit I was tired, my feet hurt and all I wanted to do was plop down in the giant tampon chair and wait for Bruce Springsteen.

###