The Met

Assumption incoming…we’re all predisposed to art. Whether it was the still life fruit at your grandparents’ house, the rolling country fields, or the weird prints hanging in mid-tier hotels your family stayed at when you were a kid, art has been around you.

You might not know who Mondrian or Matisse are, but you’d recognize their work. Or the opposite, you’ve heard of Picasso or Chagall but wouldn’t know their paintings unless someone pointed them out. Point is, that’s okay. I’m the same. My art history is, at best, elementary. But like anything else, you either have a feeling for it or you don’t.

You can walk past the same artwork for years and not notice. Then one day, someone tells you the story of the artist or how rare the piece is and suddenly you give it an extra second. Better yet, you start telling others. That was me with Martin Selig’s Botero, fat and naked in the courtyard of our office building for years before I actually looked at it.

Fast forward—think of an NYC subway racing to your stop. It’s Friday in Manhattan, August, warm but not hot. You take the 6 to 57th and Lexington, walk a couple blocks to Museum Mile (The Met, Museum for African Art, Museum of the City of NY, Guggenheim, National Design Museum, Goethe Institute…to name a few). Tonight Ashley and I did the Met. Yes, that Met—the Vogue Met Gala Met.

Since we have a NYC place, admission is a suggested $30 each. First thing, this is not the Frick Collection (though they share some artists - love you, Frick). The Met is huge: modern to ancient, native to European to Asian and African arts. We started zig-zagging through galleries, quick at first. Once you’ve seen one naked Greek statue, you’ve seen them all, right?

We teleported between the Middle East, British art, and contemporary pieces, eventually landing in the American Art section. We slowed down. The enormity of what we were breezing by, making inside jokes- shifted. There was George Washington (also referenced in the Frick piece). Suddenly the little details started to matter: insanely intricate Greek marble carvings, the delicate Asian and Middle Eastern pottery and mosaics, the emerging simplicity of American architecture as the nation was forming.

In the Modern Art wing, I saw my first Edward Hopper, famous for “Nighthawks,” that moody diner painting. This hit me only in retrospect, after crisscrossing the museum. While there, I spotted Liza Banks, NYC art personality, follow her if you like having your own private museum guide. She didn’t see us; she was deep in what Ashley and I called “the witch doctor section” (yes, like the song). Around the corner were several Thomas Hart Benton paintings 'America Today' which I’d seen Liza post about earlier. And there we were, standing in front of them. That’s when the Met really started to take hold.

We retraced our steps: European masters, futuristic African interpretations, Middle Eastern treasures, back to the Greeks, right where you enter from E. 81st Street. Ashley combed through bronze and marble statues looking for Marcus Aurelius. She’s a practicing Stoic (I think that’s what you call it?). We found him, along with his wife and several Greek philosophers she’s been reading.

By then, we were full of the Met. We said goodbye and headed out. Story’s not done, we’re doing Summer Streets tomorrow from top to bottom, but that’s for another time.

On the way home, we stopped by Ashley’s favorite spot, Tavern on the Green in Central Park, and I finally saw The Dakota, which I’d only read about or seen in documentaries.

The Met is a super-sized gallery. Galleries aren’t for everyone, but if you give yourself the time—get the jokes out, rush through, then retrace - you’ll leave knowing just a little more than when you walked in.