The kid could have come to class wearing Adidas snap pants (see left) and a hoodie (which he did often) or a three piece suit (which he did once) – no matter what he wore, he looked beyond good. Just thinking about it I am still amazed as to how clothes just hung the correct way off his body. Luckily he sat behind me, and though I looked forward to spending three hours with him (and the other 299 kids in the lecture hall) every Wednesday of that semester, I would not have been able to concentrate with him anywhere in my peripheral vision. Yes, I am literally admitting that I was more worried about my grades and would only allocate flirting time to our mid-class break or pre-and-post class interaction. (Cool Kid – Table for one, please) And though just his smile could make me swoon, it was never enough of a justification for me to give in and do his homework, thus ending our courtship of any extracurricular attention with the exception of the occasional liquid bribe when our paths would cross down on Main Street.
Prior to that fateful PR class, the word ‘Tate’ sent chills up and down my spin – and not in the giggly junior high way that the frat boy did. The word ‘Tate’ would float past my ears, into my psyche and would take me back to the Tate Modern Museum in London, England. I was lucky enough to spend 10-days in London with my sister just after graduating from high school. The trip was probably the best of my life … except for Tate Modern day. TBS (the big sister) is a bit of an art buff and was more than excited to try to get me to feel the same way. We were supposed to gain a bit of culture that day by taking in the sites and experiencing something outside of our element; to this day I understand what she was trying to do, but the only thing I gained was the knowledge that modern artists were crazy and possessed some sort of thinking that was way more existential than I was capable of. When I close my eyes I can still see the Erection Machine (tEM); a fully working piece of art complete with wires, bells, whistles and a penis that would rise every hour on the hour. At 18, I had never seen anything, let alone ‘art’, with that much detail and it would become the straw which broke this camels’ back. Actually, it was the piece de resistance that would shut me up for a solid five hours. tEM was stationed in one of the entrance galleries and upon seeing it my stimulation overload would prevent me from speaking. Hell at that moment in time I was virtually incapable of all logical thought. Looking back, if I had to describe the Tate Modern, I can say, without a doubt, I was Alice, the Tate was Wonderland, and tEM was my hookah bearing caterpillar. Upon leaving Wonderland, TBS, who was impressed one structure could send this chatterbox into a sedated state, bought three pounds of Turkish cherries - who knows if it was her intent or not, I ate every last one of them and would not speak until I spit the final pit.
With this history it must be surprising that I decided to visit my local metropolitan art museum today, but sans Turkish cherries I took the plunge and attempted to get a bit of culture into my life. If memory serves me correctly, there is a Sex And The City episode which opens with Carrie, head to toe in Dior, attempting to visit the Met just because she lives in NYC and can. More or less I was channeling my inner Carrie and did the same, except the building was open, in her case, her visit came on an off-day.Somehow, I managed to cause trouble the moment I stepped into the building. Apparently backpacks are not allowed in the art museum. For whatever reason they have been outlawed and being the rebel that I am, I dared to swing my black Gucci knockoff over my shoulders and was immediately told of my rule breaking. I smiled at the elderly woman, apologized for my indiscretion, and though it was not all that fashionable, was allowed to proceed with the straps on the crook of my arm.
The first gallery I entered was three connecting hallways displaying “Inner Space”. I should have known this was going to be an adventure in culture because as I admired a photo of Jackie Robinson in a suit I was distracted.
It took a second glance to notice he was on the phone, in what might have been his study, focusing more on a baseball he was tossing than the conversation which was taking place. The discrepancy that set me off was the frame. Some of the photos were displayed in clean, shiny metal frames, while others in the hallways were mounted on the walls by way of old shotty looking wooden frames. Ugh. Can we say tacky? Plus, there was a couple who continuously walked in front of whatever I was looking at. I had an overwhelming feeling of wanting to go Chuck Norris on their khakie and croc clad arses and had to move along. On the next level, I found myself in the modern gallery’s. There is something way more inviting when looking at works by Andy Warhol and Jackson Pollock.
Though I may not fully understand black strokes on a white canvas or a three dimension Brillo pad box, I am very aware it is not an erecting penis and for that I am grateful – nor hungry – nor silent. I did come face-to-face with several candidates for the Tate Modern (i.e. Jim Dune’s “The Sickle” or Rona Pondick’s “Cat), but for the most part the afternoon was a fairly entertaining way to pass the time. In the event someone else would like to visit a museum in the near future I would like to offer these insights:
1. Don’t even bother with a purse. Most museum’s offer free admission – though they will ask you for a donation to park. If you would like to purchase anything from the gift store, items are not cheap, and most normal people would not carry enough cash with them to purchase anything worth displaying. Personally, I found a sweet silver ring with a spectacular topaz design in the center upon examining the price tag I came to the realization that I had entered a Tiffany & Co. showroom. I know that I am oblivious to the world around me, but c’mon.
2. Don’t let the geriatric ‘guards’ fool you – they will lay the smack down. Everywhere I looked there was a volunteer from the retirement home in brown pants and a navy blue blazer. Each was given a walkie-talkie and a name badge. I am guessing the former was to inform each other when a suspicious looking intruder (read: me, despite being dressed in head to toe in BR. Maybe it was my pearls that
screamed “Watch out, she is going to try to steal something!”)was within round house kicking distance. I honestly had one of the geriatric guards yell at me for writing in GASP ink while in a gallery and proceeded to give me a pencil. Another, and he was my favorite, looked like the grandpa from Sixteen Candles, and yelled "Hello!" not to me, but at me as I entered his domain. At that moment, I swore if Long Duck Dong came out from behind a painting I. WAS. OUTTA. THERE!
