Please Bring Your Kid To A Museum

There is something that I hear young American parents often say:

"Children don't like art museums. They get bored."

This bothers me. Kids will engage with anything they're presented with. At least that's been my experience.

Parents often seem to think that the only suitable museum for a child is a zoo, a children's museum, or a natural history museum, anything with big stuffed animals and dinosaur bones and designated play areas. There, they can explore with their hands, jump up and down, and engage in imaginary play. Adults seem to insist that kids respond best when engaging in creative play, in surroundings that are tailored to prime color schemes and mass-marketed cartoon characters. They dismiss every possible notion that flat paintings and bronze sculptures not meant for touching will hold little interest to a small child.

Ahem. I ask of you, then, why and how is it that European children happily walk around galleries with their parents, absorbing and processing the contents of great museums? Delightful three-year-old French children glance up at portraits and exclaim things like, "A lady in a red hat like mama's!" or "That dog looks like Fido!" or "This is Grandpa!" There might even be a tiny little pointed finger at a pastel-y Renoir and a "Pretty!" soon to follow.

Take, for example, this kid who was with his mom and brother. I was trying to get him out of my frame, but when I couldn't, I just gave in. He was focused on completing a worksheet that a MoMA docent had made available to children. His mother engaged both brothers in an animated discussion of the art hung around the walls of this particular gallery. After a few minutes, one brother skipped over to the leather ottoman in the center of the room and got to work on his worksheet. His little brother soon followed. And guess what? The kids were not a bit bored. They answered their mother enthusiastically, pointing this way and that, sometimes getting up to show the other brother what they were talking about. I left the gallery after close to fifteen minutes and would later catch glimpses of the trio as I made my way between the other galleries. The boy pictured here was probably 6, maybe 7. His brother was closer to 4.

It's called observing, processing, connecting objects and memories, extracting and exchanging data based on visual cues, identifying and articulating a human emotion or experience. It's not play-doh, a ride down a slippery slide, or a toy car with wheels that go vroom vroom. But you know what? For a half hour, maybe an hour, when a child is well-rested and fed, a casual walk around a museum gallery or two can be an enriching, invigorating, and stimulating experience. I'm not saying that it can replace the playground or a swimming pool or a skiing lesson - I'm saying that exposure to and the chance to absorb what's offered inside museum walls is well within the reach of a child's capacity for engagement.

Of course I can say this because I'm not a parent. And maybe parents are less willing to risk a possible meltdown in the middle of an echo-y chamber than I am. But honestly, I've yet to see a single meltdown in any of the museums I frequent. European children are not only well-behaved, but actually seem to enjoy their visits. I'm curious as to why American parents so readily scoff or balk at the idea.

Twenty-Four Hours

They say that a fly lives for twenty-four hours, but I don't think that's true because one kept me company for several days last week. Three, to be exact.  No matter how many gentle wind currents I artificially created with magazines hastily pulled from the recycling bin, I could not get the little bugger to take flight through an open window. After a lifetime of squishing whatever critter was bothering me, all of a sudden, I couldn't.  This one hung out quietly, minding his own business and never once getting in my way. Every time I thought about taking a newspaper to him, I just couldn't do it.  It seemed cruel.

Each day, I would walk into the apartment and within minutes, I'd catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye.  It was like he was saying Hey, what up, man?  A long enough appearance to let me know that he's still around, but that he'd give me my space. With each passing day, I'd see him flying closer to the ground, his flight pattern just a little less zippy than the day prior.  I wondered if I should feed him somehow.  Ridiculous, I know.

I still haven't found him. I'm feeling rather sad about it.  He got stuck in this little hole of an apartment, away from all his friends, and expired somewhere all by his lonesome surrounded by nothing more than stale Manhattan apartment air.  It would have been so much better if he were outdoors, somewhere peaceful, like the Sculpture Garden at MoMA.

I'm not sure why I'm feeling sad about a fly, of all things.  Part of me hopes that he doesn't show up in my dustpan a week from now, that he somehow snuck out quietly into the hallway and onto the elevator, back out to the open city.  Because, you know, they say that a fly lives for twenty-four hours, but that's clearly not true.

Friday.  21 June.  2013.

The Things I Do

Surely, I'm not the only one who opened her front door this morning expecting to see the weekend paper.  Oh, man.  I'm still feeling a little sore about it.

Met rooftop.
27 May.  2013.

James Turrell

The Guggenheim washed me in violet, red, and yellow hues.  And then I almost threw up.  Sexy.

Guggenheim. Saturday. 22 June. 2013.
What you see here is an illegal (I didn't know. The museum usually allows pictures from the ground floor of the atrium!) shot looking upward, toward the skylit domed roof of Wright's famous round building, only the light source at the top is artificial and part of the James Turrell installation.  The installation is a beast, fitting just inside the perimeter of the museum's rotunda that, as some of you may know already, is formed by a long looping ramp that wraps around to the top. The installation, in other words, was hugely tall.

Despite its height, with all the people inside the newly narrowed width of an atrium area which I was accustomed to being much wider, I felt uncomfortable.  When the feeling of nausea intensified instead of dissipating as it usually does, I made my way to the exit hoping to explore the space behind, on the ramps of the museum.  That's when I found myself standing in a tiny walk space created by the exterior of the Turrell installation on my left and sterile-looking white walls to my right.  I felt like I was trapped inside a windowless sanitarium.  People were disoriented, unsure of where to go with no signs to direct visitors.  My stomach flipped, I tasted something that I would have liked to stay put in my stomach, and gave into the reality that I really must be claustrophobic.  So out into the summer sun I escaped.

If you don't mind closed, windowless spaces, this could be a very cool experience. It's around until the end of September, but if you ask me, I can't wait until the museum reverts back to its open atrium!

Eggleston

There is a set of amazing, new-to-me photographs on view at the Met right now.  This William Eggleston fellow, do you know his work?  Because his photographs stopped me in my tracks.  His tones are remarkably vibrant, saturated, and crisp.  His subjects are muted, but not as reserved as you'd think; they are not so intense as they are real.  His images capture so much of what I associate with America, its people, its places, its iconic materials.  How is that possible?  According to the plate next to this print, he took this the year I was born, but far away in another part of the country entirely.  Louisiana was no Pennsylvania, I'm sure.  And yet, the table caddy branded with the familiar red Winston logo brought me right back to the days I slunk away at my parents' Germantown dry cleaners.

I'd frequently be sent around the corner to fetch my dad his cigarettes.  One day, even though the lady recognized me, she sent me back to get a signed note from my father giving permission to let his daughter make the purchase on his behalf.  The handwritten paper slips worked for a while, but turned useless once the law forbade sales of cancer sticks to minors.  My lazy pops had a hard time registering this turn of events when I came back empty-handed one day.  But it worked out in the end because when he went, he'd sometimes stop by the Gold's Gym next door where they had a freezer full of real-fruit frozen treats.  On those days, he'd return with a strawberry for me and coconut for him.

At the Met. (Pardon the graininess.  Photo taken on my phone.)

Carry On

I know this sounds unimportant and trite, but I am impossibly tired right now.  I feel hungover and if I'm honest, a bit loopy.  I was up until 3:30 working late on Tuesday night and then working late again until 5:30 last night.  Not enough sleep is a bitch, yo.  I don't remember the last time I sunk into my pillow as the sky woke up. This must be what it feels like caring for a newborn, only add to that your lady bits healing and your breasts feeding that newborn and well actually, no, I guess I'm wrong - that's probably much more trying than my current state of exhaustion.

This morning, thrilled that it was finally Friday but unable to scrounge up the willpower to act like an adult, I did something that I'm rather shameless about sharing here: I opted out of my daily shower in exchange for fifteen more minutes in bed.  That all the senior folks were out of the office attending a conference several time zones away was all the justification I needed.  When I finally stepped into the shower tonight, I turned the knob to the maximum hot water setting.  I drowsily leaned against the tiled wall.  After a few minutes, I turned my back to the water and sat down in the tub.  It felt odd sitting there facing the back wall, but I was off my feet which felt heavenly.  Before long, I closed my eyes and let the steaming stream pelt my back.  I massaged my neck, in the best way one can manage on her own.  I could have sat there all night.

And now that I've deliberately stayed awake for as long as I have, midnight is finally near, which seems like a reasonable time to turn in so that I might awake refreshed, bright and early for my day tomorrow.  Saturdays are my hardest days, but they are also days when I witness a lot of good people doing good things.  Especially this week, with all that's been going on, it seems right that this is how my week will end.  On the train home tomorrow evening, I know I'll be spent and maybe even unusually quiet from the tiredness, but I'll also have spent the day being reminded that among humans, as ruinous and harmful as some may be, there are also those, too, that carry on with the radiance of love and kindness and respect.

Entrance to the Met.

Defiance Pays

At the Guggenheim.
Friday.  22 March.  2013.

A short, round, elderly lady with a heavy accent scolded me when she saw me raise my phone to take this photo.  But because she didn't make eye contact as she delivered her tired speech in a dull monotone, I went ahead and tapped my phone's screen anyway as I paid her some lip service.  "Oh, I'm allowed from the ground floor only?"  [Click.]  "You got it."

I'm so glad I was in a defiant mood that day because I just opened the picture on my desktop and the first thing I spotted was the couple on the bottom right.  Too cute!  It's the best when I capture silly antics without even knowing it.

Chuck Is Right

Before I head out on Saturday mornings, I skim over Chuck Klosterman's column, The Ethicist {+}, in the Times Magazine.  This weekly ritual reminds me that maintaining grace, poise, and humility in the way we manage our relationships is a meaningful exercise.

The following is an excerpt from one of Mr. Klosterman's pieces that was published earlier this month {+}:

Don’t end a friendship because someone acts in a way you never would. Part of being a good person is being open to people who are not so good, and part of being a friend is making flawed acquaintances feel as if they can tell you about their flaws (without fear of abandonment or persecution). In fact, if you’re the type of person who wants to associate exclusively with those who perfectly mirror your own ethical worldview, you’re reducing significantly the scope of your potential life experience.

I lost touch with a friend years ago.  She had thrust herself into a relationship with a married man.  When the inevitable happened, everything went up in flames as his wife took back what was rightfully not her husband's to give away.  I was relieved that she was finally free; she deserved better than a relationship with an unavailable man.  My friend, however, she fell apart night after night, after week, after month.  A year later, even with the support of professional help, she struggled to move on.  Our conversations were stagnant, hung up on the memories of their time together.  I learned to take a step back.  I stopped calling.  I had no intention of breaking ties; I just needed a break.  A few weeks passed, then months, which then turned into years.  Had she called, I would have answered, but she never did.  Whenever I told myself to pick up the phone and be a good friend, I was overcome with grief at the very real possibility of being asked one more time, "Julia, what is wrong with me that he would end it the way he did?"  And then I wouldn’t actually call.

On Valentine's Day of this year, I did something unusual.  I sent separate text messages to everyone in my phone's contact list.  As I went down the list of names, I was surprised to see hers.  I hit the send button and she replied immediately.  We set up a video chat date.  A week later, three time zones apart, we caught up in front of our computer screens.  It was good to reconnect.  The next time we spoke, she would mention that she had just gotten back from a weekend… with the same man.  He had flown her out again.  He was helping her with something.  Her tone trod carefully around my reaction.  I had none.  Instead, my mind immediately went back to Chuck’s words.  Don’t end a friendship because someone acts in a way you never would.  She is not any more or any less flawed than me.  She is a good person.  Be a good person as well and act as a friend, Julia.  Do not abandon her.

Looking out at MoMA's Sculpture Garden.  NYC.
Saturday.  23 March.  2013.

I am holding myself to a simple task: to be and act as a good person would.  I know that it makes my day when I hear the voice of a faraway friend.  I'm hoping that I'm doing that for her every time I call.

I Could Live Here

I spent my afternoon at the Met today.  The special exhibition wasn't keeping my attention, so much so that I was considering making a run for the exit.  Luckily, as I started scooting around all the grannies (seriously, so many sweet old ladies today!), a painting stopped me in my tracks.  I couldn't place it at first, but it looked so familiar, I couldn't walk away until I did.

You see, this piece lives in the Musee d'Orsay.  I had last seen it in person maybe, ten years ago?  The image had stayed with me all these years.  There was something about the woman's facelessness, about the wind pulling on her white dress, and the lightness that surrounded her.  Do you ever see something and then suddenly feel like you haven't breathed in a while, but don't realize it until that very moment?  And then you start breathing?  That's what seeing this painting again did for me.  I inhaled slowly.  And then I smiled.  It felt good to reconnect after all this time, even if we were an ocean away from where we first met so long ago.

On my walk home, some good news arrived in my news feed. The Met had announced earlier in the day that they will open seven days a week starting in July.  This is big, people.  Huge, for me at least.  Now when I have a rare weekday off, the Met will always be an option.  What a wonderful gift to the public.

The Met {+}.  NYC.
2:08 pm.  Today.

The Dance

Matisse at the MoMA {+}. 3:43 pm.  Sunday.  10 February.  2013.
Does anyone else get sad thinking about what life would be like without blissfully spur-of-the-moment MoMA visits?  Or echo-y strolls through the Met's Greek and Roman wing after nightfall?  I don't know how or when I'm going to leave this city, but my mouth quivers at the thought of the emptiness I will inevitably feel when it happens.

If you've been meaning to go, go now.  I will even bring you.  And if you want to go alone, that's cool, too.  Just go.

Date Night

Greek and Roman wing at the Met {+}.  NYC.
6:38 pm.  Saturday.  13 October.  2012.
I love seeing wrinkly grandmas and grandpas on hot dates.  This couple cracked me up.  They had no qualms about intensely studying the um, how to put this delicately...ideal human form?  There they are, right up there, close and personal with a statue of Hercules.  Too cute.

At that age, life must be full of the freedoms most of us only earn from living out our fretful youths.  I know this is redundant and maybe even a little cliché, but it's got to be incredibly liberating not to worry about what people think of you, to dismiss fears that can threaten so fiercely, to ruthlessly live every hour on your own terms.  I can only imagine the peace and quiet that must be brimming inside them.

Little known fact: the Met {+} is open until 9 on Fridays and Saturdays.  Go at seven, seven-thirty, for the best museum visit you'll have in your life.  Unless it's the first Friday of the month in which case, stay home and order sushi.  That'll be ten times more fun than spending the entire night caught in long lines and suffocating crowds.

Gentleman

I stepped onto an uncrowded train today.  By uncrowded, I mean that all the seats were filled and only a handful of people needed to stand.  A man jumped up.  "Would you like a seat?" he asked.  "Oh, no, I'm all right, but that's very nice of you, thank you."  He remained standing.  "Please, take my seat," he offered gently again.

What's happening?  Where am I?  Is this Manhattan?

People here aren't typically generous with gestures of this sort.  We are entirely self-absorbed, consumed by our next professional deadline and the consequences of last night's terrible date, rarely about the standing girl on the train.  And even then, it is only because she just stepped on your foot and didn't bother to apologize.

But I had been careful not to step on anyone's feet.  I cautiously glanced at the newly vacated sliver of bench.  The cynic in me half expected to see spilled juice or sticky crumbs.  But no, it was clean.  I preferred to stand, but it would have been in poor taste to refuse at this point.  "Are you sure?" I asked.  He smiled.  "Yes.  Please sit."  So I did.

Even before both cheeks hit the bench, a brassy passenger declared, loudly enough for the entire car to look up and notice, "You are a TRUE, TRUE gentleman."  He screamed TRUE so it seems appropriate to write it out in caps.

As I sat, I remembered a friend from way back when.  For five years, every time we walked into a classroom, left the cafeteria, or got into his car, he always paused and held the door for me.  I was always first.  Always.  I don't have a friend that does that anymore, but gee, would it be nice if I did.  Because when a stranger offers his seat or waits for me to step off an elevator first, I'm reminded how the smallest of gestures can often be the kindest.

Thanks, stranger man, for standing all the way to 59th & Lex.  Your gesture was as warm as the view of yesterday's setting sun was spellbinding.

The view from the Met {+} rooftop.  NYC.
6:04 pm.  Yesterday.

Fresh Air

A line is a dot that went for a walk.

~Paul Klee

Loving this.  Like a breath of fresh air.


MoMA.  NYC.
4:31 pm.  Sunday.  16 September.
These days, I have my most thought-provoking moments while flipping through children's books in the MoMA gift shop.  I have no shame.

Children are excellent creatures for showing us (or some may argue, reminding us of) the many different ways we might connect existing knowledge points to conceptualize new ones.  Just because they need help on the potty doesn't mean that they can't teach us a thing or two.  I marvel at how widely they can open our minds.  (And how many smudgy fingerprints they leave behind.  Oy.)