A Perilous Jorney to the Metropolitan Museum of Art
by: Mike
I’ve been to the Metropolitan Museum of art approximately four-hundred thousand times, give or take. Art classes and personal curiosity have had me ascend that long staircase a number of times previously, but this time I had come upon those stone steps under more stressful circumstances than usual. Normally I had a guide but this time I was going it alone for my third and final art history class. I was a sniper, a jaguar, a “Star Trek: Enterprise” fan; a loner. I had just left work at 7th and 56th at 3:30 PM. Two hours to get there, find something that I can write a paper about without gnawing my own tongue off, and get out of there before I’m escorted out by the nice men in the blue outfits.
Alright, bucko, we prepared for this. Even wrote the directions down this time. Take the E to Lex and catch the 6 to 86th. Got it, I think. I mean, I did write it down, right? Oh yes, I did. Of course, it was still sitting on my desk at work next to the tacky office mug and the tacky coastal sunset picture. Here I am standing in the subway terminal without written direction and only my (notoriously goldfish-like) memory to serve me. Awesome.
There’s a woman wearing a hat of some kind yelling something not quite English, and not coherent enough to be a known language. Sumerian, perhaps? Or maybe she’s hopped up on goofballs or some such thing. What a lovely dance she’s come up with. She dances/walks in my direction. Mother of Mercy, better look busy. I whip my trusty cellular telephone out and have a pretend conversation with my deus ex machina. Apparently “The Henderson file is late.” Also “If it’s not on my desk by tomorrow you’re finished, capish?” This allows me to thankfully evade the begging, dancing, babbling individual with hippopotamus-like finesse. Don’t take me for some black hearted man, for I would have given this subway dwelling being some monetary assistance under normal circumstances. These were, unfortunately, not normal circumstances. I was on a mission and I could not simply give away certain assets. Surely Frodo wouldn’t have given away his magical dagger to some insane Orc. Without it he’d never have braved the fires of Mordor. Such is the case with the single one dollar bill in my thin, thin wallet. It was my key to victory, not some plaything to be given away to some subterranean craven. I needed this dollar to get a receipt from the museum to prove I had actually been there. Did they take credit? Could I get a receipt even from not paying? Damn it, these were not risks I could take! Also if I paid credit I’d be obligated to pay closer to the “suggested admission” which was, like, $700,000,000 or something. I’m a student. Do you accept ramen noodles and condoms as payment? Didn’t think so.
I exit the E train at Lex and stumble around like a tourist for a bit before realizing I am on the wrong level. I need to go down. After not finding stairs I found a shady, stinking, rusting elevator. Why I stepped in to it I can not tell you. I went temporarily insane and decided to ride the elevator in a subway station. My life flashed before my eyes as the shoddy, squeaking gate closed and I descended. As soon as the doors opened I ran out, pale a shivering. What horrors had been committed in there to make it smell that bad. Note to self: Burn shoes when home. Across the platform a morbidly obese bum sitting on a jacket is yelling at some girl. He isn’t a threat, really. He doesn’t look like the stabbing type. There were a number of candy bar wrappers and discarded bottles around him. The bottles I get but the many king sized Milky Way wrappers were perplexing. Were those his? Had he not discovered the “Value Menu” at his local Taco Bell or Wendy’s? Those king sized candy bars are like $1.50 a piece. Hold off on buying two of those and you got yourself a kick-ass makeshift meal of chicken nuggets and a small fries.
Another uneventful ride to 86th began and ended. After walking two blocks in the wrong direction, I finally found my Mt. Doom. A man playing the Saxophone (horribly, I might add) serenaded the many stair-dwelling teenagers. I walked past him. He did not receive my single one dollar bill either. I finally entered and approached the desk.
“Would it be insulting if I gave you one dollar?” I said, “It’s all I have.”
The attractive girl behind the desk shakes her head and says it’s fine, as if this happens all the time. Smiling, I take my receipt. As I walk away I mentally make a couple of jokes to her, twirl the keys to my Ferrari around my finger and suggest we go for drinks later. Instead, I slink away in my goofy work clothes, fiddling with the keys to my 1999 Chevy Cavalier and suggest to myself that “I’m feelin’ tacos tonight.”
Finally I’m in the meat and potatoes of this endeavor. What the hell am I looking for? Something cool. Something relevant to the coursework. Something not too hard to write about. Many of the paintings are out of the question. There’s something about them I don’t like. Too flat. Not necessarily in the physical sense. Something about tangible art speaks more to me. I found myself in a number of recreated rooms that were cool in a creepy sort of way. It was like being in a room that you know someone died in, but with way better furniture. I don’t quite remember the name or time period, but I ended up in a room that looked like a church with carvings on the wall and stained glass. The level of detail on the walls was great, even if I didn’t fully understand the narratives. It was almost overwhelming to a point. Someone spent a lot of time on that. Then again, when faced with doing your personal savior a favor I guess you wouldn’t be lazy about it.
There was a table made of marble and inlaid with semiprecious stone that was huge. There was a sign on it warning the viewer to not touch it, but I couldn’t help myself. It felt wonderful. I wanted nothing more than to plan an ancient war, eat a giant banquet, and play Dungeons & Dragons on this table. My mind raced thinking of all the powerful, old, and dead men and women who sat at that table enjoying a drink or food. Again I felt a cool yet creepy sensation. Part of me wished it was a recreation and not an actual old table from some rich noble’s dining room. A similar feeling swept across me as I looked upon the arms and armor. A man actually wore that plate armor. A man actually wielded that sword. Whether it was in battle or for show it didn’t matter. Someone was once in that armor. Maybe even skin cells remained. I now have a slightly better understanding of why Scooby and Shaggy were terrified of suits of plate armor.
Finally I came upon my term paper focus. Saint Michael the sculpture called out to me from across a room and I instantly knew that it was the one. Such a simple, yet expanding narrative. Such motion and grace. After about twenty seconds I already knew what I’d write about. This was a good thing. I snapped a few pictures and spun on my heels and left the building before I could be escorted out by the nice men in the blue outfits. It was 5:00 PM, after all.
As I descended the stairs I realized that this was not a trip to Mt. Doom after all. This was a quest for the Holy Grail. I walked out fulfilled and confident that I could write a decent paper and not have to worry about not enjoying the content. I also usually only see the older art when I go to the museum, so it was a nice change to see some art that came after 1000 C.E. there. I headed back to the 6, changed to the E, and took the train from Penn Station home. Then I got on the wrong train at Jamaica Station and was very sad, but that it a tale for another day.