A Quite Artsy Weekend

I visited the MoMa yesterday. That's one of the great advantages of living in New York: having the museum right there. At moments I may even forget about it, but it doesn't matter, it will be there. So comforting... I wish all my relationships had the constancy of my relationship with the MoMa!

The lines, of course, were around the corner. Tourists and more tourists, English degraded as the third language in the place. I'm not sure if they were there for the paintings or because it was part of their long list of must-dos in New York. Anyway, they were there, with their cameras, tired feet and subway maps.

But enough of digressions, this is supposed to be about the paintings, isn't it?

I didn't really walk by any of the permanent collections, since the time was short. I concentrated at the three major exhibitions: Joan Miró, Marlene Dumas and Van Gogh.

Miró was unintelligible and genial as always. The exposition is organized chronologically from 1927 to 1937. It was great to see his evolution during those pos-roaring twenties, pre-war ( WW and Spanish Civil War) years. I might be exaggerating a little, but in paintings of the "Rope and People" series I saw a beginning of the style that later would become acclaimed in Picasso's "Guernica." A big surprise for me was to learn that even for apparent spur-of-a-moment works such "Portrait of a Dancer," Miro sketched endlessly before getting to the final arrangement.

Ahhh, a little comment that I can't avoid indulging in: there were these two ladies there, who reminded me terribly of Mary Wilkie (Diane Keaton's character in Manhattan). It was great! I followed them around for a few minutes, trying to catch some hilarious line, or maybe a mispronunciation of Van Goghrrhhr. Sadly, It didn't happen. I think they noticed I was around too much and got weirded out by my stalking manners. Ow well, ... I tried, if they had cooperated it could have been a quite funny story.

Marlene Dumas' work was definitely the big event of the day for me. Absolutely fantastic! I'm actually quite embarrassed that I had never heard of her before. Had you??? (Ow God, please say no... ) I was in a mist of amazement, surprise, and somewhat shock that totally incapacitated me of coming up with any analytical response . Dumas' paintings are extremely revealing of the artist behind it. I felt like walking through someone consciousness (or would it be unconsciousness?), being able to experiment her fears, aggressivity, doubts and even sexuality. Let art be revealing, instead of using it as a curtain to one's personality? Now that is subversive! I'm a already a fan.

At 3:30, after walking out of the museum for a while to get some fresh air - and my thoughts in order - I had my appointment with Van Gogh. What can I say about Van Gogh? First, it's sort of surreal (in its adjective form, please) to be able to actually see the original Starry Night just a few inches of my face. It took me a lot of strength to hold myself from touching it. I guess my fear of being forever banned from the MoMa, added to the fact that my very favorites- the sunflowers - were not there kept me behaved. I was actually a bit sad, looking at all corners hoping they could be hidden somewhere, but no. No sunflowers for me. It may have been for the better though... can you imagine if I happened to overcome my fear, touch one of the paintings and possibly ruin forever the most solid relationship I've had in years? That would be a sad, sad thing.

Dandelions

Yes, more wine please. Lustrous, fruity red wine shinning under the dim lights, reflected in the lusty cheeks and mouths. Furtive seduction lingering in the movements, a subtle exploration of the other, hands and eyes stopping half way – timid and bold – the blushing at the recognition of shared preferences, voices getting softer, “yes, I also love pancakes,” “I cannot stand Woody Allen either!” the food sitting cold on the plates, a content strangeness to everything outside that bubble.
At home later that night, I felt puzzled, not knowing what to do with the newfound cheerfulness now reflected in my suddenly clumsy hands. I was not used to things working, not used to encounters rather than dates, not used to moments that allow expectations. However restless, I abandoned myself in the pleasurable warmth of that hope; my unprepared hands holding that maybe as one would hold a seeded dandelion: amazed and frightened.
How confusing were my days after that night. I walked around bewildered by the frenzy of my own thoughts. Even in an action as simple as walking into the coffee shop, I was taken by overwhelming desires of eating chocolate muffins with vanilla ice cream and strawberries, and of not eating anything and going on a diet, going vegetarian maybe, and then exercising it all away. And also of shopping for a purple shirt, and of finally getting back to the bass lessons I quit so long ago, and of calling a friend who I hadn’t talked to in six years, of calling all my friends, and of planting a dozen orchids, of starting a whole garden, of painting my nails bright red, of drawing round faces with my index finger on the white snow accumulated on she shields of the cars, and of buying a brand new journal with impeccable leather cover and writing endlessly, aimlessly, distractedly. Looking for definitions in that tumult, I wondered for a second if that was what some people call happiness.
But then, that colorful mess was dissonant in a world where tediousness seemed to be the rule. And was it right to impose my gladness – a luxury! – on those frowning expressions across the counter? People and their robotic efficiency were somewhat offended by the giggly smiles that insisted to draw themselves on my face. I bought a couple of flowers, and did schedule a manicure, but I was too aware of the critic eyes to openly act on my new cravings. I trimmed the excesses, keeping my joy mild and well mannered. I stood at the sidewalks, my eyes shifting from cars’ shields covered in white to the gray bored people holding their cases and checking their watches, and just nodded, complacent at my own ingenuousness.
There were phone calls, and e-mails. There was the memory of that good sensation, which I naively tried to recreate, but it didn’t feel the same. My pragmatism spread itself slowly, filling any dents, answering all possible questions with its definite logic. “You live far from here…” “you haven’t been in a long-term relationship before…” “you haven’t finished college yet…” My brain relentlessly signing it can’t work, it can’t work, it can’t work… And even if it worked, where would it go? Probably into suburban misery, isn’t it where all the supposedly successful stories head after all? Once the book is closed and the curtains go down, where else does all the bliss go? It wears out. One marry, have kids, gain weight, and turn sweaty and flaccid confined in some two bedrooms beige and brown townhouse.
Shortly, my expectations from that first night looked childlike at my own eyes. What did I expect? A live-happy-after-ever fairy-tale? They don’t exist. You know it. I knew it too. We all know it.
After a week, we were barely still in touch. When he didn’t answer the phone, and didn’t return the calls I understood that we wouldn’t talk to each other again. I realized it gently, bit by bit, and took it in a quiet manner, with the coolness expected of someone who knew it all along. I scrutinized myself looking for some meaning, some evidence of that story on me. I believe I even hoped for a bit of sadness, but all I could find was an embarrassed sense of relief.