I blushed as I tore myself away from Picasso’s The Dreamer.
Art does that to me sometimes — gives me unexpected flashes of emotion. I never know what I’m going to feel until it wells up. Occasionally it’s like being tickled, other times it’s more like a sweet attack, losing my breath, breaking into sobs (like when I looked one of Van Gogh’s self-portraits in the eyes back in ’99).
Yesterday, seeing The Dreamer’s pink shade of purple (those labels for color are inadequate) I turned to my girlfriend and said, “Oh, I’m suddenly smitten.”
An hour earlier Rodin had me in tears; Cupid’s forearms are so familiar.
I could spend years of my life wandering the Met. It feels like an emergency priority really. And to think I didn’t even have time to stop in to the Guggenheim or The Whitney or MoMA.
I did stand and look up at Adele I in Neue Galerie, though. It’s a painting I could stare at every day.
I’m not name dropping; these are where my values lie. I want to savor the creativity of everyone who has the urge to make something and says, “Yes!” From the 15 year old introvert inking dragons and breasts into sketchbooks to the preschoolers with chalk on the sidewalk. From Instagramers to jewelry makers to drummers and dancers.
Location: Ludlow Street, Lower East Side
Exhaustion of post-dawn long lines at JFK has left me too tired to write a proper ending to this. So I’ll stop abruptly with the promise of more to come. Insha’Allah.