The gift of nobody: A private day in the Met...

The mezzanine of the Metropolitan Museum of Art's modern collection, while closed to the public...

Although I like to constantly remind myself (mainly because if I do not, then nobody will) that I am still both young AND fun, sometimes I need a little coaxing to actualize such a belief. As the once beautiful golden hairs that so loyally adorned my knobby head slowly say their goodbyes, leaving an ever-growing bulbous forehead in their place, I am coming to terms with the fact that youth is fleeting and aging is inevitable. I've traded acne for developing crows' feet and I've become acquainted with the joys of late-night heart burn and the fact that all of my belly skin seems to be slowing migrating south for the winter. I suppose this is just one of life's little passive-aggressive paybacks for the hell we all put our parents through during our teen years. This year, as I approached another birthday, once again commemorating my descent into the inevitable senility that awaits me near the end, I decided that I would focus on the fact that although I'm living paycheck to paycheck (paychecks which I earn through a job that it is no way related to my educational background or my lofty "career goals"), I am still a neat guy.

As I have made mention in the past, since moving to the city, my refuge to which I always default during any times of trouble or instability is the Metropolitan Museum of Art. If ever I am in need of re-assurance or a replenishment to my own sense of purpose in the world, an afternoon wandering through the galleries in the Met sets me back on course in no time. Upon hearing my birthday woes, a very kind friend of mine offered me the best birthday present that I've ever been given...

Every Monday, the Met closes to the public to take the time for maintenance and also to give the building one day of reprieve from all of the grubby snot-nosed children and their equally endearing aloof parents who trample upon the sanctity of the museum the other six days of the week. It is also a time when museum employees are able to come into the galleries for their own private study and enjoyment of the collections. This year, my birthday just so happened to fall on a Monday, and my friend, who happens to be a Met employee, invited me in for my own private day to see anything my little heart desired without the intrusive presence of the masses usually present in the space. Owing to my love of art and my abundant misanthropy, this was the best possible of all ways I could have imagined to celebrate the start to another year of aging and accelerated hair-loss.

Having the entire museum at my disposal was sort of a spooky, but wonderful sensation. I spent a whole afternoon wandering through the vast galleries, most of which hadn't a soul in sight (aside from an occasional guard listening to an iPod). It was eerie to see everything in the huge structure perfectly lit and set in place, but silent and still. I felt like the world had ended and my friend and I were the only two people left, although the fact that the cameras were still on and security teams were still in place killed most of my urges to run about dancing and touching things behind the ropes. I was able to get up close to many paintings that are always surrounded by large crowds and have my own personal interaction with them. Seeing images that I've known since childhood in books, and standing before them all alone is as close as I can imagine it would be to stand in the presence of God. Being alone with beautiful works by Van Gogh, Degas, Klimt and so many others that I love was an experience for which I haven't the adequate words to describe. Art museums, to me, are like beautiful cathedrals where I can go and deepen my sense of what it means to be human and inspire myself to become something more and feel uplifted. For all of my foul personality defects and my apparent neuroses, on the inside I am still the little kid who spent most Saturdays at the public library pouring over pictures in art history books and dreaming of what life had in store (although I don't let him out to play often enough). My special day in the museum helped to heal the numbness of spirit that can so quickly take over unnoticed while living in an adult world full of obligations and compromises. For one day, I was in a little world where everything was available and anything seemed within reach.

The Met

The Metropolitan Museum of Art: Cathedral to Fine Art and Free Air Conditioning...

Whenever I'm feeling like life is getting the best of me, which happens quite regularly, I often find myself wandering about the pathways in Central Park, avoiding sticky-fingered children and foreigners with guidebooks as much as possible. Many times, as if willed by some greater power, I find myself facing Cleopatra's Needle directly behind the massive stone structure that is the Metropolitan Museum of Art, or "the Met" as it is called for short. My attraction to this place, especially in contemplative moments of self-indulgent pretension, is likened to the following scenario between Holly Golightly and her unsuspecting upstairs neighbor in the film adaptation of Truman Capote's novella, Breakfast at Tiffany's:

"Listen...you know those days when you get the mean reds?"
"The mean reds? You mean like the blues?
"No... the blues are because you're getting fat or because it's been raining too long. You're just sad, that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?"
"Sure."
"When I get it the only thing that does any good is to jump into a cab and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away."

Although I can never justify the cost of cab fare (or the risk of personal injury and/or death that may result from riding in a New York City cab), I find that wandering on foot through the meandering walkways from the west to the east side of the park works sufficiently well. Furthermore, although both Tiffany's and the Met have many treasures that sparkle and shine, I prefer those which can not be purchased on platinum cards from any major carrier. There is something to be said for beauty that is truly priceless. These, and several other minute details separate me from the swinging socialite character of Miss Golightly, but our common need for a resplendent refuge from the cruel and unrelenting world unites us in spirit.

One of the most wonderful things about the Met is the fact that admission is by a "suggested donation" policy. They suggest that a reasonable adult should be able pay $20 for the buffet of culture that is offered, or even more if the aforementioned individual is really classy. Perhaps one day when I am, indeed, a reasonable adult, I will gladly pay such a fee, but whenever I get up to the desk and look at the unamused face of the fatigued attendant behind the counter, I flash a crispy $1 bill, and he or she who happens to have the privilege of accepting that generous donation from a starving artist, such as myself, hands me a brightly colored button with a rather decorative "M" stamped to the front that is to be worn at all times while navigating the maze of numerous galleries and great halls housed inside.

In addition to my love of art, there are two other primary attractions that keep me coming to the Met at least 3 times per month. One is the abundance of guaranteed free air conditioning. In July, we had a heat wave so bad, that I went to the museum 3 times in one week during the worst of it. I believe that many other broke artists did the same, as I saw more genuinely tattered clothes and bony scabby knees in those days than any other. The other attraction is the abundance of foreign tourists who seem hell-bent on perpetuating every stereotype about their respective native countries. I know that we Americans have a quite a reputation throughout the world as being rather obnoxious visitors wherever we go, but all those places seem to be evening the score and getting back at us by sending the worst possible delegates from their own homelands to the museums of New York. I can't forget to mention the middle-American families, clad in matching cargo shorts and fanny packs, always dragging some dejected floppy-haired teenager about while loudly mis-pronouncing the names of even well-known American artists. I believe that their job is to make the Europeans feel more important, and even more European. The presence of this unavoidable human theatre always provides a healthy dose of entertainment to add to the flavor of the Met experience.

All sarcasm aside, for me, the Met has become similar to a holy refuge in the vast chaos of New York City. I suppose that I use it as a spiritual center, the way one might attend services at a church or synagogue in the hope of obtaining a sense of meaning or the feeling of being grounded and resolved about the daily struggles and torments of adulthood. When all seems doomed and hope seems out of reach, I can take my "medicinal stroll" through the 19th century painting collection and see drawings by Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec or paintings by Van Gogh and my wilted demeanor perks up a bit (although when I pass Gauguin in the Van Gogh galleries I have to fight the urge to become spiteful and vindictive, but that's a tangent for another day). Perhaps seeing such beautiful work created by such flawed individuals resonates within me in a meaningful way that proves to always be uplifting. I've an attraction to the human will to create, and museums such as the Met function as cathedrals to that holy act of creation and human determination. When I'm at my worst, I can always drag myself into my very own version of Holly Golighlty's Tiffany's to regain, in true Truman Capote fashion, at least a few ounces of faith in life - enough to continue until my next episodic meltdown.