Rising's Rapid Reviews: The Metropolitan Museum of Art (Fifth Ave Location)

My feelings upon reviewing my first visit to the Metropolitan Museum of Art on 5th Avenue are a bit like Samwise Gamgee's feelings on being asked if he liked his first meeting with elves. “'They seem a bit above my likes and dislikes, so to speak.'"  However, I did have a joyful time at the Met, and I wished to share a bit of that joy.

Image Credit

I know absolutely nothing about the visual arts beyond a few proper nouns. When I am attracted to a piece of art, it tends to be because 1) I like the subject matter--usually something from legend or myth--and 2) I can tell what it is.  So if you are looking for educated visual arts critiques, you shan't find them here.

This painting clearing indicates the convergence of the painter's desire to draw a bunch of colored lines with the buyer's desire to show they can afford to spend a lot of money on a bunch of colored lines.

My original intent was to go to the Museum of Moving Image, which was at least tangential to my own primary field of acting.  However, I was behind schedule, and the Met was open until 9pm.  And so I made my way up 5th Ave. with all the penitent joy of a secular vacationer who, being in Italy anyway, decides it won't kill him to see the Vatican while he is there.

 

Don't bring your backpack

It started out a bit rocky.  I made my donation (the Met is pay-what-you-can for tri-state residents) and jostled through the tourist crowds in the entrance hall (taking time to scoff along the way at an pretentious caption underneath a postmodern mural) until I made my way to the tourist crowds in the Egyptian section.  I almost left when a security guard told me that I could not wear my (rather heavy) backpack, and instead had to carry it.  I understood the reason; surprisingly few things in the Met are behind glass, and it would have been easy for me to turn suddenly and scrape against a temple wall or Grecian bust.  However, this made my visit slightly more physically draining that I had anticipated.  

Summoning Nyarlathotep

Temple of Dendur

The Egyptian section was, of course, very impressive, because Egypt is is impressive.  The history panels were very informative, and, you know, pharaohs and stuff.  I dutifully read the captions under each pot and idol for a room or two, then sped ahead to a temple by an indoor pond (under a very postmodern glass enclosure).  This Nubian temple was gifted to the United States by Egypt for services in preserving Nubian artifacts during the building of a damn.  I sat and tried to have profound thoughts--something along the lines of how odd it was to be in the preeminent city of a the world's current preeminent empire looking at the fragments of a much older former preeminent empire.  However, the sense of the weight of history receded quickly; the temple only dates to the time of Augustus Caesar.  As there was no risk in accidentally awakening a Great Old One by tracing the wrong runes, I lost interest and decided to head to the first floor mezzanine.

The Aroma of Art

Entrance Hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art when in Fourteenth Street by Frank Waller

I found myself in a section of American art.  It was there that I discovered one of the best parts of the Met: it doesn't smell like New York City.  For those of you who are not familiar with the equistise and complex perfume of the Big Apple, I can only say that one hour breathing in air that *doesn't* smell like someone is frying a diaper on a hot dog cart is equivalent to a restful three-day weekend.  And the Early American section of the Met smells fantastic--like a used bookstore where all the shelves are made of antique cherry wood.  I palled around with some painting depicting life in the 1800s, including a painting of a woman looking at paintings in the Met, which was mildly amusing. I paid my respects to George Washington, and then headed up the stairs once more to the second floor.

Eating My Vegetables

Standing Bodhisattva Maitreya

I am extremely westocentric in both taste and education, so heading upstairs was fighting my inclination to head straight to medieval armor and weapons.  I made a firm resolution to educate myself in calligraphy of feudal Kyoto instead.  I was a bit disappointed in the captions in that exhibit; I felt they could have been done a better job at framing the works in history, but the art was enjoyable. I attempted to find the Chinese art, but got lost due to the path being blocked during a concert.  I took a roundabout route through more American art and some Joseon pottery, and then found myself sitting quietly with some Bodhisattvas for a while.  Their serenity felt familiar (artistically speaking, not theologically speaking) to the statues of saints at church, and I quite enjoyed their company.

Where be the ladies of the court?

My energy was rapidly depleting, and I was getting hungry.  I thought about leaving, but then it occurred to me that I had not even tried to find one Pre-Raphaelite painting.  If there is one genre of visual arts I can call myself a fan of, its the Pre-Raphaelites.  I suspect this has more to do with the the painting largely being filled with graceful women of Arthurian legend than the art itself, but I did want to see if they had any before I departed for the evening.  I power-walked through European paintings looking for anything resembling a Waterhouse print.  I didn't find any Pre-Raphaelite paintings, but I found myself drinking in two paintings in particular.

The Weeders by Jules Breton

I am normally a rather open francophobe, so it was a surprise to discover that my two favorite paintings were French.   This one, quite simply, reminds me of working with my grandfather on his farm.  I never much cared for farm work, but I admit that one gets to enjoy beauty at a level unknown to an office laborer.  It is also quite satisfying to see the sun set and know that dinner and rest approach. 

If I were to wax philosophical about this painting, the pregnant woman looking into the distance seems anticipatory, as if the setting sun and end of her labor prefaced her coming *labor* and the joy of a child.  She is like Mother Church herself: realistic that there is a still a ways to go, but pregnant with the expectation of Christ's coming at the end of time, just as rest comes as the end of the day.  

The Forest in Winter at Sunset by Théodore Rousseau

This one reminds my of Halloween. What higher compliment could I pay? 

Interestingly this one also deals with the final stretch of hard labor before the rest of night.  Apparently, the theme of evening is resonating with me right now.

Departure

After European paintings, I headed back down to the main floor and tried to look at some swords, but my attention span had been reduced to nothing by sensory overload.  I stumbled out the exit without even glancing at the forest of Roman statues around me.  As I walked away, I took one last look up at the lit windows and promised to return another time with a lighter backpack.  I am very grateful to the Met for the wonderful evening it gave me, reminding me that this city is not quite so ugly as it seems at first glance.  I plopped down three blocks later with some fast food, another Lord of the Rings Quote in my head.

"'Dear me! We Tooks and Brandybucks, we can't live long on the heights.'
'No,' said Merry. 'I can't. Not yet, at any rate. But at least, Pippin, we can now see them, and honour them. It is best to love first what you are fitted to love, I suppose: you must start somewhere [...]'" 

Blessing upon all creators and all observers of beauty. Have a wonderful week, and thanks, as always, for reading.

--Epimetheus