Friday, November 19, 2004

I skipped my last day of working at the Princeton Review today to go have lunch for free at MoMA, an incredible meal that is the yummiest I have had in so long. Joe and I ordered lots of food since it was free, ate yummy mozarella, eggplant, ham, nice desert and downed it all with a bottle of wine. I thought to the little of MFK Fisher I have read, noted to read more of her, closed my eyes and felt it all through my body with each chew, the pleasure of good food. Tipsy, we then wandered around the museum, drinking more wine, and maybe this is why, because I was drunk at three in the afternoon that not much made an impression on me, nothing except the windows. To see dusk setting in over stretches over midtown Manhattan was amazing, and I ran to the windows whenever they made an appearance in a gallery, looking at the sky. This is in a gallery full of Picassos that I am running to the window and being way more moved by the sky, by the view from this slit of a window. MoMA is so overwhelming. It is treasure after treasure, painting you have seen reproduced a million times, right next to another you've seen a million times. The first gallery we went into had Kahlo, Cornell, Dali, Miro, and Matisse waving hello from the next room. Even "Starry Night," I barely noticed, lost in a room with so much other famous stuff. Shiele right next to Klimt right next to Chagall, artists I love, not one even touching me, too overwhelmed am I by everything thrown together, by my drunkness, and by my pretty constant need to pee because of all the wine and coffee. There should be some point to seeing works of art in person that you have seen prints of a million times. I tell myself this but I am not really sure, not sure there is a point. The paintings I had never seen were the ones I loved. Stuff by David Alfaro Siqueiros. But I also liked his stuff because his last name seems related to mine. It is all a haze, my time there. Did I really see all those things and not care. The pretty lights were cool. They always are. Flavin. Nauman. Everything else, bah! Outside the sky was black, the people were rushing down streets, and it all seemed so much more worthwhile than you Pablo, than you Marcel, than even you Cindy. I went to the H & M nearby afterwards and saw a display of male underwear that impressed me more than any of the works of art. I went and touched them and wondered if I should spend thirteen dollars on this hot underwear. Did not. Spent twenty-five on a girl's western shirt, and walked down more streets, past more people, to places where I consumed more wine.

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