If you were at the Metropolitan Museum of Art last night you may have overheard the following exchanges:
“What is with this OBSESSION with boobs and nursing babies! Every sculpture regardless of culture is only showing women breastfeeding!”
“Wait, hold up.” [Considers an urn upon which is painted two lovely lasses holding each other while watching a gent play a lute or somesuch pretty thing.] “So this caption remarks that the two are enraptured by him, but maybe, well, they’re not sure, but, they ACTUALLY might be taken in by the words of the famous poetess, Sappho. Who is NOWHERE NEAR this urn, except in the museum curator’s lesbian-curious mind, because why else would two women have affectionate physical contact?”‘
[On the Egyptian hieroglyphics panels which once lined pyramids, tombs and the like, which are largely displayed in broken sections recovered in the 1920s]: “What, did they just hack this off the wall and fight over the scraps that fell off with the British?”
Note to self: really must watch The English Patient again soon. That is one sad hot movie.
The Met at night was just gorgeous in a whole new way; the soaring Sackler Wing adjacent to Central Park revealed murky darkness instead of the trees you know are just outside. The [faux] candlelit rooms with French period decor were dim in the beautiful way I’ve always imagined them to be before the days of bright electric lamps. Lesson: the necessity of good lighting.