A Lot Of Art - A Lack Of Appreciation

What I learned, from working at The Met. 

I was so excited. Beside myself with sincere giddiness and disbelief. I'd just landed a part-time gig at one of the world's greatest art museums, temping for one of the greatest fashion exhibitions in history. How on earth did I do that. I had no idea. Nor did I give a single hoot about the embarrassingly low pay. I was going to be a much needed facilitator for the Metropolitan Museum of Art's 2011 Savage Beauty: Alexander McQueen exhibition; the Costume Institute's annual fashion event, and I felt like the most spoiled kid on Christmas morning. That year I was deep in the throes of my second term at The New School studying fashion and fine art journalism. This, combined with a love and admiration for the late designer granted the obvious desperation I harbored for such a position. Aside from my artsy alma mater and a couple of fashion/photography internships I'd completed, this would be my first real experience working in the fine art world, and boy-oh-boy did I walk away with an entirely new set of conflicting ideals after. Both beautiful and damned; much like the Hopper's I cherished. After the prolonged, tremendously popular exhibit finally came to a close I was offered another part-time but permanent position with The Museum, as a Groups Services Associate. Four, sometimes five days a week I sat at the Groups Desk in the Great Hall or Education Center, granting access to private docents, lecturing professors, lost students, and foreigners toting City Passes. I initially walked into The Met happy; utterly grateful. I walked out two-and-a-half years later miserable, bitchy, and utterly hateful. Here's what I learned in that time, and why I believe it all matters. 

Stop Complaining About Entry Fees.  So you think art should be free, huh? Sure, we should all--every one of us--have access to as much art as possible on a regular basis. Art has been proven to be therapeutic, beneficial for developing young minds, and it's culturally, historically rich. But if you aren't willing to contribute even a dollar to the industry then who is exactly? The Arts Orgs are mostly entirely non-profit sectors. Which means, they rely heavily on government funding and donors. If you so adamantly refuse to pay to play but still insist upon having access, just imagine a world where art museums no longer exist. Can you picture it? It could very well happen. And that thought, to me, is far more traumatizing than a Donald Trump Presidency--which is ungodly terrifying. It costs The Met upwards of $40+ dollars for every person present in the museum, from heating and cooling to insurance and liability coverages. So, pay a penny or the recommended value and shut up already. Just be happy it's still that cheap and accessible to be in the company of such magnificent Greats.

If you're in school, learn something for the love of ____.  I can't begin to fathom the amount of college students who literally have no clue. About anything. More oftentimes than not, university students would approach the desk with zero personality, mumbling incoherent "speak" about having to meet their professor for a private lecture, but having zero clue as to what they were studying nor their professor's name. And these were midterm classes, people. Meaning, school had been in session for at least a couple of months. Can you at least tell me where you're currently in school? Wonderful. I literally can't with young adults these days. Are social skills just no longer relevant? Because they sure as hell were practically beaten into me. Thankfully. 

Have some respect.  Mind your manners like a civilized person while perusing works of art worth far more than your life. When you worship in your personal God's House on Sundays; during Mass or Shabbat would you ever be disrespectful? A museum or gallery is a church to so many people; housing a substantial number of otherworldly "Gods", none of which deserve to be abused. The acts of violence I've witnessed to so many works of art is astounding. From using a Rodin as a resting place to text to spitting sunflower seeds beneath Monet to fondling Pierre Auguste Cot's ancient oils and excessively capturing Modigliani with a blinding flash. All of which is just scraping the surface of happenings. The crimes I've seen such ungrateful assholes commit to irreplaceable works of art is disturbing. Have some respect for art, or simply don't engage. 

Open your mind.  A museum makes for a great Instagram pic, no doubt. It says to your followers that you're getting your culture on and what's not cool about that? But if you're actually taking the time to enter and walk the halls of these wondrous galleries put the phone down and open the mind. Pick at least one artist to discover, admire, and backlog into the memory. Your personality, creativity, and mood just won the lottery of healthy influence. Cheers to that. 

Turn your phone off entirely.  Because as much as you love them there's just no comparison to your bestie's selfies vs Renoir's. 

Be kind.  Large museums are filled with volunteers and part-time employees barely making enough money to survive mostly because they too, are artists, or defiantly passionate about the industry. These workers deal with the most diverse crowd on a daily basis. People from all over the world with differing habits, beliefs, languages, manners, and needs. Most of us were force-smiling through the tears at all times. Need something? Don't want to pay the recommended access fee or wait in line? Kindness, as with any event, will get you farthest.

Go with a granny.  While at The New School I shared many classes with a young, very wealthy and proper Brit. He'd been formally trained in worldly cultures and the arts during his upbringing in London, as his parents were collectors. At first I didn't care for him as he seemed a bit arrogant and silly. But we soon became great friends and I learned a lot from his formalities. Benjamin's favorite museum outing was with a "granny"; his own grandmother or that of a friend. The older the better, he'd recommend, as their opinions, views and intellect greatly influenced his own in ways no peer or parent even, ever had. I miss that kid.  

Make it a habit.  Because as I mentioned previously, the world remains a wondrous, gorgeous place to dwell with art around us. In modern times today, children are growing further away from becoming culturally and creatively influenced with the steady rise of technology and social media. Supporting the arts is an easy act of just showing up; seeking it out while its gifts are so readily available to us. The Opera and Ballet industries have suffered a significant decline over the years, with primary audience members majorly or even exclusively being the elderly; those beloved grannies. To lose interest in fine art all-together would be one of the greatest--if not the greatest--travesty to humankind. Can you imagine a world without Starry Night? I can't and I certainly don't want to. There's a reason graffiti and street art rose to exquisite lengths to bring us Basquiat and Banksy. Artists will continue to breed and for those that want a greater, wider audience, loathe "establishments" or simply seek exposure turn to the streets and public spaces to tag and/or showcase their works. Thankfully, demand has only grown for more. But don't be so quick to ignore the museums, galleries and theaters that demand a profit. The greater the variety of art available to us the greater new artists will only become.

I hate what I learned at The Met, but I deeply love what The Met taught me.        

Raised In The South. Matured In NYC

I've said it countless times by now; New York City is the only real finishing school a girl needs. With just nearly seven years of Brooklyn living behind me, I'm still hardly considered a New Yorker. An honorary title one must fully commit to putting in the time to earn, and one I truly respect. There's a reason the old adage, "if you can make it here you can make it anywhere", is widely thrown around and promotes pure truth. Even for a billionaire, this is no easy place to settle into. Which is exactly why NYC can be the very best teacher for anyone willing and able to stick around for awhile and learn a few things. 

There are tremendous treasures to inherit when you're raised in the deep south, and I'm not referring to money. Etiquette worthy of Emily Post engrained in us at birth and a genuine kindness from our neighbors to mere strangers. Patience and ease are rights of passage in the towns where soups and stews take as long as pickling and preserving--common concoctions served daily and nightly by mamas, daddies, grandmothers, and papas from tried and true recipes handed down for generations. Say what you will about the south, even amidst the unfortunate past and unflinching stigmas, there's a sweetness to the air that's impossible to deny, nor is it comparable to any other part of the world. Perhaps it's a southern prerequisite that can best prepare a young woman for the meaner streets of big city living in her adult life. Or, maybe not, and it really just all depends on the strength and even a bit of masochism of any woman. Either way, I'm here to attest; give this city ample time and you'll walk--or at least hobble--away having learned more in a year than any finishing school will teach you.  

Patience and nurturing an inner calm are imperative for a New Yorker to make it past dinner without hurting themselves or others along the way. The former I've never been cozy with, but undoubtedly I still try to summon daily. Nothing can be counted on here except for your rent to go up. Train schedules, weather, fares, attitudes and neighborhoods all change on a dime with zero to very little warning. Need to get somewhere on time? Leave two hours earlier, even if it's a thirty minute commute. It takes a great deal of zen not to come completely unglued on an over-crowed, stalled train car when you're running twenty minutes behind and you left your apartment an hour earlier than usual. The same can be said when the cabbie insists he's "unable to take credit cards right now" and "can only take cash" after you're a block from home and you already know this game. In a city swarming with culture you best not show up to any gathering without an encyclopedic mental guide to the latest exhibits, theater, film and music offerings, or prepare to be demoted to the kid's table, where even they'll know more than you do, which they'll inform you in French. Restaurant and bar gigs are as hard to come by here as office jobs. Unless you've worked for Keller or Batali, fully understand the massive difference between a fresh truffle and truffle oil, or have perfected your beaujolais breakdown and how to make a mean Manhattan--without Google's help. In New York, you're cracking jokes with your Muslim cabbie, haggling with a Chinese purveyor, giving directions to Finnish tourists, pondering Dominican pastries, initiated by beggars at every corner, feeling like a beggar at every corner--all before lunchtime.

In the City That Never Sleeps, it's impossible to feel strange. You encounter just about every type, personality, association, caliber, race, religion, mindset, disability, inability, class, title, professional, unprofessional, idiot, genius, profound, basic, known, unknown on a regular basis. What or whom was once foreign now feels like an old friend. Or, at least, something or someone oddly, even ironically familiar. A 7-day MTA pass will grant you VIP access to the best bible pushers, breakdancers, mariachi trios, guitar strummers, bongo thumpers, preachers, peddlers, naysayers, criers, crazed slashers, and story-tellers you'd hoped [or not] to encounter when you're just trying to get to work. Live entertainment has never been more affordable, more accessible, nor more common than it is in this town at any given moment. As unwelcome you feel its intrusion is on the sourest of days, the sounds of a cello, violin or acoustic guitar greeting you in the catacombs of filth and despair that is New York's subway is a gift you never knew you craved. 

New York City is a hodgepodge of everything in the world being thrown at you at once. Whether it's yet to be discovered trends, breaking news, culture clashes, advanced technology or media sensations it's impossible not to be "tuned in" to the latest, greatest, and lamest. Even for the hipsters-too-cool to own cable TV, they're still surrounded by world views the minute they leave their tiny Bushwick crawl spaces. I thought I knew a thing or two about life, the world, and sharing it with billions of others unique to me. Turns out, I knew enough to get by, thanks to my southern roots, but the buck stops there. Hailing from the Hospitality State, naturally adopting kindness and flattery will get you in the door. A crash course in NYC-living may just get you a seat at the table. Being polite and sincere cushioned the reaction from a Hasidic landlord when I went to shake his hand and look him in the eye before I realized my faults. Interviews with angry fashion execs have been far less painful, thanks to a little southern charm, even if I didn't get the job and walked away hiding my tears. 

In just 6+ years of living in NYC I've learned tidbits in Korean thanks to Seoul bosses, proper Italian food and wine pronunciations [so I don't look like an asshole] from Italian employers. I've learned the difference between Cézanne and Matisse, Munch and Van Gogh, de Kooning and Pollock. Graffiti and differenciating between tagging, pissing, wheat-pasting, throwing, and stenciling. I've learned that 99 cent Jamaican beef patties, street meat, and Polish knishes are deliciously satisfying when I could barely afford to eat. Give her enough time and New York is guaranteed to kick you when you're down. At least once, you will be that person sobbing on the train, falling down in the icy streets, begging for an apartment, clocking in at multiple jobs for rent's sake, getting pushed or pushing back, getting dumped by everyone not just a lover, feeling utterly hopeless, like you can't go on and why on everything that is holy did you move here. It will happen. It happens to everyone, and the good news is you're actually better because of it. Even through the bitterness, you've conquered so much, when it mostly feels like nothing at all. You stay, because the good days are enough to keep you engaged and ultimately curious. That, or you really are a masochist.  

It's impossible to feel superior to any one group in a town that is completely saturated with every identity out there. You share the streets, seats, even buildings with people you've never encountered before, and you certainly share an underlying bond. In a city where so many dreams come to die or thrive, you're all just trying to make it out alive. You get it, and each other. You might never make eye contact or utter a word to the stranger pressed up against you on an overcrowded train, but there's a weird kinship there, like we're all in this together. That's why NYC truly is the greatest city on earth. She's also the best teacher, if you're willing to learn from her. My graduation is still pending, but I came here to fight.