The Guggenheim Museum is, for any person who enjoys the austere elegance of the color white or the sensation of one's inner ear being knocked further off kilter and experiencing a pleasant, loopy headedness, a place where one can feel very free. Even if the current exhibit is
too freaky for your gauche tastes (like the Catherine Opie photography exhibit that features fat naked L- Masters, for example. The photo they used to market the exhibit is of this cherubic little blond boy wearing a tutu. Gorgeous photos, right? WRONG! Get ready to see some tattooed, unconventionally attractive ladies. Horrifying.) the airy breezy 'I feel free-zy" stroll up through the layers and contours is enough to fill one's heart.
Aside from the warm dizzy feeling of walking in the building's caracole swirl, that place is teeming with possibility, pregnant with the sense of the fantastic, like something awesome might happen to you that day. Like you might meet some dashing Nordic tourist wearing funny shoes and a bone structure that would launch a thousand ships. Like your eyes might meet from across the great divide of the Frank Lloyd Wright crustacean and he would come over and say, "Hallo. Might I interest you in a cappuccino and some lively conversation about the customs and culture of your country? Wherever did you find that darling shirt? It brings out the slight green and gold flecks in your profoundly brown eyes." Like maybe that could happen, or you could just pretend to accidentally trip and brush up against him in a crowd like a pervert, my patented move. Mystery (The Pickup Artist of VH1 fame) could learn a thing or two from me.
So much possibility. Or you could just end up locking yourself into one of the ancient single unisex prison shower- style stalls that are on each swirly floor, in which you must pound and kick the lead door until a security guard has to come rescue you fifteen minutes later. But in that time you've already mentally handed your coat to the eternal footman, heard him snicker, and envisioned yourself living out the rest of your days in this three foot space, bathing in the toilet and making hash marks on the wall with a filed down toilet paper hangy thing. So when the security guard comes to rescue you are crying and sweating and out of breath heaving, so you have to leave the premises and treat yourself a frappuccino to feel better and Sven has found a girl who likes velcro pleather footwear and doesn't brush up against hot guys in a crowd on purpose. Or something to that effect. That could happen too.
These photos are from the "anyspacewhatver," a remarkably obnoxious name for an exhibit that only delights and inspires. Charming, funny little phrases in typewriter script can be art! Who knew!
Here I am with my mom at the MOMA... oh don't pretend to be offended that I put two different museums in the same post, just because they are both museums! Isn't she adorable?! Do you see the family resemblance?