By now you should know how much I love art.
For that reason, I decided my visit to New York City's Metropolitan Museum of Art deserved a post devoted entirely to itself. I was able to spend two hours there but it was not nearly enough. An accelerated walking pace was a necessity, precluding all the lingering and gazing I would have normally liked. So I let the art wash over me, streaming at me from blurred directions until I thought my rods and cones would break.
Not a bad way to spend two hours.
I will present the pieces to you in order of my encounters with them. This will be a very graphics-heavy post as art most often speaks for itself and requires no embellishment from me.
As if in response to my fucked up emotional state, the first series of paintings were categorized "melancholia."
Trenton Doyle Hancock's work is a study of brilliant hues in dark places, biblical parables, superhero stories, Pepto Bismal blobs, and half-animal-half-plant creatures called "Mounds." My kinda guy.
Hamlet's Ophelia. I actually owned a print of this once.
St. Agnes' Eve. Based on the poem by Keats. "Awake all night for sinners' sake to grieve."
A series of rich black and white photography.
The paparazzi doesn't know I'm a dog.
Just wait your turn, baby.
Intensely romantic, passionate sculpture work of Rodin. No, not the Japanese monster. An angel or muse (or both?) comforts the anguished soul.
Speaking of Japan, the Japanese bridge at Monet's gardens in Giverney. Plus an extra Monet. Thomas Kincade my ass. Monet is the "painter of light."
Cezanne, another favorite of mine.
"I sold the Renoir and the TV set..."
Portrait of Russian author Vesevolod Garshin. He wrote short stories, loved beauty, knowledge, pacifism, and had great disdain for the political and social conditions in his home nation. He killed himself by jumping down a stairwell. I wept for him like a brother.
Just look at his eyes.
Not much for this style but the halo-like glow caught my eye.
Pygmalion.
A gothy Caspar Friedrich.
A replica of Seurat's A Sunday on La Grande Jatte.
Van Gogh. Tortured genius in every paint stroke. Even the Doctor and Amy couldn't save him.
I'm embarrassed to admit I don't recall the name of this painting. I believe it was called "Banquet of the Starving." I loved the creativity and the social message.
Then it seemed that the Freer Gallery followed me up from DC. The Met had an entire visiting exhibition of Asian art. Here are just a few of the pieces:
After witnessing their exquisite serenity and beauty, Western art almost seems gaudy and bloated.
I spent more time than I should have in this room, but I just couldn't help it.
Surrealism, leading off with Joan Miro.
While not a fan of Dali per se, I do love delving into the symbolism of surrealism and doing the intellectual detective work of looking for meanings. Even when there aren't any. Art is like that though. The artist can be very much in the dark about what they intended but for someone else it can become their own personal Polaris.
That concluded my visit. I didn't even get a thorough look at the Medieval and Renaissance works. Guess I'll just need to make a return visit to New York.
What a pity.
Your interplanetary traveler at the Museum:
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