I came across the hilarious blog “If this was New York City…” in Flavorpill and from a couple friends. The author describes the raison d’etre as such: “I spent most of my adult life living in New York City, and I just moved to San Francisco. After just a couple of months, I realize that people in New York have their own way of doing things.”
Inspired by similar (albeit reverse) bicoastal experiences, I decided to submit my own version…
Going on a museum on a Saturday
Situation: You’ve been wanting to check out some modern art before summer kicks in and indoor activities are increasingly taboo.
If this was NY: You muster the courage to open up Time Out and flip to the Art section. After struggling to navigate through the hodgepodge of glorified classified ads, you find the museum listings and see that the Tim Burton exhibit is still at MOMA until this Monday. Memories of that conversation with your hipster friend with the horn-rimmed glasses come to mind. He either said it was the best or worst show he’s seen in NY, but either way, you decide to go and form an overly strong opinion to share in passing at your next rendezvous.
It’s 3pm by the time you finish brunch in the East Village, and you wait 20 minutes for the F train before realizing it isn’t running this weekend. It strikes you that the F is alarmingly similar to The New Yorker: it’s a pretty big gamble. You wait 5 minutes, or read a few pages, hoping for the train or point of the story, it doesn’t come. Wait another 5, read another couple, still, no train, no point. Sometimes the train arrives and you get this wonderful, triumphant feeling of having waited patiently and not succumed to the temptation of cabs above ground, allowing you to continue merrily on your way to the next destination. Other times, though, you wait 30 minutes only to then notice the sign or hear the announcement that the uptown service is not running today. It wasn’t a complete waste of time because you got to listen to some good music on your iPhone and indulge in some long overdue East Village people watching, but really, you just spent half an hour reading a well-written article about nothing circumstantial.
A cab ride later, you end up at the MOMA entrance, but the cab dropped you off on the wrong side so you plow your way through the busload of toga-clad schoolchildren who are heading home after the Greek Independence Day Parade. It’s 4:15pm by the time you get your ticket and make it to the exhibit entrance. The line wraps around the corner, and you wait sandwiched between an elderly couple and a group of teenage girls. The volume of the crowd rises as rumors that Leonardo DiCaprio is inside looking at the exhibit, finally reaching the girls behind you who squeal with delight and angst.
You enter the exhibit at quarter to five, 45 minutes until closing. Groups of 10-12 people crowd around the each of the early sketches, which are no larger than a half a piece of printer paper. You go on tippy toes at a couple moments to catch a glimpse, and eventually just decide to head straight to the Nightmare Before Christmas and Edward Scissorhands figurines. The group of girls are posing next to the Johnny Depp replica, rotating to take pictures on their phone. “This is soo going to by my Facebook pic.” “OMG yes, we’ll have matching profile pics. Besties!”
You head into the screening room, where they are exhibiting some clips from Burton’s unreleased experimental films. Half way into the first clip, security walks in and announces that the museum is closing early today for a private event. Lights on, film stops. Time to head home.