A Day at the Museums

The joys of strolling around an empty gallery

I love New York City, but I seldom have museum experiences there that don’t bring me to the brink of a panic attack. Throngs of people venture from all over the world to cram in front of a Rothko for a photoshoot that will show their Tinder matches how cultured they are—as is their right—but it makes it harder for me to appreciate the art. I know, I know—the world wasn’t designed for my comfort, but there are a rare wonderful moments that feel like it was. Enter: the underpopulated museum.

Yesterday, I went to the Rodin Museum in Philadelphia on a whim. I’ve encountered Rodin’s work before in places where I was in danger of being trampled by a herd of Hummer-sized strollers, but it took being one of few people milling about a gallery to actually see it. The intimacy conveyed by two fingertips barely touching. The dejection of a woman watching her beauty erode. The domineering confidence of an author striding with his head held high. They stopped being statues and started being people.

I could also actually read the descriptions. Who am I to wring my hands over potential mean twitter comments when the father of the modern sculpture had his work rejected, mocked, and likened to a seal?

After Rodin, I went to the Philadelphia Museum of Art, which was also mostly empty.

I finally saw Zoe Leonard’s Strange Fruit in person, which was as overwhelming and eerie as I expected it to be. Being alone with the work was haunting, and I’d still be standing there had I not heard the sound of footsteps approaching.

The most magical part of the trip was the Documentary / Anti-Graphic: A Surrealist Eye on Photographs exhibition.

The intensity of the photographs drew me in. The way the light dances on the water, the muddy boot too close to a thing that could kill. The juxtaposition between a row of garments being hawked to constrict women beside a row of vehicles marketed to give men freedom—both that can irreparably damage a body. The intimate gaze of two artists locking eyes in a dim room.

Next week, I leave for my first artist residency. I’ll spend a week in the woods writing and feeding chickens. I’ve been in a season of stagnation—little time spent reading, much time spent scrolling. A season of “what’s the point?” A season of “you should have studied medicine/engineering/real estate.” A season that’s sad and fallow. I worried that this season would bleed into this upcoming gift of a week, that I’d spend it blocked and hating myself like I’ve spent so many gift of a weeks before. I don’t know how I’ll feel when I get there, but I know that all it took was five hours, ample space, and a mere 15,000 steps to remember the power of creating.