Yesterday we went to the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan on West 53rd Street. Mom once had a cartoon from the New Yorker, with a class on a class trip and a painting. The caption is the teacher saying, “Just because the painting doesn’t appeal to Marvin, doesn’t necessarily mean it stinks.”
I asked Mom if MOMA was still a place to pick up women. She said yes. Like Woody Allen, (who I despise), I was not able to meet any women there. Not sure what that says about me, but oh well. I bring this up, because of the scene in Play it Again Sam, in the museum.
Allan: That’s quite a lovely Jackson Pollock, isn’t it?
Museum Girl: Yes, it is.
Allan: What does it say to you?
Museum Girl: It restates the negativeness of the universe. The hideous lonely emptiness of existence. Nothingness. The predicament of Man forced to live in a barren, Godless eternity like a tiny flame flickering in an immense void with nothing but waste, horror and degradation, forming a useless bleak straitjacket in a black absurd cosmos.
Allan: What are you doing Saturday night?
Museum Girl: Committing suicide.
Allan: What about Friday night?
Letting a sarcastic cuss like me inside the Museum of Modern Art, is like allowing a verbal, writing, bull in a china shop into the museum. Yes, Mom paid for us, so I thought MOMA could use the benefit of my witty sarcasm. (And I am full of it, but that is another tale). So many will have interpretations of the art, but I will come up with the silliest and most sarcastic.
There was one painting that was nothing but white paint at a distance. There were etched numbers, when you got close. If this were John Hancock signing the Declaration of Independence, King George III, even with his best spectacles couldn’t see this. There was a chair with what looked like things growing out of it. There is Monty Python’s comfy chair.
There was a snow shovel and one of the wagons, kids play with. Does this mean the kid shovels the snow? Does a dog pull the cart?
There was an Andy Warhol area. The painting of the Campbell’s Soup Cans in the survivalists pantry. A painting of a 1960’s race riot. How positive is that?
I am exaggerating, about MOMA throwing me out, though an old friend was thrown out of the Frick Collection for off color comments. MOMA did not throw me out yesterday, but the mind boggles.