Last Sunday, slightly hungover, but eager to feel the sunshine after weeks of cold, bitter, almost but not quite over winter weather, I grabbed my friend on 57th and we made our way uptown to the monumental and imposing Metropolitan Museum of Art. The Met was showcasing a series of Cézanne masterpieces from the 1890s - the Card Players. These oil paintings were created on his family state in Aiz-en-Provence in the South of France. Now, I must admit I never made it to 'Aix' as us American abroaders like to say, but I did get down to Nice. And the thought of being able to languidly paint while overlooking the sun burnt fields, wind blowing softly through the trees, and the sounds of the city nonexistent, well, I curse my non-artistic genes. Cézanne's works were displayed in a room to the right, nothing fancy, and plainly lit. Yet, when you walk into the space, his works are like muted gems, glowing and alluring like gems among the sand. The half finished look along with the muted colors, slight imbalances, and his real life labor workers' as models, made the whole thing seem like a rather casual undertaking. Yet, upon closer look, you are hit with a gust of that warm southern breeze, speaking in French tones of tavern occupancies, such as card playing and smoking. As my friend and I chatted admiringly about the works, but a little unsure of why we were so enamored with the colors and subjects, we found ourselves conducting a mini seminar, for the personal luxury of art talk among a master.Leaving the exhibition and hitting the gusty spring New York city winds, I felt as if I had just visited the countryside. And I yearned to be back in his comforting scenes.
The next night, at an intimate viewing at the MoMA, I visited another master of the arts - Pablo Picasso. This time, instead of oil paints and sketches, I wandered among a different medium - that of collage, and more specifically, Picasso's paper and sheet metal guitars. Now with this crowd, conducting nerdy art convos in front of the canvas would have been out of line. So instead I mingled and sipped sparkling water with the other members, entertained by a business man (of sorts) who traveled to Europe a lot, and wore a bright pink shirt and his nose high in the air. His interest in art I am still figuring out. Another group of well dressed young women welcomed me into their chatty circle, where talks of Chanel brocades and Burberry scarves ensued. Typical. Then again, I had purposely changed out of my work clothes
(I despise them, I'm sorry Jcrew/Banana Republic/Ann Taylor, and I don't have the funds for you Theory/Vince, but still, no thanks) so I was more of a casual viewer. I will thank my Burberry linen scarf for the invitation to that circle.After a brief curatorial explanation by a slight, blond woman - whom apparently caught the eye of a few men in the crowd - we were left to wander among Picasso's silent and fragile guitars made between 1912-1914. These delicate creations, made of paper, string, sheet metal and wire, reassembled thoughts of sculpture. They were supplemented with other paper collages that used sand or Le Journal clippings or free hand drawing along with some photographs. Picasso was surely a man of many talents and this small, but important, exhibition speaks to his mixed medium messages. I wandered alone after the curatorial talk, soaking up the rough and bland colored framed pieces. However, being an admirer of Picasso, these certainly weren't my favorite works, but his guitars brought out a subtle silence that stirs conversation. And only a genius of his stature could conjure up a muted oxymoron.
