Saturday, March 27, 2010

Dear New York.

written at the Musée des Beaux Arts, Lyon.

I'm so spoiled. I don't mean materially (I'm writing this on a croissant-wrapper). No, I mean intellectually spoiled. I'm sitting here at the Musee des Beaux Arts, I got in for free (yay to being European and under 25), and yet I'm still so disappointed. I just passed by a Picasso, and all I could think about was how much I wanted to see the Demoiselles d'Avignon again in NYC.

I saw some Delacroix and Gericault originals and thought that the collection is not as good as the Met.

There is Matta, Dufy and Chagall within a few meters of me, but it's not the MoMA - the modern art wing at the Musee des Beaux Arts was barely half of what I expected it to be. There is no Dali, or Khalo, or Rivera, or Calderon, or Calder. And the two Delaunay pieces (one Sonia and one Robert) are unbelievably small and underwhelming.

I don't get the tiniest bit of emotion here. I almost cried when I saw Malevich's White on White in NYC last summer. I'm not joking, I welled up.

I keep thinking my life would be so much easier if I never went to NYC. I would be happy in France. I wouldn't miss it so much. I wouldn't be sitting in a museum (my favourite place in the world; the museum), counting down the days until I leave for JFK.

New York -
My life would be easier if I never met you.
I would be blissfully ignorant of what I'm missing out on.
New York - I hate you
But I'm also deeply, madly in love with you.
Please take me back.

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