I woke up earlier than I thought I would. This was a good thing, as it allowed me enough time to drink a really big mug of tea, and then shower and gird myself for a Solo Trip Into The City.
The trip in went smoothly. Once I was on the bus, I listed all the things I might want to do in the MET. I used my new phone to research galleries and put those numbers in my list: Gallery 158 (gold earring of Nike); Horn in the Hall of Music; Visit The Cow; Camera defying sarcophagus; “The Decorated Word” (Nothing); Mediaeval Instruments; Gallery 521 (hourglass); photograph jewelry; Greek Cyclades; Gallery 542; Galleries 301-303; Gallery 774 (Lantern Clock); Gallery 532 (Sundials). As I reviewed the list, I resolved that I would visit The Camera Defying Sarcophagus first, and then traipse through the Egyptian Wing, because I love Egyptian Stuff.
I put away my iPhone and gazed out the window at the passing cars and the skyline of New York City drawing closer. Every so often, another bus slid by my window. Through the tinted glass, the silhouettes of other passengers looked down at glowing white rectangles of mobile phones and tablets. Windows into windows into windows gliding in monochromatic motion — shadows without dimension peering at virtual light, a silent troupe, a mass of bodies, a scattering of minds. It was weird, and made me aware of how ubiquitous mobile devices are.
I managed to find the subway (although I did have to convince a ticket machine to sell me a MetroPass). I got to the S train just as one arrived. The performer in the car I boarded seemed pious as he sang “This Little Light of Mine” and accompanied himself on a huge conga drum. The drumming was fairly accomplished, if a bit loud, and I escaped at the other platform. Then I managed to get to a 6 train just as it pulled in and found myself at 77th and Lexington Avenue at about 9:30 AM.
A short walk past La Maison du Chocolate confirmed that it wasn’t open until 10 AM, which was when the MET was going to open. I wound my way toward Central Park and found an Honest To God Gargoyle on the side of a 1887 mansion on the corner of 79th Street and 5th Avenue.
In the back of my head, I wondered if the folks in the building wondered who I was, since I was photographing various doors and windowsills. But I didn’t care — finding old stone work like this is gratifying, and taking close-up photos of them gives me a sense of acquisition and ownership. There’s also a sense of participating in and appreciating the art of the craftwork when I take a good photograph. I like the suggestion of the numinous, the sense of glimpsing a locus genii, and the over-the-top allegory of gargoyles and grotesques.
With a rising sense of urgency, I took a final photograph and crossed the street toward the MET.
I was glad I got there when I did. With some brisk walking, I managed to get ahead of a large group of tourists and queued up for the entry. It took something like ten minutes to go past the dancing fountains, climb up the stairs, go through security and check my camera backpack in.
In a moment, I paid admission and quickly made my way to Egypt. All the way, to the very back of the galleries, almost to the Temple of Dendura. I was going to finally get some descent photographs of the (Camera Defying) Sarcophagus of Harkhebit. Every time I visit the MET, I try to get a descent photograph of Harkhebit’s Sarcophagus, and almost every time I get a bunch of blurry shots. This is frustrating, because the hieroglyphs on it are very fine, especially the scarab beetles, the winged pectoral of Isis, and the images of the four Canoptic Gods. The combination of the Sarcophagus’s black granite and the gallery’s low lighting makes it impossible to get some of the side inscriptions: I am not physically able to hold still long enough to get a clear image. While this wasn’t the perfect photo-op, I was able to get more and clearer shots than ever before. I had a good ten or so minutes with it to myself (and a very underwhelmed security guard) before the rest of the patrons began to osmose through the gallery.
And yes, it did cross my mind that I was taking photographs of a dead person’s coffin, and that many of the items in the Egyptian wing are funerary goods, or temple goods… or discarded or repurposed building materials. What would Harkhebit think — does taking a picture count as coming to worship him as one of the Justified Dead? I suppose being on display in the MET is better than having one’s sarcophagus repurposed to be a Roman bathtub.
I meandered through the Egyptian wing. I gave into the impulse to video myself twirling like Maria VonTrapp before the statues of Hapsetshut. I took some of the same photos I always take of various hieroglyphic inscriptions. And I kept my eye out for jewelry photos to take. Mark had asked for photographs of jewelry before I hopped out of the car to buy bus tickets. So I re-shot the Tiara of a Harkonen Princess (which I wore in a past life, I’m sure).
By now I was hungry, and I went through the Mediaeval Galleries toward the cafe. Along the way I found the hourglass I’d put on my list, along with some old mediaeval favorites: the wind-up Artemis on a Stag, the Locksmith Masterpiece triangular lock, and the Pegasus Spherical Clock. What I like about these pieces is that they’re precision metal craft from a time without Computer Assisted Drafting, 3-D printing, or laser etching. Also, they’re shiny. One new item that caught my eye was a silver ewer (Adam van Vianen I (ca. 1568/69-1627) in the shape of a European water dragon. Then it was time for a sticker-shock lunch of a (burnt) cheeseburger, fries, and salad.
Back into the galleries, I sought out “The Decorated Word,” which I knew was somewhere in the Islamic Art galleries. I love the zillage and metalwork , but I have to say “The Decorated Word” left me flat. It was like looking at at calligraphic words like “wave” repeated in undulating forms until they bump into a block-letter word “keel”, which sports a skinny “mast” poking out of the top along with the word “sail” repeated along the contours of billowing sheets. Which have never struck my fancy. Only in a script I can’t read. The “Poet Turning into Heech” sculpture looked like the artist was trying to be clever and pass a penis joke off as fine art. I think I might have received the sculpture more favorably if I could read the letters.
After enjoying the rest of the art in the Islamic wing, I wandered around the old favorites in the Ancient Near and Middle East galleries. There were bands of “How Archeology of the Holy Land Proves the Bible” Tours going on in the Ancient Near East Gallery, which was slightly distracting — a crowd of folks would gather in front of a display while a guide would explain how the Dragon of the Ishtar Gate proved that the Ancient Babylonians’ religion was all about fertility (i.e. sex).
I found more jewelry to photograph for Mark, and rediscovered some rhytons. Rhytons fascinate me because they seem like a strangely intimate way to share drinks. If you were an ancient host at a symposium or party, you’d walk around to the guest uncovering the hole in the bottom of the rhyton and squirting wine into a cup (?or maybe a mouth?). It’s like if you were eating a sugar ice cream cone and bit the bottom off and offered the dripping end to your guests. I suppose in a way they are like gargoyles, only for drinks.
I bumped into some more cylinder seals of griffons and lions and trees from Syria and Mesopotamia. After I photographed the seals, I had to say hi to The Cow.
In the American Arts wing, I revisited “Death Staying the Hand of the Artist.” It’s a background screen on my laptop, so it’s a familiar image to me; this time, I spent some time focused on the face of the Young Artist instead of the entire composition. The Artist has a look on his face which is a cross between “Seriously?” and “I’m kind of working here,” and an aside-like “that moment when you’re just getting into your work and this giant Death-Angel-Lady barges into your studio” with some “uh-oh” thrown in.
Then I went over to the staircase with angels on it because one simply cannot have too many pictures of an angel playing a triangle, or another angel blowing her horn into the backside of the showboat angel in front of her. I also took some detail shots of a stain glass window with grape leaves, because I wanted to remember how the artist had composed the leaves and vines.
One of items on my list was photographing the MET’s pipe organ and also their display of horns. The pipe organ photos were for my dad, who really likes pipe organs and is in the process of restoring and expanding some organ registers in his church. The physics of how the pipes set up a standing wave of vibrating air inside them is interesting, since the fipple is essentially a fixed, wedge shaped reed.
The horns are in a stunning display radiating out of the most ancient of horns, a conch shell. I think the best time to see it might be in the morning, as they weren’t quite as cool as I remember them.
There were still some Roman jewelry items on my list, so I went to the where they lived, passing through the Renaissance Sculpture wing, and the French Empire wing and skirted the African and Polynesian wings. I didn’t spend as much time in the Mediaeval wings or the Classical Antiquities, Greek and Roman wings as much as I wanted to.
Next time I’ll have to start there. Perhaps I can focus on magic charms of the ancient Mediterranean and Mediaeval worlds for my next visit.
In the final minutes of the museum, I revisited the MET shops and got some MET Cat pins for our cat sitters, and some books. In the past I’ve had some good luck with sale books, but not so much this time. I got a stain glass book for Mary (who does stained glass) and a book on ancient magic and another book on church architecture (research!).
After the MET, I went to Masion du Chocolate. I think I might have looked a little dazed, because the young lady at the counter radiated an aura of slight concern. Mark says it was probably because I plunked down a hefty amount of cash for a box of chocolates. It turns out that there is a tea salon there, but alas, it closes when the MET does. Chocolate in hand, I got onto the Metro and proceded to miss the S-connection at 42nd Street and had to walk from 36nd to the Port Authority Bus Terminal.
Ten years ago, I would have freaked out, but I knew the direction (sort of) that I wanted to go in, and it was a pleasant late afternoon, so I started walking. Oddly, I managed to walk by The Morgan. It was closed. I walked a little farther, and found myself near the Empire State Building. Which was funny.
I realized that my phone had a map program on it, so I spoke into it: “How do I get to the Port Authority from here?” Walking directions appeared on my screen (mostly confirming the way I was going), which took the second-guessing myself aspect out of the walk (mostly), and the rest of the trip went without incident.
Urn. I love the pattern on this.
Cow figures and griffons and goah stone holder.
Vouging in Mesopotamia
