Museums

Old people really like museums. They also really like to chat with their old people friends in front of that one piece that I specifically came to the museum to see. It takes half of a person to block my view of whatever impressionist still-life that I only half-want to look at, and yet two old ladies will be in front of it, debating the pronunciation of Van Gogh. For five minutes: is it van-goff or van-khohk? Meanwhile I can van-go-fuck myself.

The other 80% of attendees violently avoid the wall labels in hopes of “finishing” the museum in record time. My fastest is an hour and a half at the MET because I skip everything and linger around the modern and contemporary art section—which really shouldn’t take more than an hour anyway. These speed racers love making me feel bad for taking my time; hovering behind me just long enough to stress me out over being a slow reader. They’re the same people who would go to see the virtual reality/fully immersive Vinny Van G experience.

This is not to say I’m the perfect museum goer. More than anything I would love to drag my fingers across all those paintings and sculptures, so the vibes get seeped in through my skin and I can break off a chunk of oil paint and keep it in my pocket. Or I could recreate my own night at the museum and lick the toxic lead white paints to get high and see a Dali come to life. And one last thing and then I swear to god I’ll shut up about this forever, I might have to stop going to these museums because for all the time I’ve spent there, I still can’t say what impressionism means.