Day 4: November 13, 2016, #232
PixCells
At one entrance to the Japanese galleries is a room where ikebana demonstrations sometimes take place. Mahogany paneling covered the walls with a formality usually reserved for modern boardrooms. Several abstract works on paper, corporate in calling, hung around the room. A Noguchi light fixture occupied a corner. I caught what I thought was the drift: Japanese art making did not end with the Edo period; there is more. In the middle of the room, right where a conference table might have been, stood a taxidermied deer. The creature turned its head into the museum and away from a November-colored Central Park visible through an opening in the wall behind him.
This animal knew where it belonged. Covered in artificial crystal balls which were variously sized and affixed to every inch of its coat and antlers, the deer was a mysterious crowd pleaser. Taxidermy never looked so cool, incongruous, or cancerous. On the whole, the spheres resembled a sudsy bath or space-age bubble wrap. Light bounced in and around the globes playing optical tricks. The world outside a sphere reflected inside and upside down as with a camera obscura. Caught from another angle, each sphere appeared to illuminate from within by a single LED bulb. Up close, each crystal globe magnified the hairs on the animal’s nut-brown hide to boost an uncanny intimacy.
Visitors took out their cameras and tilted into place for an artful shot. I sat down on one of the built-in benches that flanked the perimeter of the room. Their minimalist beauty had scared most others off. A skinny young guy dressed like a club kid in an asymmetrical jersey and orange hoodie posed for his friend who was rather square and plain. Cab-hailing gestures ensued and then a mumbled word or two. These two looked like they were from such different worlds I began to wonder if they shared a common language and where on earth they had met. After multiple photos beside the deer, the trendy one decided to squat in a paneled corner for a few more takes. He motioned his friend to shoot him from above. It was all very album cover. A few more grunts and they were gone.
A young woman in a flannel shirt with oversized hoop earrings that rested on her shoulders sat down beside me and chatted on her phone about Shake Shack. My attention drifted back to the pixelated deer. Moments later, she was discussing a relative in a coma.
A tour group came through. “First, we are going to make a restroom stop. I think it should be a highlight of our tour, where the best restroom is,” the guide noted gleefully. A middle-aged woman piped up. “That deer has some issues going on.” The room had become a clearing for a diverse group of creatures, not so different from Central Park still visible out the window. It occurred to me that despite the concerns over the diversity of the Met’s audience, the museum might not get enough credit for the sanctuary it provides.
A desk and chair designed by George Nakashima had been positioned at the entrance to the room. They looked misplaced but likely served a purpose on those ikebana days. A guard rolled a paper ball on the desktop, idly, like a cat. Inches forward, inches back. His eyes flickered as if he were having difficulty making something out. As he fiddled and I looked, I realized that his ball was made from Met admission stickers. How many had it taken to create this sphere as white and large as a baseball? He gazed at his watch. He had said nothing to anyone. But no one had asked him anything either.
