Today I went to the Museum of Modern Art in NYC to see the Tim Burton exhibit. While the exhibit itself was interesting (where else can you go to see Chris Walken’s headless-horseman cape from Sleepy Hollow?), more interesting to me were the other various visitors to the museum. It was crowded, to be sure! Vast swathes of people were crammed into the seemingly tiny gallery areas which were no doubt actually quite spacious. Some small seed of a claustrophobic nature which hasn’t yet taken purchase was making the space seem exceedingly cramped, not to mention over-hot.
Of course, as I was carried slowly along by this current of museum-goers, I could only wonder what would bring so many people out to see such an exhibit? Surely there were not so many Burton fans! Curiosity can account for a small number, myself included. But as I looked around at the crowds of twenty and thirty-somethings that jammed the space, all dressed in their fabulous best, I wondered what was truly at the heart of this crowd. Listening to two younger women as they shuffled along ahead of me, I was privy to their latest workplace gossip and facebook dramas. They were entranced by eachother’s horribly fabulous lives, and struggling to look at ease in the $300 dollar stiletto-heels and Sex in the City attire, all while not really even pretending to show an interest in the surreal and gruesome images, sculptures, and costumes that passed their view as they shared their latest dating misfortunes and shopping adventures.
Is this what museums are reduced to? Another place to make an appearance? A place to appear to have an interest in art, while you go about your daily task of making your own life appear to imitate art? I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. As I left, I felt the bile rise up within me. I really had to share, so I Twittered about it instantly, and then came home and wrote this blog post. Some people think their lives are the center of everything, don’t they? (That last bit was a little self-aware irony, btw,)
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