The New York art scene: The Met, The MoMa and The Guggenheim
Dare I start by admitting I was underwhelmed by my visit to the Big Apple. It's a city from which I walked away with many opinions and observations; fitting for a cosmopolitan with a larger than life reputation.
My take on the New York Art scene however, couldn't be clearer; spellbinding.
I often advocate for smaller, nicher galleries (and some art-like spaces which are not technically galleries) which is where so much of my view of the London art scene comes from. That is not to undermine the value which established institutions have, but instead recognising how it makes sense for a small town like London to wield power and richness through smaller establishments.
In similar fashion, I arrived at New York with a subconscious bias towards the smaller Art establishments, and hoping to seek out niche Art scenes. Given I visited for 10 days, I had the luxury of time to move slowly and take in things carefully.
I was wandering around Manhattan aimlessly and finding it pretty hard to feel uplifted or excited as people apparently can be here. Which is why a visit to Soho felt like a lifeline, and falling into xxx gallery a much needed injection of enchantment after having seemingly failed at finding this elsewhere.
As global cultural staples, visiting The Met, The MoMa and The Guggenheim were always on my Art-to-do list, irrespective of how I may take to them.
I arrived with no expectations but ample curiosity. And regardless of what I may have anticipated, it never occurred to me these galleries were housing some of the most celebrated works of Art in History.
When you go to the Louvre there is an expectation to see History's greatest masterpieces. Maybe because it's European? French? It's European History that sets this expectation vs American History which is founded on European immigration.
However, these masterpieces in New York are tucked away on the highest floors, in the side nooks of corners and dotted amidst and around other artworks, so you'll be forgiven if you overlooked them. I can't tell you the amount of times I gasped at every corner I turned. I saw artwork I never expected to see, and saw paintings which I was in love with through text books and couldn't believe these same favourites were hanging on these walls.
Additionally, all three establishments housed more than one exhibition, more than one breakout room. Just as you start absorbing the African Art, you're led to another breakout space which houses contemporary Brazilian Art, and then walk through the corridors and fall into European Art.
Worlds within worlds were unfolding.
Through this lens I would agree the New York Art scene truly is spectacular and fell so in love, especially with The Met, which truly lives up to its name.
On occasion, I'd catch a glimpse of someone in dialogue with the art; whether they were viewing it with a lover, in deep pensive thought in solitude or simply texting away on their phones with art lingering in the background, the public's relationship with Art was just as enjoyable as the works themselves.
I was taken aback at having to pay for entry at every Art gallery, big or small. In London galleries are free to enter; some also have designated paid exhibitions, but Art is open to all.
In all fairness, once in these New York galleries I could see why they were ticketed due to the breadth and scope of work at display. Nonetheless, at an average entry ticket priced at $30 per person, it does add make Art inaccessible.
I repeatedly turn to Art when I find myself sinking in city life; feeling jaded, tired, depleted, empty…all the wonders of modern world. Often I'll dip into Art and feel somewhat energised to revert back to my life and face the music. Here, in these New York walls, I plunged and drowned which enabled the kind of rebirth and breathy excitement I can only really ever recall having in my youth.
I can’t do justice to the plethora of Art on display, and I had a hard time trolling through my photo album to select a handful here. Nonetheless, here’s a little glimpse for us to wander in wonder…
The Met
I'm not a fan of museums. Especially after I discovered majority of the exhibits are in fact fabricated to replicate the original (I'm dubious to admit that was a somewhat recent discovery). I can appreciate the sentiment in needing to convey the past in a meaningful way when we may not have access to the artifacts. But this then does cement a preconceived idea around museums creating a truth from someone else's perspective.
I was prepared to see The Met in a similar fashion. Upon entering we fell into the Egyptian room which reinforced my preconceived notions; even though the replicated artifacts were beautiful, they were fabricated.
How things are displayed have just as much of a profound impact as the object in question. Nowhere proved this better than The Van Cleef exhibition, where I became so captivated by the backdrops of the jewels (a little too captivated in fact). This truth resonated at The Met through the internal architecture design; the way the ceilings were designed, the doorways, the passages, living up to this promise of entering a new world as you enter a new room. All grande and spectacular.
You can spend an entire day here wondering from room to room, it was beautifully never ending. And these are the expectations I came with; to wander aimlessly. That is up until we moved on up and the real magic began.
Pollock, Picasso, Matisse, Van Gogh, Kandinsky… the list was endless.
The breakout exhibitions within The Met were equally spell binding. The Superfine: tailoring black style was immersive, larger than life with a rich story to tell.
Interestingly I instantly knew the John Singer Sargent exhibiting was of an American artist; there are stylistically differences between European and American art.
A note on Islamic Art
Given everything is big in New York, it suits that even the niche styles of Art had a grand space; The Met's Islamic Art room.
Back when The V&A hosted its Mughal exhibition, I didn't know what to expect but was looking forward to stepping into a new world of some kind. However, it was so underwhelming and disappointing. They told a beautiful story by crafting a linear timeline of events, but the artefacts to complement were lacklustre. In parts, The V&A used existing materials from its previous free exhibitions, which I'm not against; repurposing materials to tell a new story makes sense. But everything else around it lacked gravitas and washed over me. Forgettably.
At the time I thought I was being overly critical, given I knew a lot of people loved it. However, after visiting the Islamic Art room at The Met, it reinforced the sense of wonder I was looking for and how my instincts are indeed sharp at discerning; The Met's permanent curation of this part of the world was vibrant, diverse and novel, something which the V&A failed to deliver.
The MoMa
After The Met, I really didn't know what The MoMa could offer which I hadn't already fallen in love with.
It started distinctively with Modern Art and I prepared to brace myself of the unknown, especially after submerging in The Met's masterpieces, I found myself wanting to side step contemporary art and revert back to reveling into the classics. No sooner had this thought emerged and my eyes fell on a Georgia O'Keeffe. This was my first of many gasps.
There was another moment when I was speaking to Sahir, and from the corner of my eyes I caught a glimpse of Klimt; my eyes widened and body jolted as I broke off and shot off mid sentence, racing to the painting.
In another moment I'm roaming the Art rooms and accidentally find myself faced with Florine Stettheimer, an American artist I became enamoured with a while ago. I was genuinely bemused this painting was in front of me - whilst taking in as much as I could. I think it was mainly due to not realising it was ‘commercial gallery worthy’; here I was thinking she's an artist I have an affinity to, but maybe she isn't all that well known in the mainstream space.
The Art of curation
If ever anyone needs an example of the power of curation, if ever I was to give an example, this one room at The MoMa would be it. The walls were decorated with vibrant, colourful, dynamic, geometric art of the likes of Kandinsky, Léger, Chagall, Delaunay, Macdonald-Wright, Cézanne and Metzinger.
The white walls in galleries often display work of some sort and yet, not all of them are able to create an arresting atmosphere as these walls achieved. The interplay, the juxtaposition, the balance and conflict of the collective works induced a feeling, a perspective, something which not every curation can achieve. It was breathtaking.
What's more, Sahir is not inclined to Art; he's one of those people who is happy to tag along but wouldn't choose to by himself. So when we ended up parting in the galleries, for him to call me to share he's seen a Dali (and at The Met Van Gogh’s Self-Portrait with a Straw Hat) is a pretty big thing. He isn't the one to point much out so witnessing his own wonder, in his own way, was so sweet. Experiences truly amplify when they are shared with a common eye.
The Guggenheim
It is the allure of this building that brought me to The Guggenheim, and in this respect it did not disappoint. The rows of swirls and curves that make up the architecture are mesmerising. Although, it transpired to be the quietest of all three galleries, and the least populated with artwork.
I admittedly wasn't a fan of the main exhibition which was by Rashid Johnson, in which case I had braced my expectations to be rather tepid and resorted to having a slower experience. That is up until I fell into the breakout rooms, and just like at The Met and The MoMa, I spiralled into a glorious, psychedelic rabbit hole.
It transpires… I have a strategy when consuming Art in galleries; I enter, scan the room, whiz around to get a feel for which ones I like, followed by a second lap where I pause and revisit what piqued my interest.
And I spent the longest lingering over ‘Tar Beach’ by Faith Ringgold; acrylic on canvas with painted and pierced fabric - made to resemble a quilt - blending autobiography, African American History and magical realism. I stood there reading the story written along the border, the words of a little eight year old girl living in Harlem, reflecting on all the fears, dreams and taking on the weight of the world. It resonated.
Celebrating the every day
