Sepember 23

Today I visited the special exhibit, The World of Khubilai Khan, currently open only for a members preview. Khubilai was the grandson of Chinggis (better known in the west as Ghenghis) Kahn.

The Met does not usually allow photographs in Special exhibits but I did not see any signs up when I went in so I took one photo, and no one complained. While I was taking the second photo one guard (apparently a senior one) asked if photos were allowed, very loudly and apparently rhetorically. Another replied that during the members preview it should be fine.

I immediately put away my cell phone, nod in their direction to acknowledge that I had heard them. One of the guards nodded back.  As I walked into the next room, the senior guard said to me across the room "no photos in the special exhibit." In response, I said "I'm sorry."

I started writing in the next room on a bench. The light was poor but I was right in front of a beautiful wooden Arhats (a guardian). The senior guard entered the room and loudly informed the female guard that photos were not allowed, and then shot a scowl in my direction.

The guard in the room had a wonderful smile and read all the descriptions of the artifacts.

(Apologies: Poem removed due to publication elsewhere)



Factors
Day of the Week: Wednesday
Occupancy of the Museum: Empty
Arrived at: 9:30
Departed at: 10:40
Read on Commute: The Structure of Magic by Richard Bandler and John Grinder, and A Week at the Airport (about being the writer in residence at the Heathrow Airport) by Alain De Botton.

September 12th: Patrick Brawley

Patrick Brawley is a gifted poet, recent graduate from Sarah Lawrence, and current publishing intern. I really appreciated how his poem integrated what surrounded us in the museum without being overwhelmed by it. His poem and thoughts are below.

Buddha of Medicine Bhaishajyaguru

Darlin’ caught a murder rap
in dry desert heat, running
round dunes slowly shifting

in the wind. Vehicular evil sliding
down her throat navigating glass component
fragile valley clearing. Can’t grow

no corn in sand boy your soil is to dry.
It goes much deeper
than what she said,
her humid voice dusting off them old tools;

hadn’t used them in ages. Forgot how
to turn up earth, irrigate the limited
moments of each secret trickling under

her feet filed in tributaries of disappointment. Tool
spoon handle with no basin, I walk the ridge
hoping for the valley that if I stay there long enough

I’ll become antiquities, an ashtray that old pot, buried
heavy enough to avoid the shattered
parapet swept into dustpan of the horizon’s

deviated septum. Each gravitational leak
pulling her deeper into the oasis
a grain of sand looking for love;

a astrolabe guiding light to the shaman driving
blind toward another sunrise stacked
on the sarcophagus painted around his head.

In the dry heave’ staring at the girl I wanted,
did you play hard to get? Do you love me
God? I’ll eat this rotten harvest; afraid of famine

worms burrowed their way to pavement. That dry
spell ate the sun hollering fire in public space. Drawbridge
dumped its cargo of pills into my industrial mouth

enlightening my bankruptcy, a river boat man
took me across swallowing lotus lilies to float away,
balloon strung to a message for the lord.

Observations: Patrick Brawley

It was great to see Cait for the first time since our graduation. The Met is a great place to see friends one hasn’t seen in awhile. Its art spanning the timeline of the human journey tying knots to form a latter of universal consciousness that we all climb, get off, and rejoin through out our lives. It was fantastic to catch up and see exactly were Cait was in the adventure. Talking about everything from cell phones to personal identity we strolled through a city dug up and placed inside a museum, which seems appropriate, building monuments to the triumph of human spirit. We began writing in the Islamic section of the museum. I have somehow seemed to always walk right passed it, and thought this a great opportunity to immerse myself in something new since we all seem to be striving to make our own voice in a new season of our lives. We then switched to Asian sculpture and the immense Buddha of Medicine stared at me. We all search for our medicine through different paths, and we each find serenity in our heart. The struggle to find our path however personal is a universal passage that is what truly makes us all human. It was great to catch up with Cait, and I wish her well in all her future endeavors.

September 12th:Geneviève Bourgeois

Genevieve Bourgeois is the first artist to draw at the Met with me, which was rather exciting. Below is her work and thoughts.



Genevieve's Observations

On Sunday September 12th, 2010. I joined Caitlin at the Met, we chatted while waltzing through exhibits. Although we were involved in deep conversation, I couldn’t help but notice minuet details. Whether we were discovering Egyptian tombs, admiring American furniture, noting height measurements of Frank Lloyd Writes’ chair legs, to holes in a hippopotamus’ tooth. When we finally decided to work we found ourselves surrounded by Islamic art. Had a hard time focusing the tip of my pencil. I ended up taking a five-minute adventure and stumbled upon a spacious room “Buddha of Medicine” and tall shapely figures. This room is where I rejected my pencil choose a pen and focused on the shapes that filled the room.
This was a wonderful experience and I would be more than willing to do it again. It is always a pleasure to be with great company surrounded by a cornucopia of masterpieces.

September 12th

Today I had two guests. The multi-talented Geneviève Bourgeois, who made the most wonderful jacket for me last year, came and drew. Patrick Brawley a friend, and fellow Sarah Lawrence graduate, a talented poet, wrote.

We ventured inside, talking and generally dealing with the crowd which was rather intense. I am beginning to think that Sundays at the Met are the busiest days of the week. We made our way through Egypt and America, we started to write and draw in the Middle East, before relocating to Chinese Sculptures, 5th to 8th century.

When we where in the Chinese Sculpture gallery a small boy walked by. Tucked under his arm a large drawing pad. On the page that was exposed he had written in red marker 'Magic on the Balcony' with a stick figure drawing of two people dancing.




House

I am governed by an empty sky;
the gray of dust, texture of chalk.

Home, would I recognize you now,
wood, tile, siding, stucco, knee, back bone?

I have grown accustomed to words
for shelter. Punctuation

a variable foundation.
The elements are here,
and I welcome the winds.




Factors
Day of the Week: Sunday
Occupancy of Museum: Terribly busy, and crowded
Arrived at: !:00
Departed at: 2:45
Read on Commute: The Black Dahlia by James Elroy