Last week when I arrived in the United States I went
first to New York City. Some years I go there immediately upon my arrival in
the USA and some years I go at the end of the winter break. But whenever I go,
there are a few constants in my visit. One habit/custom/ritual/tradition is
that I go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art every day. I know some of you wince
or moan to think of going to an art museum every
day, but as I explain it to people, for me going to the Met is actually like
going to a diner.
I come from diner pilgrims. For years my mother made
a pilgrimage to Frisch’s for her morning coffee and visit with the regulars.
Obviously she could have eaten breakfast at home while her children readied
themselves for school and quickly ate cereal. But there was something more in
store for her at Frisch’s. Then about 20 years ago when my father retired from
the Cincinnati Fire Department he began going to a diner for breakfast
conversation. Somewhere in the 1990s he started going to the Imperial up the street for his
chatfest and coffee. Yesterday, my first full day in Cincinnati for the 2013
Christmas break, I slid into the booth opposite my father for the morning
habit/custom/ritual/tradition.
These daily visits to the Met in New York and the
Imperial in Cincinnati are more alike than I realized.
When I go to the Met in New York every day, I go for
maybe an hour, maybe an hour-and-half—that’s
all! I go to check in, start the day, see some familiar things, soak in an
atmosphere and plan that I know like the back of my hand, and then go about the
business of the rest of the day. When my father goes to the Imperial six days a
week (he takes Sundays off), he goes to check in with the regular denizens, officially
starts his days, sees the familiar in an atmosphere and plan that he knows like
the back of his weathered hand, and then goes about the business of the rest of
his day. He is there for about the same amount of time that I am at the Met. Wow! The similarities…
But there is more than just a same old same old mundane routine in common. For starters, both
visits offer a kind of sustenance. Hmmm…the
Met feeds the soul while the Imperial feeds the body (although, I hasten to add
that Kurt, one of the regulars at the Imperial, reminds the buddies that “we
sure don’t come here for the food!”). But the parallels continue on into a more
profound realm. Both spaces have a great deal of the “expected.” For example,
when I go to the Met, I always go and see at least one thing I know very well.
My father knows exactly where every character will sit in the Imperial. No one changes his “role” or his “place.”
So why does one go every day?? Is there something
more we seek to find, or happen to find in making these daily stops?
Last week at the Met I visited two of the paintings
I know extremely well. One is a Rembrandt and one is a Brueghel. These are
paintings that have been in my consciousness for 20 years, and I have taught
them, used them in tours at the Met, and reflected on them. And yet…in my
visits last week, I caught something new
about these old favorites.
Rembrandt’s Aristotle
Contemplating the Bust of Homer is one of the art works I have talked about
the most in the last 12 years of teaching art history. Rembrandt has painted the philosopher
Aristotle standing in darkness with light shining on his face, his sleeve, and
his right hand. While his hand rests on a bust of Homer, his stares past it,
projecting an introspective and melancholy wonder. This piece is my “diner
philosophy” of the Met. I come by there all the time, and yet…and yet, might
there be some new revelation? Last week as I looked at the familiar Rembrandt,
I noticed for the first time that the philosophers' arms seemed like scales in a balance.
This wasn’t a big surprise since the piece is one of contemplating avenues to
pursue in life—teaching or wealth and fame. But I had never really seen this familiar work
in quite the same way. Were 'Aristotle’s' arms actually weighing the different
paths in life like scales in a balance? After seeing this piece for so long, I
loved how there was something still new to be gleaned from such a familiar
piece.
On another day, another “diner visit” to the Met, I
soaked in the familiar Brueghel painting of The Harvesters. This is a piece that at first glance is about the
silly average bumpkins in this Dutch society. But as I learned long ago, there
is subtext to the Brueghel piece, biting commentary about contemporary politics
in the Dutch world. But the other day I am staring at this familiar piece,
standing in practically a well-worn groove for me in front of this painting,
when I decide to look around in the painting a little more closely. The bumpkins are all there, yep,right in their
places, but as I look in one of the trees on the side, I see something
completely new to me! There in one of the trees is hiding a devilish boy, waiting
for the perfect time to throw apples down on some unsuspecting denizens! How have I been looking at this painting for
so many years and missed this little gem of humor?! But this is exactly what I
mean about the Met being like a diner for me…I go regularly, see the same faces
(albeit ones of paint!) and yet, I keep going not just for the expected, but
for the revelations, the epiphanies, the joy of the unexpected!
The Imperial is not unlike a museum—there are old
faces in these booths, and like the Brueghel, they may come across like average
bumpkins, but there is more than meets the eye. If, as Kurt attests, the food isn’t
the draw (and yes, I can attest to it, the food is unremarkable in every way!)
then what is the draw for these regulars who congregate six days a week at this
diner??? We can make breakfast and coffee at home. But there is a camaraderie
that attracts and binds. For this particular group of men it is a common bond
of losing wives.
But I think there is still something more. There is humor, there is learning, there is
sharing, and yes, there are revelations and epiphanies at the Imperial. To
continue with the Brueghel parallel, there is often political subtext as well…
Yesterday I was very aware of the human connections
at the Imperial, and in a melancholy way, because of the absence of some of the
humans. About a week ago, Dick Kitz, one of the regulars and among the most
colorful canvases at the Imperial, died suddenly. He was in his late 80s, so
maybe it is never exactly “sudden” then. This guy sat opposite my father in his
booth for years. Dick never varied in his breakfast order—it was always the
same: fried eggs hard, a stack of white bread, and a cauldron of steaming coffee.
But each day Dick or my father would bring some problem to the table; some days
they discussed electrical wiring, some days, concrete issues (i.e. cement), and on and on, the same old same old ritual of trying
to solve some problem. But woven through their talks was humor: political humor, old
man humor, and even more. It was as if these Brueghel-esque characters were
weighing the choices they had made in life, seeking a little validation and
approval for how they have lived their lives.
On our refrigerator at home hangs a sign that Dick
once gave my father: “I can only please
one person per day…today is not your
day. And tomorrow doesn’t look good either.” Dick Kitz was an ornery and
eccentric man. He could also melt your heart with a laugh or a reminiscence of
his beloved, late wife. He might also bake you a cake if he was in the mood.
There was that joy of the unexpected with knowing Dick.
At his funeral, Dick’s daughter told my father that
she was sure her father’s morning visits to the diner had prolonged his life.
There had been a kind of psychic sustenance with the treks to “The Institution
of Higher Learning” (as Dick dubbed the Imperial). The day or so after his
funeral, my father told me that Dick’s son came and made the morning pilgrimage
to the Imperial. When he left he paid for the breakfast of everyone in the
Imperial.
Of course my visits to the New York daily haunt of
the Met, and my visits to the Cincinnati daily haunt of the Imperial, do happen
to be timed to the season of Advent. This is a season of theologically anticipating the birth of the Christ child.
There are expectations tied to this season, and a trotting out of routines and
customs and rituals and traditions. This is a season suffused with
expectations, and that can often be part of the problem. We can “expect” the
holiday to go a certain way, and often we might be let down, since the reality
almost always will compromise our expectations.
But there is a strange convergence for me of the
Met, the Imperial and Christmas. All three share some longing. In a word, in all three, we
long for joy. I walk across the park,
go into the massive structure on Fifth Avenue, lope up the grand staircase, and
long for joy at seeing these examples of artistic triumph. Whether these men
know it consciously, or not, they seek the Imperial diner on Glenmore Avenue
every day because they long for joy, the joy of human connection and
fulfillment. Might our joy be enhanced by opening our eyes to the familiar and
seeing some of the surprises around us?
Advent is a wonderful opportunity to remind
ourselves of expectations. In the midst of our familiar we must always be open
to the joy of the unexpected, an
important life-affirming sustenance.
No comments:
Post a Comment