MoMA with Mami

It was 3.30pm and I had a few hours to kill until the first night Mingle at 7pm. I knew it would be lame, but was strangely looking forward to it. It was the first time that the Art department had found funding for me to attend a conference overseas, and everything about my journey out to New York was feeling novel.

I was staying just off Washington Square Park and liked my small hotel room. The walls were burnt orange with pictures of old Hollywood stars hung at irregular intervals, the doors were heavy and black, and by the window sat a comically plastic spider plant.

I flicked the small television on and as I unpacked my few belongings I let an old episode of Frasier play in the background for kicks. I remembered how grown up I had felt as a kid when I stayed up late enough to watch that show, and realised how back then I had never questioned the fake laughter that they slather on top like vaseline. It was so striking now.

I laid my travel documents on the desk and thought back to Arrivals at the airport. I had waited for a taxi amongst a river of flashing red lights and obnoxious horns, and observed that every mustard- yellow vehicle had a poster for the Cindy Sherman exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art stamped across its doors. The image of her strange glory was everywhere.

In the run up to the conference I had spent several nights drinking coffee until late and working on the art paper I was due to present in two days time. I knew I could do with a little break from the world of academia before the whirlwind of networking and sucking up was to begin, so decided to check the Cindy Sherman out. Plus, being a cultural activity, I knew I could expense the whole thing as part of my professional development and staying current for the school, etc, etc, etc.

*

I bought a concession ticket and wandered around the gallery. It was quiet and I felt a great sense of space in the high-ceilinged rooms. I have always preferred to visit museums alone.
After awhile I started to feel tired from it all, the journey and being on my feet, so when I saw the sign for the Museum cafe I decided to stop. I ordered a bagel with my coffee as it seemed appropriate, and was told to take a seat while they were brought over.

I sat by a large glass window in the corner of the cafe and took out the book I was reading at the time. My eyes glazed over the words and I found myself distracted by the courtyard scene below. A small tour group were gathered around some rather fragile looking structure, as two children played tag next to a water feature.

“Anne Morrow Lindburgh?”
“Huh?” I asked, looking up.
“Sorry. Coffee and bagel right?”
“Oh, yes.” I replied to the lady stood by my table with a small white tray. She had a warm smile and eyes that glowed ephemeral; she must have been in her fifties.

“I think I was a little older than you when I read that,” she said while setting down a small coffee cup and toasted bagel before me, referring to my copy of Gift from the Sea. “I remember finding some real pearls in there.”

We talked about the book and I ended up telling her how I was in New York to present my first conference paper. She seemed genuinely excited for me, and told me how she had always wanted to study for her masters in something, possibly literature. I encouraged her and we conceded that it

is never too late to try something you have always wanted to. I felt her glow fill me as our conversation flowed; she was remarkably easy to talk to. I heard my voice as I spoke and it sounded richer and clearer than usual. The space seemed magical and I liked myself around her.

It was only when she was called to help back at the counter that our conversation was broken. She wished me all the best and said it had been a delight to talk to me. Her name was Mami.

My coffee had gone cold by the time I drank any, but I didn’t care at all.

*

The ‘mingle’ was pretty much as I expected it to be; awkwardly networking with a cup of cheap free wine. There was a vague feeling of cliquey-ness in the air, propelled by the way that minglers knew the resumes of other minglers and the inevitable hierarchy of university affiliation.

I met an array of new academic acquaintances and spent the early part of the evening chatting to a researcher from Toronto. He had a great toothy smile and reeled off recommendations for the best pizza spots in town for me to try out. I had no idea when I would find time to, but I liked how he mapped the city out by slices and didn’t plug his work to me.

I later spent a good while stood by the drinks table talking to a striking woman wearing charcoal cigarette pants and a black cashmere sweater. Built like a stick insect with a sharply bobbed haircut, she had a way of nodding her head so fervently that the immediacy of each moment with her felt magnified and somehow terribly important. I loved that.

I agreed to attend every talk and panel I was asked to, and felt a little kick each time a new friend agreed to come to mine. Though, as I stood to the edge of a room full of relative strangers, I wondered with unease why I was there. How did I get to that moment? My stomach was telling me I had done something wrong.

In the weeks leading up to the trip I had found dark strands of thought occurring in my mind, ebony capillaries unexpectedly sprouting in my cerebrum like persistent weeds. Questions with lingering shadows appeared, as did aeriform feelings that something bad was to happen. And there was always too much smoke to see what, or to find answers and peace.

A flushed academic face asked to squeeze past me to the free wine, so I shook off my thoughts and decided to get my coat. I had hit the proverbial jetlag ‘wall’, and tiredness began to dull all other sensations.

Riding back in a cab to my hotel, I felt soothed by city lights and the familiar look to the streets. Once back, I used the miniature kettle in the room to make myself some tea before curling up to sleep in my little orange womb.

*

On the first day of conference presentations you could practically breath in the active buzz emitted by engaged discussions and unreined ideas. In the morning I attended papers on contemporary definitions of an artist, iconic LP artwork, and the friendship between Gaughin and Van Gogh.

Later on the afternoon I caught the last part of a talk about art in literature, and I thought of Mami from the MoMA. As a petite auburn-haired academic flicked through slides and made circular hand gestures, I wondered what Mami’s opinions on it all might have been. I wished for her that she could have been there, perhaps it would have inspired her to pursue further study like she mentioned. I regretted that we didn’t swap some form of contact. I had no email address or telephone number; nothing.

*

The social event for that evening was a bigger deal than the mingle. Nearly everybody I spoke to during the day mentioned it - “Will you be at the mixer?” “Let’s chat about this further at the mixer?” “My brain is overloading right now. Bring on the mixer!” Suddenly it felt as though everything about my trip was building up to this mixer. I found myself thinking how so often all people really want to do is consume and feel tiny bursts of pleasure. Sometimes it can feel like work, education, and business, all those things that we do, are really just to fill the time in between taking tea breaks.

The venue called ‘The Den’ and was just around the corner from the main university building where everything was taking place. I walked over there with a small group of cinematography students I met at a presentation on the work of Alejandro Jodorowsky.

When we arrived The Den was already heaving with conference attendees standing around, praising one another and attempting to get drinks from the rather modest mahogany bar. I stayed with my new friends for awhile, but was running out of things to say about avant-garde aesthetics, when one of them exclaimed “oh shit - its him.”

“Who?” I asked, whipping my head around and expecting to see some celebrity like Jerry Seinfield, or Kelsey Grammar. But all I saw was a crowd around a slightly built man in a tailored grey suit.

“It’s Professor Luffman. His essays are so famous in the field. His deconstruction of Van Gogh’s curves gets cited, like, everywhere. Man, I hate to act like a groupie but I gotta go introduce myself.”

I felt myself zone out as rosy-cheeked intellectuals hovered like flies around someone who had once published a well-received critique about somebody else's soul. The energy in the room had shifted. I realised my glass was empty, so moved to the edge of the room to find a ledge to set it down on.

At that time I had still to learn that it is usually not worth it to let bore-ish men buy you alcohol. A spiky haired middle-aged guy asked if I would like a drink. “Sure,” I said, and as I watched him attempt to get service at the bar and guffaw after each one of his own jokes, I regretted it like a self-inflicted headache. I wanted out of the mixer.

I drank quickly and after making up an excuse about preparing slides, I grabbed my coat from the cloakroom and exited onto the street. As I stood on the curb and and waited to hail a taxi, I thought about how hilarious Mami would have found the evening. It felt like all the observations and snarky jokes in my head were shared with her. She was my ally as I left the party alone.

*

My head felt fuzzy when I woke up the next day. A slight hangover worsened by a bad night’s sleep. I kept running through my presentation, and found I felt incredibly underprepared. Twice in the night I stirred, thinking I had overslept, and struggled to fall back asleep. Worries and doubts at that hour become remarkably distorted beyond regular reasoning, and being on that plane of half- awake consciousness exposes one to a myriad of memories biding to re-surface. They wait, timid as lambs, until the quiet of night to come out from the shade that time cast upon them. I encountered childhood, holidays with my mother and things I had wanted to be when I grew up.

But none of this needed addressing before I gave my talk.

The room’s coffee-maker and me made the strongest coffee that we could, before I showered, put my smart clothes on, and hauled ass to the university.

As I was setting up in the seminar room, a few people took seats, and I could make out some familiar faces.

I started off okay, though found my intonation and flow was entirely different to when I had practised alone.

And then I saw her there. Mami on the back row with a childlike grin.

I stopped mid-sentence, and felt struck by a humbling feeling that all was as it was supposed to be in that very moment.

I had lost where I was entirely, and faked a dumb cough to cover up my discrepancy. I glanced down to my notes, found a cue, and resumed where I was. I continued to present, flicking through slides with a renewed conviction and vigour. I came to my favourite part in the talk and felt pleased when I heard a few chuckles. I looked over to Mami to see if she approved. But she was no longer there.

I rushed through my last few points, missed out a case study and quickly read out my summary statement. As soon as my small audience began clapping, I said thank you and quickly exited the room, leaving the slideshow on and all my papers scattered as they were.

I turned a corridor, and saw her silhouette half way down. I picked up my pace and began pushing past people to get to her. But somehow the distance between us seemed to grow. My march turned into a run but I couldn’t get closer.

I needed to catch up and grab her just to see if her limbs were real, whether soft skin and solid bone really hid under that woollen jumper. If I touched her, would her body turn to air and release like a net of balloons to the ceiling, carrying on up through ventilation shafts and out into the polluted atmosphere? Or perhaps a strange face may turn around, shocked and horrified by the maniacal urgency of an odd girl chasing her.

The prospect of finding out if it was her or not was like viewing my bank balance; one of those moments where you are scared to know the truth. So I stopped running.

But later on, as I sat through the closing keynote and couldn’t focus on the words being said, I felt as though every cell of my body regretted it.

*

I finished writing up my notes from the past few days and was done by 8pm. My flight was early the next morning and the evening was all I had, so I decided to go out and walk.
I felt overwhelmed by the beauty of the city at night. So many different lives and dreams passing by each other. Even the wide eyed tourists were endearing to me. I walked to the Rockefeller centre and spent a little time meandering by the trees strung with fairy lights and looking at all of the closed shop windows.

I knew that I was close to the MoMA. I decided to walk past it on my way back.

I stood outside the great modern building and peered in; there was nothing to be seen, really.
I so wanted it to be open. To be able to go inside; to sit with Mami and explore the gallery with her, discussing and comparing the pieces we liked, laughing and making jokes about things we saw in the space. I pictured the two of us playing tag amongst the artworks, playfully chasing one another while surrounded by beauty. Just the two of us and not needing another soul.

I didn’t want to go anywhere else, so I sat on a small bench just opposite the dark entrance.

The air was cool and even though I felt alone I felt calm.
I knew that Mami’s magic wasn’t in the MoMA.
I tried to tell myself that it was everywhere, intrinsically within me or something like that. I wanted to believe it so much that I think part of me did.

I sat and I waited, but she never appeared.