MoMA, I’m home.
For a fairly solid little-over-a decade, I’ve been dying to visit the Museum of Modern Art. Ever since I heard of the place in my 8th grade art class and all the wonders it supposedly held. The photos in my textbooks all had ‘From the collection of The Museum of Modern Art, New York’ tagged along the bottom, essays detailed its collections and all those that studied there in residence or performed there as part of their installations.
MoMA has been my spiritual home since I was 13 years old. And today I finally got to see it.
Anything I say from this point would just be garbled flailing and nonsensicals; I cried when I found the Frida Kahlo works, discussed the Spanish writing and music scrawled across the top of Self-Portrait with Cropped Hair with an elderly lady who was equally emotional over seeing them. I saw the Lichenstein and Warhols, a gallery over from the Picassos, the Cezannes and the Munchs. Dali’s Persistence of Memory, van Gogh’s Starry Night, Picasso’s Guitars series… it’s just… I can’t even. These are works I have read about, studied, wrote about, compared, contrasted, dissected and HERE THEY WERE.
This was the only place I was dead-set on seeing this trip, and I’ve been humbled completely by it.