It was mid March. Friday. I was planning to go to MoMA —it’s open late on Fridays— when we heard that one by one, all museums in New York City were closing to avoid human congregations. That’s when we started watching online virtual tours, artists self-confessionals via YouTube, and revisited forgotten art books in our dusty bookshelves.
I hold a master in Art History from the University of Buenos Aires. I studied art through books, the works sometimes poorly reproduced. The first time I went to Europe I left no artwork unseen in all the museums I visited. Being face to face with those masterpieces was exhilarating. My promenades required meticulous planning, anticipation, and pent up joy. Now, I don’t plan ahead and prefer to be surprised at hidden corners or uninhabited rooms. It’s a reverse Holy Grail quest: there is no pilgrimage to mecca. Mecca is presented to me. By just getting off the Met elevator at a floor that somebody else picked, I have come across unforgettable treasures.
Being six feet apart from others in museums is something I cherish. When museums reopen and implement social distancing, we will enjoy each painting or sculpture at its full, not distracted by proximity. With age, I’ve become allergic to unnecessary chatter, second-hand perfume inhalation, threatening group tours, couture statements, not to mention coughing and sneezing. BTW, I haven’t seen “Starry Night” N95 face masks yet.
— New York City, 4/25/2020