By Alexis Moore
The MET is a fantastical odyssey. Years of history, worlds of visual poetry sit – there for you to remember the past, to see yourself more clearly, to exist in a different time and space. It is a vast maze of paintings and people. It is easy to get lost in. I did, of course, and so I found something.
I stumbled upon it in the midst of an intense flurry of work and stress and peering over the cliff into adulthood. Also, my phone was dying. So I sat, and then I wandered, and there it was.
It reminded me of something. The art was great; full of wondrous beauty and talent and special somethings; a sort of testament to the idea that what makes “true” art is not age or someone important’s say so*. But I got stuck in their words. The placards told the stories of their art, and were woven with such pure love and wisdom that I was reminded of what I had forgotten. Why do we make art? Why do I make art? My constant state of self questioning meant these answers were often lost.
Their words gave me hope. Imagine healing hands coming out from walls – lifting you up, nursing your wounds. It was me asking “Does it even matter?” and in return, a “yes, DUH, here’s why.”
That cliché about kids having some second sight that adults seem to have lost? It’s true. I got to go back to it and find a new sense of wonder. It was magical.
I captured some of their works in crappy iPhone photos. They were originally meant just for me, and thus don’t even try to do it justice. Of course, all rights go to the artists, who are brilliant.
Featured photograph credit: Ana Corey