Milton and the Goog

Times Square.
(Creative Commons License, Terabass)

As Milton and I came up the subway steps into Times Square, my head seemed to whirl.

It was my first time to New York City, and even though I was almost fifty years old, I was extremely excited. And coming out of that subway into the lights and sounds and smells and people and traffic, I was overwhelmed.

I loved it.

I was very grateful that Milton was with me on this business trip, because he had been to NYC a number of times before. When I told him, after observing the traffic madness, that I would never, ever drive in the city, he told me of the time when he was a teacher and had taken a group of students to one of the museums. Because he was the bus driver, the students and the other teachers had gone into the museum while Milton—long-suffering, patient Milton—had spent the afternoon circling the building in the bus because there was nowhere to park. Around and around and around in that horrible traffic for hours.

I said, “You’re kidding! I would have had a nervous breakdown!”

Milton replied in typical Milton fashion. “Well, I did have quite a headache that night when I got back to the hotel.”

“Well, Bless Your Heart!”

Milton generally took everything in stride. If you’ve ever been in downtown Manhattan, you know that as soon as the light turns green—and sometimes just before the light turns green—dozens of taxi drivers lay on their horns. It can really annoy you until you’ve been in the city for a while, and then you no longer notice it. I understand why they do it—millions of people, hundreds of thousands of cars, so when the light turns green, fer cryin’ out loud, MOVE! Or none of us will ever get anywhere!

It was while we were in the city one afternoon listening to the cacophony of taxi horns blasting away when Milton made a philosophical observation. “I think I know what it means when taxi drivers blow their horns.”

My curiosity certainly was piqued. “You do?”

“Yeah. When a taxi driver blows his horn in New York City, it’s like someone in South Carolina saying, ‘Well, bless your heart!’”

I nearly fell into the street laughing—until a friendly taxi driver blessed my heart and I jumped out of the way.

Herrmann and Wright

Milton was extremely long-suffering with me that week. I had made a list of places I wanted to see when we weren’t in sessions at the conference. A number of them were obscure locations where my favorite composer, Bernard Herrmann, had lived or worked. Milton patiently went with me to each spot, waited patiently while I took dozens of pictures of an actual doorway that Bernard Herrmann had used, and then patiently followed me to the next location.

The Guggenheim. (Creative Commons,
Jean-Christophe BENOIST)

I had a number of non-Bernard Herrmann-related sites I wanted to see too, and at the top of that list was the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum.

As you’re probably aware, the Guggenheim sits on Fifth Avenue overlooking Central Park. In a city that demands that everything be horizontal or vertical, Frank Lloyd Wright’s last major project stands unique. It’s built—amazingly—as a spiral. People who hate it say it looks like a giant toilet. And I can see that, but to me it’s more like a temple—a temple to great architecture and great art.

No Modern Art!

We had one afternoon free, and I said I wanted to go to the Guggenheim—aka “the Goog.” It was eighteen bucks to get in—was that something Milton could afford? “Sure,” he said in his gravelly voice. “I’m interested in the architecture. And I like art museums—as long as it’s not this modern art stuff. I want to look at art where things look like what they’re supposed to look like.”

Replied I knowingly, stroking my bearded chin, “You prefer, uh, representational art, then?”

“Yeah. One time I went to an art museum and they had a piece of yarn—a piece of yarn!—stretched from the window down to the floor across the room. It was the only thing it the room. It. Was. STUPID. People standing around, ‘Oh, look at this! Oh, what meaning! Oh, it’s wonderful!’ Ridiculous!”

I was getting a little concerned about Milton. His neck below his ears was getting red. I’d never seen Milton’s neck below his ears get red before.

“And the millions of dollars these ‘artists’ get paid! All it takes is the right person to say, ‘Oh, he’s wonderful!’ and a bunch of other idiots come running behind him, ‘Oh, yes, it’s wonderful! What depth! What meaning!’ Garbage!”

After a pause, I asked, “So . . . you want a bagel or knish for lunch?”

I thought it prudent to change the subject, as it was becoming apparent to me that Milton seemed to have strong feelings on this topic, most of them leaning in a negative direction. I thought to myself, You know, had Milton been in the crowd the day the emperor walked by, he would have said quite loudly, “You people do realize he’s NAKED, right?”

“Anyway,” he said, calming a bit, “I don’t mind going as long as it’s not that modern stuff.”

“No, no, not really,” I assured him. “I mean, I think they have some of that, but they also have, uh, you know, representational stuff.”

I’ll just jump ahead a bit in the story to defend this statement. I do recall seeing one representational piece while we were there. So it wasn’t a lie. Much.

OK, OK, I felt a little guilty about not being completely honest, but, come on! This might be my only chance to see the Goog, and I was not going to let some philistine, even a nice philistine like Milton, ruin it for me!

The Goog, interior.
(Creative Commons, Wallygva)

The Goog Explained

If you’re not familiar with the Goog, let me explain it briefly. The interior of the building is a spiral walkway. Frank Lloyd Wright envisioned people riding elevators to the top and walking down the ramp, around and around, looking at art on the walls, until they were back on the main floor again. Of course, many people start at the bottom and go up. It really doesn’t matter.

The museum isn’t just the ramp. There are side galleries that open off the ramp. This was a good thing, because during our visit, all the art had been removed from the walkway so that people could examine and really appreciate the architecture.

For any philistine who might be reading this, let me explain: sometimes the absence of art can be art in and of itself.

Cogitate on that awhile. What depth! What meaning!

Yes, we were paying $18 each to go into an art gallery and look at mostly bare walls.

Of course, only those of us with truly elevated taste can appreciate the rich levels of meaning in that. And I was concerned because I suspected that Milton’s tastes were not sufficiently elevated.

Art Installations

As we entered, I thought nervously about a couple of the art installations that we would experience that day. I wasn’t sure what Milton would think of them. I was afraid they might make his neck below his ears get red.

After we paid, we were greeted by the first installation. A school-aged child met each patron and started walking with him or her, engaging the visitor in conversation—normal, non-awkward conversation, such as, “How do you define art?” And, “Where does art begin for you?” And, “What would life be if art were absent?” You know, normal, everyday conversation starters like that.

I was eating it up. I loved the creativity and the fun of it. I glanced back at Milton. I think I saw him mouth, “Get this kid away from me!” I had to laugh a bit. Sometimes the act of having one’s tastes elevated can be painful at first. Ah, but you’ll thank me later, I thought.

As we started up the ramp and our kids dropped away to greet another patron (“another sucker,” according to Milton), we couldn’t help noticing the next unusual installation.

Looking up from the rotunda.
(Public domain)

Right there on the floor of the rotunda, surrounded by gawkers and by Frank Lloyd Wright’s awe-inspiring spiral ramp, lay a man and a woman. They slowly rolled about in choreographed movement, touching hands, rolling away from each other, reaching out again to each other, coming close, embracing, kissing, rolling away.

Picture Swan Lake, only horizontal.

I knew ahead of time that this was going to be part of our experience too. I hadn’t told Milton about it on purpose. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw them, because at least they were fully clothed.

“What in the world?” grumbled the philistine.

“It’s art, Milton. It has meaning.”

Milton’s mouth looked tense. I avoided looking at his neck below his ears.

We started up the ramp, looking wisely at the blank walls. (At least I was looking wisely at them. I don’t think Milton was even trying.)

As we came to them, we entered the side galleries, which, you may recall, actually had art on the walls. I recall one work of art called Football Player. It was two pieces of torn construction paper affixed to a white background. “Look at this!” Milton fumed. “I could do this in second grade! I could do better than this in second grade!”

I wanted to honk “Well, bless your heart!” at him like a sarcastic taxi, but I thought perhaps he wasn’t in the mood for it.

“But somebody came along, ‘Oh, this is wonderful! We love it! Here, let’s give you a government grant to do a bunch more just like it!’ Stupid.”

I smiled blithely and wandered a few steps away, hoping people didn’t realize that we were together. One really shouldn’t talk that way after paying eighteen bucks to get in to the Goog.

Anish Kapoor . . . Yes, That Anish Kapoor!

We finally reached the pièce de resistance of our day: a sculpture installation called Memory by Anish Kapoor.

Yes, Anish Kapoor, the guy who designed the ArcelorMittal Orbit in London and Turning the World Upside Down at the Israel Museum and Mother as Mountain in Minneapolis!

Yep, that Anish Kapoor.

Screenshot from “Anish Kapoor: Memory.”

Memory was egg-shaped. Memory was rusty. And Memory was huge—so huge that it had to be constructed inside the museum, so large that you couldn’t see it all from a single location. It blocked one passageway, and you had to walk around from another location to see the other side.

Here’s a description from the Goog itself:

Memory’s thin steel skin, only eight millimeters thick, suggests a form that is ephemeral and unmonumental. The sculpture appears to defy gravity as it gently glances against the periphery of the gallery walls and ceiling. However, as a 24-ton volume, Memory is also raw, industrial, and foreboding. Positioned tightly within the gallery, Memory is never fully visible; instead the work fractures and divides the gallery into several distinct viewing areas. The division compels visitors to navigate the museum, searching for vantage points that offer only glimpses of the sculpture.*

Fascinating! I was eating this up. It really is like a memory, I thought. You can’t see it all at once. You have to look at it from different aspects. And it’s rusty, just like memories can be.

Milton took one look at it and proclaimed it to be a “rusty oil tank” that “looks like something I could dig up in my back yard.”

I felt blood starting to flow to the skin on my neck below my ears.

Screenshot from “Anish Kapoor: Memory.”

After viewing different portions of Memory from two different galleries, we entered a very special gallery dedicated to a third portion of Memory. It was completely empty. On the far side of the room was an opening in the wall, about three feet by three feet square, that matched a perfectly square opening on the side of Memory. You could stand near the opening and look inside of Memory at . . . nothing. The darkness inside made one think of how memories can be filled with darkness, or how memories can seem endless, or how memories. . . . Well, come up with your own meaning. I can’t do everything for you.

A middle-aged female docent stood near the opening in her prim skirt and blue blazer. There was a tape mark on the floor about two feet away from the wall. I stepped close to stick my head through the hole and look in.

“Please say behind the line!” said the middle-aged female docent in a sing-songy voice. Her fingers were steepled in front of her blazer, and she bounced her fingertips off each other as she said each word. “Please stay behind the line!”

Now. I completely understand and totally support the idea of keeping patrons away from expensive works of art. But this was a hole in the wall. How could I possibly damage it?! But we had to stay back because it was “art.” And they were paying this poor woman to stand here all day fussily keeping patrons (“suckers,” maybe?) to stand farther from it.

At that moment I wondered whether there might be some merit to Milton’s views on this stuff. But I shoved that thought to the floor of my brain and stomped on it.

Mission Accomplished

Speaking of Milton—I looked around, and he was gone. Maybe I had been moving too quickly for him. Maybe he was still in a previous gallery, gloriously reveling in the aesthetics. Probably not. Maybe he had accidentally fallen into the Memory hole. No, not likely either. So where was he?

I went back out to the walkway and looked over the wall, down, down, down to the floor of the rotunda far below. There sat Milton on the edge of a planter. Even from this height I could tell that he was a totally dejected museum patron. His shoulders were slumped. He stared vacantly into space. I noticed for the first time that his hair was starting to gray. Suddenly I wondered—was it gray when we came in here?

He sat there with his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand, watching the two fully clothed young people roll around on the floor, touching hands, rolling away from each other, reaching out again to each other, coming close, embracing, kissing, rolling away. . . .

I thought it was probably time to go.

As we left the Goog that afternoon, I felt a sense of accomplishment. My efforts to elevate Milton’s tastes had clearly met with some success. His aesthetic tastes used to be in the gutter. Now they were in a rusty oil tank.

*https://www.guggenheim.org/exhibition/anish-kapoor-memory

Copyright 2022 by Steve Skaggs

What depth! What meaning!
Marc Chagall, “Paris through the Window,” Solomon R. Guggenheim
Museum, New York City. (Public domain.)