Salon of the Venuses

On Sunday, I sat on the bench in Gallery 811 of The Met and communed with the atmosphere created by Cabanel’s The Birth of Venus. From afar, Venus looks like she may be asleep, but under the shadowy crook of her arm, her eyes are very much open and narrowed at the viewer. I enjoyed watching patrons, upon passing by her, do a double-take, slow to a stop, and inevitably pull out their phone to capture her. Observing the passersby as part of the artwork, I made penetrating eye contact with certain individuals as they broke their gaze from the painting. Their perception upon realizing they had just been perceived was jarring for us both—I’ve come to really love the highly discomfited shock of meeting a stranger’s eyes.

I feel drawn to this vantage point again and again, as it helps me get a read on the quality of my psychosexual energy that I’m putting out into the world. I was last here in June, on the cusp of the first truly brutal NYC heat wave, steeling myself against a week without air conditioning, under the deep influence of lustful misery. Perhaps I had been here inadvertently trying to seek council or solace from Venus herself.

In June, I sat here and sobbed. On the last day of August, I made several men jump… just by looking at them.

Lately, I notice a new Rodin every time I’m at the Met. This one is Pygmalion and Galatea. From the exhibition copy:

According to classical mythology, the sculptor Pygmalion so desired a marble woman he had carved that Venus, the goddess of love, granted her life. Rodin depicts the statue of Galatea quickening at the sculptor’s touch, her glowing body emerging from unfinished stone. Yet this Pygmalion is not the handsome youth of tradition, but rather a stocky, bearded man resembling Rodin, whose name is prominently inscribed next to the mythical sculptor’s on the side of the base. In his quest to endow his figures with living force, Rodin regarded himself as a modern Pygmalion.

At this point, a guard announced to the room that the museum would be closing in 15 minutes. Feeling that I was in a bit of an art trance that I wished to prolong (which would not be possible if I were jostled amongst the rush, noise, and confusion of the departing crowd), I asked him what the most direct way to exit would be. By way of answering, he beckoned me across the gallery, unhooked a velvet-rope partition in front of an elevator, and escorted me down to the lower-level members’ entrance. I thanked him and walked back into the 5 p.m. sunshine.