After wandering in the wrong direction for several blocks we jumped in a taxi. The funny thing about taxi's in New York is they're actually nothing like the movies- they don't pull over when you yell taxi and if they do, then they'll decide whether or not they want to take you and not the other way around. But I digress.
We arrive at Frank Lloyd Wright's white spiraling masterpiece and presented our city pass tickets to get in- (side note for anyone traveling ANYWHERE who likes to do touristy things I highly recommend finding out if the city or country you're visiting does these- they may seem expensive up front but when you add up all the stuff you're going to do together, you save a fortune larger than the one you spent on the pass- trust me!)
So tickets done, we start up the spiral and up to the level one gallery, on display are a few of Frank Lloyd Wright's own sketches and models including one of his most famous Over Falling Water. I resisted texting my architect friends with every fiber of my being- actually, it had more to do with not having their numbers in my phone and international texting charges.
Second floor, some impressionism and some more modern surrealist pieces- a Pollock (which I later saw the film based on his life with Ed Harris- awesome- check it out, he's like an American Van Gogh personality wise). I'm rounding the pieces while my friend sits patiently in the foyer rubbing her feet (she also hates modern art). Nearing the end, I come across this piece entitled "Ant Farm" by Roni Horn (there's no image on the Guggenheim website sorry). As I'm looking at this piece I start to think to myself this thing looks like the one page book company did a one page edition of the Kama Sutra. Seriously.
As I'm contemplating this large piece, a large security guard comes and stands beside me and says, "Excuse me ma'am, can I ask you what you see in this painting?"
Now he is asking this question when he and I both know the answer already, so I did what any good demure midwestern girl would do- I lied. I did see shapes and letters in the painting but the shapes were mainly phallic and/or other parts of male genitalia intermingled with... well let's just say intermingled.
I guess I don't pull off the sweet and innocent virginal girl act very well, because the conversation didn't end there, because he tells me that, "this other lady said she saw one big motha f-in orgy up in there!"
Great, he said it. What we were both thinking and I didn't want to hear, now it's awkward and I really can't make my escape to the next painting because conversations never end smoothly after someone brings up sex, unless that is of course that you want to sleep with the other person your conversing with.
Sure enough, if I had any doubts about that, the security guard cleared that up by saying that I was a beautiful woman and that black men appreciate a woman with curves and not any of those "skinny bitches." Now it's strange when someone calls you fat and means it as a compliment, but when they also use it as a pick up line, that's something real special.
The rest of the conversation goes something like this:
Him: So where in New York do you live?
Me: I don't, I live in Fargo (thank God- and that is honestly I think the only time I've EVER had that thought!)
Him: I got a cousin who works for the airlines, you could come back here real cheap if you wanted and stay with me.
Me: ...oh...I see.
Him: Let me give you my number.
Me: *pretending to rummage through bag- I haven't got a pen.
Him: I do, here *takes brochure from my hand* Now let me ask you, do you date black men?
Me: I haven't but I'm in the middle of getting divorced (hopefully that will work?)
Him: I'm sorry to hear that what happened?
Me: He just wasn't ready to be married
Him: Oh he played around on ya? What a damn fool, you're beautiful.
Me: Thanks, I should really be getting back to my friend who is out there waiting for me (WHY did I not think of that sooner? Oh wait I did but this is the first time he's shut up long enough to let me say it!)
I walked away, feeling his gaze the entire way to the corner and grabbed my friend while bursting at the seams with laughter. I begin to relay the story but she wants to take the elevator to the top so we get in and another museum employee is already in the elevator. I decided I really didn't care and continued with the story. Now the other museum employee is laughing with us and trying to guess whose number is on my brochure.
All in all, the Guggenheim was just another museum after a slew of other touristy things and to be honest, if I had to choose between that and the MoMA, I'd go for the later for a lot of reasons, volume of artworks for one and personal preference in art for another, but then again, maybe there's something to be said for a museum where the staff is more interesting than the art...
