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Nancy's Labyrinth

So, Robin and I went to the Met last weekend to see a temporary exhibit of artifacts and photographs from Papua New Guinea Coaxing the Spirits to Dance: Art of the Papuan Gulf. It was of particular interest since we spent a little time there last summer (Papua New Guinea, not the Met...). The exhibit was interesting and informative, if a bit small. But that's not why I'm writing this. You see, there is a gallery inside the Met that strikes fear in my heart. The European Paintings. Yes, those venerated canvases hanging elegantly in their galleries, bringing back memories of private school art musuem excursions, and long-winded lectures by past teachers. Actually, it's not the art that strikes fear, but rather the galleries themselves. For someone who is proud of the fact that she does not need to ask for directions, or has no desire for a thief-magnet GPS unit in her car, this exhibit has become my own private hell. There has not been a single visit to this gallery that has not resulted in my geting absolutely lost within its confines. Robin has dubbed it "Nancy's Labyrinth." There are no tiny signs within the exhibit to helpfully point a lost visitor toward, say, the Chinese Art or the Sumerian stone tablets. Each time I visit, in my head I outline a short story in which the protagonist finds herself trapped past the museums closing, only to escape years later into a post-Bush apocalypse in which the museum has been shuttered for good, art and culture being regarded as evil, corrupting societies, encouraging them to think and explore other cultures....oh wait, that's now.

Ummm....

What happened to May??? After a horrifically busy last half of the semester, I fell of the face of the earth. Or at least the internet. But I'm back now and should be popping in with a bit more regularity. You've been warned.