Well, the thing at the Met was kind of a bust. The way I understood it, we would be trading bon mots with the artist in an intimate atmosphere suffused with free wine and cheese. Hardly.
My first warning that all was not proceeding according to plan was at the door, when they asked to see my NYU Student ID. Huh? Of course I didn’t have one, but they let me in anyway. At first things looked promising. The main hall was all decked out with really cool pink and purple lights, there was a stage for a band, and people were drinking from wine glasses. Unfortunately, what they were drinking from wine glasses was ginger ale. That’s right, there was no alcohol. The crowd was all undergrads, and the room was too massive, noisy, and crowded for us to really mingle. The place was also incredibly overheated. We trooped dutifully through the exhibit, which seemed to go on forever and consisted entirely of mildly interesting black-and-white photographs. And as for meeting the artist? Well, it turns out she committed suicide in 1971. Whoops.
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