Saturday At the Met

Here's one thing you should know about me.
My sense of direction is irrefutable
It's a trait that's so innate
That it's absolutely indisputable
I always know which way is north, no matter where I go.
So I don't understand why I can't find my
way through the fking Metropolitan Museum!

I got an email, "Dear Deb,
We should meet so I can give you back your book."
Okay.
Another email, "Dear Deb."

"Dear Deb."

"We should meet somewhere in public so you won't think I'm a crook."

"At the Met museum in room twenty-one there's a landscape by Monet
You can't miss it!
So I'll see you there at half past twelve this coming Saturday."

Okay, first of all.
Who doesn't just say, "Let's meet at Starbucks."
The Met museum is friggin immense.
And secondly, the Met's the only place in New York City
Where the traffic patterns don't make sense.
Sure, they've got a map, oh, excuse me, a plan, as they call it
But it isn't worth my spit.
You'd be better off following bread crumbs
Through this godforsaken museum.

Hey, come on, let's go.
We've got a whole museum to visit.
We should probably pick up on the pace.

Jason, we are at the Met
The thing that makes it special is
It takes a while to wander through the place.

This says to skip this room.

Shhh...

Turn left and zoom to the suits of armor.

This says that x-rays show an
entire other portrait on the canvas below.
Isn't that weird, how it just disappeared?

Excuse me, is that a Monet?

That's a Manet.

Monet.

Manet.

Gah.

He wanted to come here
He loves it, I know
Look, he's running ahead like a kid in a toy store
And me, I'm here watching him go.
He likes the masters.
While I prefer wackier things.
So, of course we wind up in separate wings.
I should go find him
Not leave him alone
But I don't know, lately, when he's right beside me
I'd rather be off on my own
I mean, maybe I'm crazy.
But really, I think he'll be fine
If he goes his own way
And I just go mine.

Excuse me, I'm looking for Gallery Twenty-One?

I think this is Gallery K.

K?

K

Aaah!

So much for Saturday at the Met
I thought I'd find her here
In search of modern art, and yet
I'm unimpressed by Clint and Dali
It takes a sharper eye
To paint things like they're supposed to be
Give me a portrait where a face is a face
Don't give me theories about negative space
Why would I care about what isn't there?
Except where what isn't there is Claire
I wish she'd look at this painting

Look at this painting...

Describe what she sees

How it swallows you up like a storm.

Is she moved by that column?

Those orangey yellows

Or maybe those trees?

Still, keeping you warm

Would she tell me she hates it?

How everything shimmers red and carries you away

Or say something wrong?
Would it change our perspective
From the moment before?

Why did we come here?
I'll never know.
It's like the colors in this painting might get lost
If he came in to say hello.

Hello

Hello. Ready to go?

Oh, ready. Let's go.

That stupid email, "Dear Deb,"
I don't think I'm gonna ever find my book.
I've been wandering around for an hour
Or, well, twenty minutes.
And I think this was a trick.
I've been duped into spending my afternoon
In this awful, crowded, stupid, ugly, horrible museum.

You must be Deb!