Subject:
bored?nothingtoread?checkthis: 7/25,Streaking at the Met Museum, Fitzcarl, New York Press
Date:
Fri, 27 Nov 1998 02:19:24 PST
The Complete Article
Streaking at the (7/25) Met Museum, Fitzcarl
New York Press, August 6-12, Page 21
Paradise Lost
by Melissa De La Cruz
Friday Afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum's roof sculpture garden,
just high enough so that Central Park treetops resemble puffy cotton clouds of green topiary nestled peacefully between skyscrapers.
We're sipping champagne and enjoying the view, our companions an off-weekend
Hamptons culturati crowd: midtown ad execs and their horsy-faced dates
in bright Pulitzer prints, some pretty-boy college types showing off
European boyfriends and the sounds of French-, German-, Japanese- and
Australian-inflected English adds to the contented, appreciative buzz.
It isn't a bad scene, and one that surely repeats itself every Friday
afternoon in the summertime.
Except perhaps, for the naked black man lying supine in the middle of
the terrace. Between Rodin's "Three Shades" and the hulking shadow of a
boxy Tony Smith creation, he is, in effect, a living human sculpture,
head to the ground and body curved to reference to a typical Rodin
composition--all dancing muscles and burnished skin. The crowd is
intrigued, but not disturbed, quietly contemplating. It's New York,
after all, no one really looks twice. It's not polite to stare, after
all, and this is a polite crowd, also a heavily white one. But the kind
of white people who are comfortable with artistic expression,
especially
of an African-American kind. A naked black man on the roof? Didn't we
see that at the Whitney once?
But this is the Met, where this kind of spontaneous reaction to the
art on display just doesn't...well...fly, and soon enough, a
stern-faced
older man in a gray uniform approaches the naked man. A few words are
exchanged, and we watch as the the black man nods his head, somberly
straightens himself and heads for the nearest bench, walking slowly and
unabashed, toward where his clothes are neatly folded. He begins to
dress himself.
A smattering of applause, and then the crowd returns to perusing the
view, speaking quietly to themselves. So it wasn't a musuem showpiece
after all. What an interesting anecdote to tell at dinner!
"That was extraordinarily courageous," says a spectador in a crisp
white broadcloth shirt and orange silk tie to the newly-clothed man.
"You are very brave." He repeats, articulating the general audience
response: Brav-oh.
Fitzcarl, the artist who staged the impromptu performance piece,
explains that he was moved to his gesture because, "although we admire
Rodin's sculptures nobody sees their significance." Up here, he seems
to
posit, more attention goes to the view from the roof than the artwork.
"Art is so static. A naked body--well, that makes people think. I
wanted to make people think about what Rodin was doing."
Carl has an easy demeanor, saying he was "just inspired" by seeing
the
Rodin, and that "he doesn't take his clothes off in public on a regular
basis." An artist himself, Carl says he works mainly with natural
materials, proffering a tote bag filled with leaves and branches as
examples of what he uses to create "poems and pictures, mainly from the
Bible," which he sells downtown, on the streets of the Village.
He says he was told by the man who approached him that "if I didn't
put my clothes back on, a special officer from the precinct was coming
just to see me." Carl laughs: "My sister is having a baby this weekend,
and I'd like to see her. I didn't really want to get acquainted with
the
special officer." Then he turns from the Rodin to look out over the
Park.
As we take leave of Carl, we can't help but notice that huddled in a
far corner are a number of gray-uniformed Met officers. Moving closer,
we hear them speaking rapidly to each other in hushed tones.
"Well it's not really appropriate.."
"Just can't allow that..."
"Interference..."
A verdict is reached, and three of them, a ruddy-faced, dark-haired
woman in a very tight red suit, whose rotund proportions can easily be
described as Botero-esque, and two men, whose faces echo those of
rank-and-file bureaucratic character villians in dozens of Tom
Clancy-inspired Hollywood action movies, move purposefully toward Carl
with a determination that belies their excitement. It's not often that
museum security is so severely threatened. They make the most of it.
They watch, tight lipped and edgy, as Carl slowly gathers his things,
a backpack and his tote bag filled with leaves, and escort him out of
the roof garden, forming a phalanx in front and behind him. Carl walks
with a resigned air, as if knowing all along it would come to this.
A small opposition is voiced--and the crowd murmurs: "It's a shame."
"There's really no need." "No disturbance, really." It's not enough to
register a formal complaint, though, not enough for any of us to go up
to the woman and her henchmen and say, "Hey, they guy's put his clothes
back on. What's the big deal?"
Carl is led away to waiting police and issued a desk-appearance
ticket.
"I wonder if they execute," someone jokes, and we return to admiring
the view once more.
--MELISSA DE LA CRUZ
한국말하는 인터넷 영어튜터 Internet English tutor. Kakaotalk, LINE and Skype ID: fitzcarl -- call/text 1-646-770-3506 -- https://www.facebook.com/EnglishTutorInNewYork -- QQ and Wechat: 1504212709
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Streaking at the (7/25) Met Museum, Fitzcarl 1998
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