My work ID card gets me in free to some of the museums around town, so last Friday the BF and I went to the Whitney Museum to see their special Edward Hopper exhibit. Edward Hopper did a lot of his painting at the Whitney when it was an institute, before it was a proper museum, so they're well-suited to put on an extensive show. Conclusion: the Whitney is holding out on us.
The Whitney is not a very large museum. It's smaller than the Guggenheim, loads smaller than the Met, and could even be smaller than the Frick now that I think about it. That's actually why I like the Whitney. It's the perfect size for my chicken-like attention span. The Hopper exhibit was about six rooms large and by the time we reached the last room, I was all arted-up and ready to go brag to passerby about my sophistimicated sensibilities. But the BF observed that the Whitney only put out about an eighth of the Hopper paintings that they actually had in their collection. See? They're holding out on us, man! Somewhere in this city, art junkies are shaking and sweating for themes of sexual isolation and the alienating aspects of American life. Soon they'll be looting the postcard stands in Central Park for Charles Sheeler photographs and digitally retouched pictures of Times Square; the despair created by the juxtaposition between the two is almost as good as the pure Paris-era Hopper.
If you understood that, you are. Such. A. Nerd. Congratulations. Have a clown smoking a cigarette.