Why We Slide

I spent many years of my life under the impression that I loved art museums.   Those monoliths of culture, those labyrinths housing the relics of our time, those places where I belonged and felt inspired.  I knew museums were important, the type of thing I was supposed to love, and so I dutifully visited their hallowed hallways. I traipsed through museums in several continents and dozens of cities—with friends, family, boyfriends and strangers—until they turned into a giant unrecognizable blob of oil paint and gift shops.   But I didn’t admit that to myself.  I was a proud museum-goer, pretentiously soaking up culture and loving every ounce of artsy cred I was getting.  

It wasn’t until recently that I started to wonder about me and the museum—coincidentally, the pending title of my upcoming instructional manual on how to pretend you like museums.  As my already-pathetic attention span dwindles down to close to nothing, I find it increasingly difficult to buy into the idea that I love museums.  I have loved specific museums and specific exhibits, but I’ve begun to realize that I might not be the museum type I once assumed I was.  Huge buildings that require quiet contemplation without definitive end time are not exactly my thing.  This realization is mildly disorienting.  Have I changed as a person or was I lying to myself all along?

My best friend Majken is a graduate student in museum studies.  Not only is she a museum lover in the purest sense, but she’s interested in what museums say about society, what role they play in our communities, how they function in a much broader sense.  Majken’s totally genuine interest in museums is awesome.  Talking to her about this field, I’ve realized a few things that shed light on me and the museum. Not all museums are for everyone. It’s okay if I like some museums—read: small, interactive ones—and would rather avoid others.  It’s okay if I don’t want to look at 16^th Century Italian art for very long. Or ever.   In some ways, this helps legitimize my budding identification as a non-museum lover. I can pick and choose which museums I visit and for how long.  This is a relief.  I can casually like museums.   Love some, abhor others, spend no more than an hour in any one.   

This brings me to the slide.  I’ve always liked the New Museum—small, modern, close to Brooklyn, with a sweet roof-deck and bookstore attached.  When I heard the New Museum was installing a 40-foot slide I was as excited as most 24-year-olds get when they hear the word slide.  I went to the exhibit—Carsten Holler—on opening weekend and waited an hour to race down a three-story tunnel slide on the Bowery on a strip of canvas.  In addition to the slide, there was a mirrored carousel, a nude sensory deprivation-tank and upside down goggles.  I’m not sure if any of this is art. If it is art, I’m not sure it’s any good or what it means. Moreover, I'm not sure I care. What I do know is that the exhibit was really fun.  Kids and adults were chatting, laughing, experiencing the odd dissonance between playground and art museum.   As I left the museum, I didn’t feel that faux-sense of cultural validation—thank God that’s over and I can eat—but I did feel happy and intrigued.  Maybe, for me and others in my camp, that’s exactly what we need from a Sunday trip to the museum.