Museum Time

It's 3:16, "Perfect, plenty of time." Standing at the base of another equine monument to a hero of some sort I gaze up at the threatening sky and the treacherous roads that surround me. "Goddammit, when will everyone get off the Rocky steps?" I wonder to myself and begin pacing in circles around the anonymous brass man on horseback, who is held in the air by a mish mash of animalia and goddesses and a sad fountain at the base. I do a lap, look up, do another lap, still a a father and son posing for pictures so I can't get my coveted 'devoid of people' photo. It's 3:23, "Screw this."

I cross the road brimming with sedans and quickly ascend the stairs Rocky famously defeated; silent mental cheers at the top. The Philadelphia Museum of Art dwarfs me yet invites me in, with it's familiar neoclassical architecture and promise of impressive artworks. Stepping inside the door the security guard tells me that the galleries will start closing in about half an hour. I look at my watch again and it's infallible military-inspired face whispers to me that this man is exaggerating the museum doesn't close for more than an hour at 5 p.m... Conflicted I tell the man that's fine, and yes you can check my bag. The blond cutie behind the ticket desk is equally hurried telling me since I'm entering rather late I can return tomorrow for free, I explain I can't, "I'm just here for the day from New York."

Two nights ago back in Manhattan our family friend Bonnie helps me buy my Megabus ticket to Philly, and her neighbor and working artist Joe gives me some info about the Philadelphia Museum of Art. He tells me a couple must-see works like Burning of the Houses of Lords and Commons by J.M.W. Turner and especially Christ on the Cross by Roger van der Weyden. These recommendations resurface when Blond Ticket Man asks "Are there are works in particular you want to see?" Two rooms circled on my map I start up the grand central staircase, sidestepping rowdy youths waiting to leave, and giving the clearly not-mature-enough-for-her-age white girl funny looks.

At the top I leave the juveniles and the juvenile in me behind and focus on the map; "Burning of the Houses of Lords, I definitely want to see that, soooo... To the right!" I hurry through the empty galleries and reach the smaller room with the Turner, which is suddenly looking me in the face, and it feels like the first familiar thing I've seen all day. I'm in Philadelphia for the first time via New York City where I'm briefly staying following my first semester abroad in Florence. My art history class studied this Turner so I had a strong mental image of the piece and am surprised to see it's smaller than I anticipated. But I feel like I know the vivid brushstrokes and colors. I step close to it, inspecting the textures, I step back, I look at my trusty watch - 3:35, you have plenty of time it says soothing my nerves. Sitting on the lacquered wood bench perpendicular to the painting I devote all my attention to Turner, absorbing it's feeling, admiring the way the flames lick the buildings and sky.

3:39, better get to the other piece just in case. I flee the right wing for the left. Passing the stairs I see the teens have left. A couple rooms in and I can see the van der Weyden in the distance on the last wall. As I dodge a medieval fountain and continue I'm stopped by a guard telling me they are closing off the rooms and I can't go any further. I say okay and look at my watch and it reassures me that these people are really overzealous with this closing business and I telepath back "I know, right?" So I sort of peer over the guard and try to look at Christ on the Cross about 30 feet away. I'm ignoring the guard who probably expected me to just turn right around so I have about 30 seconds this way before he repeats "this area is closing, please move along." I huff and with a final glance at the unique flatness of the piece race downstairs to the modern painting section. I make it a little further here, spotting works by Degas, [watch check, 3:42], Van Gogh, and Monet before being approached by a female guard who is closing this wing ushering me out as my eyes cling to painting after painting like Wile E. Coyote clinging to a cliff, foiled again by the Road Runner.

Dejectedly crossing the threshold back outside a mere 20 minutes later, I look at my watch, baffled, but it says nothing except 3:46. After a few moments leaning against one of the tan columns I surrender and head to the subway to get to the Megabus pick-up. On my way I see a super electronic tall bank sign and I watch in fear as it tells the time, 4:52. WHAT? My watch tries to hide in my pocket but I take it out and realize my whole day has been a sham and my careful timing to leave the art museum to the end has been foiled by my own Road Runner, my Timex.

As silly as this experience was, I did get a taste of some of the fabulous artworks the Philadelphia Museum of Art has to offer. It has also encouraged me to revisit Philadelphia to recover from this embarrassment, and further consider moving there after graduating. I also learned not to try and outsmart museums, just start your day there because they could be great and you won't know if they're closing around you.