I wrote this essay as a descriptive narrative piece for my freshman composition class. I really liked it, and did well on it, so I decided to upload it here. If you can’t tell, it’s about the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City (my favorite city in the world!).
As I sat on the cold marble stairs finishing the last of my once-hot pretzel that had turned hard and cold in the autumn air, I prepared myself mentally for the treasures that lay waiting behind the large glass doors in front of me. Coming here had always soothed my mind while also letting my imagination run rampant, and I was ready for another cultural head-trip. After swatting a few stray crumbs from my scarf, I ascended the white stairs, my footprints almost visible from years of treading the same path. My gloved hand rested on the metal door handle, and I closed my eyes, inhaling slowly as I began to pull open the heavy museum door.
I surrendered myself to the wills of my feet, and they led me inside toward the sights I had become all too familiar with over the years. All around me, groups of tourists danced hurried patterns of excitement over the stone floor, swiveling their curious faces to marvel at the architecture, while small children gazed open-mouthed in wonder at the massive amount of people inside. I stopped to take it all in, resisting the urges of my feet if only for a moment.
After divesting myself of my scarf and gloves, my feet took off, heading left in the direction of the Greek statues. I walked through the hall of life-sized gods and goddesses, frozen in time in cages of white marble. I stopped in front of every statue, trying to picture the sculptor who had created such a masterpiece. I noticed the similarities between the statues, all partly, if not completely nude, wearing unreadable expressions of triumph, indignation, sorrow, or longing. I envisioned the minds behind the masterworks, my brain conjuring images of old men bent double over blocks of marble with chisels in their hands and pictures in their minds. The products of hard labor lay before me in neat rows, and as I passed through the room I realized that each statue had its own unique history.
I kept walking until I got to the Oceania wing. I let the ceremonial masks and costumes invade my pupils, and my imagination soared. The handmade costumes, dripping with beads, came to life before my eyes, dancing and celebrating through Maori tradition. I looked around at the carved canoes and wondered about the people who had used them. How could something so everyday for one person be regarded as art for the next? I wondered about this, all the while bypassing the once heavily used ceremonial objects, and the glass confines to which they had been subjected.
My feet pushed forth, leaving my brain no time to realize where I was headed. The next wing ironically enough, housed the more modern art. Odd shapes and unidentifiable objects jumped out at me from every painting on the wall. I always felt like such an outsider in this hall of images. The harshness of the bright lights hindered my capacity to comprehend what exactly was happening in each painting. I had never liked this wing, but I had to walk through it to get to the more familiar, more comfortable art. The paintings seemed to scoff and jeer at me, sensing my inability to understand their true meaning, so I quickened my pace.
Upon finally passing the last of the self-righteous paintings, I reached the hall of Roman statues. My feet automatically led me towards my favorite of the bunch. It was a statue full of inhumanity and questions. A man sits twisting his mangled, yet fully formed fingers in his mouth. An expression of extreme emotional agony separates him from the figures that surround him. Four young boys (his sons, the plaque says) drape themselves around their father’s body, clawing at him and offering their bodies as his sustenance. Upon learning the story behind the statue for the first time, my face mirrored that of the father’s for a few moments until I finally gained enough repose to move on to the next exhibit hall.
I came across the room of religious relics, and the severity of the pieces forced a hushed calm to settle over the room. An enormous altarpiece loomed overhead, nearly brushing the ceiling with its pointy tips. I tiptoed underneath it, feeling as though a loud step or quickened stride might awaken the weeping Madonnas from their sorrow and mourning. Their faces twisted in the agony of losing a child, and I softly left the room feeling a bit uneasy, yet comfortably at peace.
I wandered unconsciously into the room of the imported Spanish plaza. It was a sparsely decorated, yet extremely lavish space that prohibited my mind from taking a break. I sat on a bare stone bench to collect my thoughts and relieve my aching feet. I willed my mind to rest, but all I could see were highly decorated, expensive looking women dancing the tango with dapper, mustached men in tuxedoes. The women wore flowers in their long black hair, the men had roses in their mouths, and they all moved in time to a silent song that could not quite permeate my already overloaded senses. I longed to join them, but I knew it was illogical and impossible, and yet again I let my feet guide me toward my next destination.
They glided over the heavily trafficked marble floors until I reached the main staircase. I scaled the stairs two at a time knowing exactly what I would find at the top, though unsure of how I would receive it this time around. The staircase seemed unending in my anticipation, as though I were traveling the wrong way on an escalator, but my pursuits were rewarded with a new floor full of art to rediscover. As I traveled around the carpeted floors of the second story, I came across images of French cafés and outdoor scenes from two hundred year-old paintings, as well as month-old photographs forever memorializing the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina in black and white 8 x 10s. I walked past fantastical, prehistoric statues created to terrify the onlooker, yet they merely intrigued me. I stared at the ancient sculpture; at the Pegasus wings, the horse hooves, and the lion’s tail, and wondered what exactly I was looking at.
I walked back downstairs, my subconscious controlling my movements, and I wandered unknowingly to my favorite part of the museum. I walked past the old stone walls of partial pyramids, and the faded death masks in the excavated sarcophagi of the deceased. I turned the final corner and there it was: the Great Temple of Ur in all its glory. The huge pool of water before me reflected broken images of yellow and orange trees from Central Park, falling through the wall of windows. The ominous temple beckoned at the far end of the room, and as I stood before it, my feet finally at rest, I felt more welcome, and more complete in my actions than I had ever felt in my entire life.
