Avery Fine Arts and Artchitecture Sanctuary

Fucking J from the architecture school just plastered his squat, sweaty body up against the front door to the library - presumably his charming way of saying Hello - and now every time I look out longingly all I stare at is the greasy smudge his torso left against the glass. This is my current perspective on the outside world.

These past couple of weeks have been quite, quite horrendous, in a very self-indulgent way: failed relationships before they even start; roommate fights; too much heat, not enough sleep, no desire to eat (somewhat untrue); cigarettes, white wine, red wine; family problems, canceled dates, worn friendships; stomachaches, headaches, heartaches; self-deprecation, self-deprivation, guilt, silence, blood, sweat, tears, and ice cream, lots of ice cream. Save for the cigarettes, none of this superfluous bullshit that I call "life" is at Avery. None of that meaningless drama. Yes, naturally, there is sexual tension in every cubicle and smirk and inquisitive stare, but it is safe. Not innocent, but not destructive; everything is acted out in gesture and double entendre and library etiquette, whispered from ear to ear. No one going to fuck you over in a red zone.

A couple of posts ago, I wrote about how terrifying it was that many of the patrons who are here day after day during the summer are the same people who are here day after day during the academic year. They never leave, they don't have lives, they have bad social skills, they are alone, etc etc. Then I thought, why do I come here? Yes, I am aware that the main reason is because I get paid to. But I can get paid to show up at other places - Anthropologie, Books of Wonder (best children's bookstore in the city, with an impressive original Tin Tin collection and a yet more impressive band of DILFs), maybe even the ICP someday (LOLZZZ). Fundamentally I come here for the same reason that you all come here: to escape. Outside of Avery is 100 degree heat and people. Inside of Avery is sweet, sweet A/C and books. Instead of the perpetual cyclical "why did I do that?" "why don't you love me?" (Beyoncé shout out, natch) "how will I fix this?" "will things ever be the same?" train of thought, you think about things beyond yourself here! You research artists and theories and eras that you never knew or don't understand or never lived through so that you can get completely outside of your droll, depressing life. You come here to learn about things that are more important than Life's little "learning lessons," aka regrettable, irreversible mistakes. You make your research a part of your world and your life, one much more enriching and engaging than boyz and other Columbia things. And eventually none of the shit you pulled will be memorable, and you will move on. Avery makes this happen. This is what Avery is for - to escape your problems by learning about ones that actually have impact. It's an interesting place. There are interesting things here that you won't find in many places Outside.

Some, though. As I was shifting books in the NH section (finally you can walk through the aisle without a helmet! And you can actually get to the Jeff Wall books! Quick, someone do a thesis!), noticing museum catalogue after museum catalogue, I forgot how much I liked going to museums. When I was a freshman, hating NYU, I used to take long, brooding walks from my dorm at 10th Street and 5th Avenue up 72 blocks to the Met every Sunday. It's so huge, of course, that I could go to a new section every time I was there. Then I'd go to the café, get lunch, read. Before I left I'd usually check out the Hudson River School paintings because I really liked them at the time, and still do, not even so much for their intricacy but for their sheer vastness. The last time I went to the Met was to breeze through the Costume Institute's American Woman or whatever exhibit, which wasn't that good and which was followed by my breezing through one room of the Picasso exhibit before the museum closed. I hate breezing past art. They made it for you to look at, damn it. Where did that passion go? Into the Hudson River, where my thesis will eventually lie? Into my hatred of Clement Greenberg? Even though I work where I do, surrounded by books featuring the works of practically every artist and architect who has ever practiced, I forget how much art matters. Much, much more than such-and-such kissed such-and-such and what-will-I-wear-to-the-prom (I still sometimes wonder). So instead of complaining to everyone I know about my fake problems and making them wary of my company, I'll just stake out a place here and educate myself.

Germany vs Spain,
GA.