Security Guards at the MoMA gift shop, exchanging inside jokes and farewell

Just One (More) Jason Moran Thing +Plus+ What I Thought Looked Like Levels =Equals= Kenny Scharf’s Club Closet

Louise’s piece in The Long Run

Georgia’s and Gordon’s

Clearly Some Unknowns Just Starting Out

Disclaimer: this is about more than one thing.

Our three presenters really spoke the language and I am now so much closer to fluent. Aren’t you?

Attracted to a few blues today, and using the MoMA Audio App as much as I possibly could, sometimes listening to a piece I’d darted away from a floor ago, I long-admired Bourgeois’s hooks, you-know-whose waterlilies, a bangin’ unfinished Cathedral, and an odd title for a fake one. I stridently entered galleries on the left instead of in the correct order, and I started from the top floor (except for six), working my way all the way down, like a darting siamese fighting fish.

Jimmie Durham’s “The Cathedral of St. John the Divine in Manhattan is the World’s Largest Gothic Cathedral. Except, of course, that it is a fake; first by the simple fact of being built in Manhattan, at the turn of the century. But the stonework is re-inforced with steel which is expanding with rust. Someday it will destroy the stone. The Cathedral is in Morningside Heights overlooking a panoramic view of Harlem which is separated by a high fence.”

Donald Judd was dusted. Or undusted, depending on how minimally you stop to think about it.

Studies for Pau Brasil rang my bell, but I never found a final.

Joan Jonas and Jason Moran made pure sonic bliss together, entwining visually matched materials, spanning across a gallery leading to a passageway on the 5th floor. I was looking for what another educator said to: “Four or five newly hung pieces in passageway, try and find it, it should be there.” I won’t share the visuals except for what illuminatory mystery you have here. An auditory, ambulatory delight. Please look at it.

I nearly skipped Club 57. One of those “But what if I hadn’t?!” museum moments. It was what completely and totally fluttered my butterfly wings. Scharf, creating an audile’s chamber second to the gunk and blacklight, brought in the literal funk of an old New York City. Michael Holman’s masterful secret Samo files — rapt, was I and so very close to alone. Not as crowded in this dungeon they warned us about, and I could stretch out my cerebellum sweets. The films of Michael Holman, as placed in the tendrils of a dancelife basement, are the most well kept source of Basquiat’s pre-fame charms, the unexploited mister; he was the only one capitalizing on his talents at that stage. Much has been stolen from him and from Holman, but these films showed a time before when.

Lastly, I loved seeing this install from all angles, my “one thing”. I found the most riveting piece of the moment for me was what looked like a line of levels on the backs of panels. Have a look: Tell me what you think they are instead.