Missed connections in MoMA

I was dressed in a white undershirt, I had been walking around MOMA all evening; I was at the point of asking the nearest person for their interpretation of a piece, because I was done with my own. I didn’t realise you were so cute until I was asking you how you thought the rock and the hand go together in an Italian piece.

and I didn’t really care that you were cute, that wasn’t the point- until you started telling me about the rock being the caption for the hand, cause you had the most intriguing body language. You hovered away and faced between me and the painting, without looking at me too much, but you were still quite clearly committed to telling me in a quiet voice about your interpretation of the piece. I read it as “I want to have intellectual intercourse here, but I’m actually thinking that this guy in the wifebeater is obliquely hitting on me.” If I pegged you right, you should ignore the rest of this missed connection, cause I’m going to call you sexy and tell you that your mind turns me on. If your curiosity leads you forward:

I went over to talk with the security guard who was singing, partly to give you a break, partly cause I thought he would be fun to talk to; he was, we had a great time, he said to keep it on the down low and told me what song he was singing: “That Girl Is Poison”. I hope it wasn’t about you.

we met later unexpectedly on the 2nd floor. I found I liked you more. And then at some point you walked away- I asked your name and you smiled and wouldn’t tell me. I told you that was exciting, but what I wanted to say was: your mind turns me on, and both that and your sense of style make you sexy to me, and I want to take you to a gypsy music concert, or anywhere that makes your mind come alive, cause I enjoy hearing you think.

I live in Montreal and I only have a week here. Contact me and I will meet you for coffee and something you enjoy.

We find this French-Canadian fellow’s gallant tone surprisingly moving — even the phrase “intellectual intercourse” comes off, somehow — to say nothing of the young woman’s apparently erotically charged analysis of Giovanni Anselmo’s sparse conceptual collage “The Scene with the Hand that Points.” There are few missed connections we’ve ever wanted to see salvaged before. The ideal setting, surely, would be a visit to the show of rousing new Carroll Dunham paintings at Gladstone Gallery, which will surely facilitate intellectual intercourse.



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