al museo por favor

After being away from the city for ten days—doing the kind of extreme traveling which made those ten days feel like ten weeks—I was feeling the need to repent for all that time in nature. Coming home I felt eager to exploit the rich Porteno culture that—in lieu of the daily grind, and my ravenous desire to travel—I had largely and sadly neglected. Though I returned from Patagonia under the illusion that I had been transformed into a naturalist (after my liberating hike, and one night of real camping) once in back the urban setting, all I really wanted was great food, a trip to the museo, and a desperately needed manicure. Unfortunately, as I had failed to accomplish even the slightest amount of work over the break, not only did I not see a restaurant, museum, or nail place over the next seven days, but I barely saw the light of day since I was inside working so much.

However, following a most grueling week of unburying myself from loads of truly professional procrastination, I eventually emerged—only slightly emotionally scarred—with no remaining commitments other than a leisurely weekend at the museos. Unable to convince anyone to accompany me on Friday to visit the modern art museum, MALBA (Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires), I put on my black tights and tight turtle neck and went alone.

The radio taxi dropped me off in front of the modern marble architectural facade. Artsy looking chicos sat around talking and smoking cigarettes on the black granite steps leading up to the MALBA. Though a 30 foot noise meter, reminiscent of a traffic light, flashed intermittently onto the esplanade, casting a neon glow of modernity on the loiterers below, I couldn’t help feeling a sense of nostalgia for the steps of the MET back home in New York.

The foyer contained some of MALBA’s most interesting pieces, and opened up onto the light, airy atrium above, where Pablo Reinoso’s spaghetti benches could be seen worming their way up the museum’s bleached white walls. I indulged myself in a tranquil and lengthy stroll—the kind that can only be accomplished whilst alone—through the fairly small museum, and three hours later left after having looked over several things twice, and sneaked into some kind of cartoon film series.

Enredamaderas: spaghetti benches (Pablo Reinoso, MALBA)

Saturday, I was still committed to urban relaxation, and was curious about this Museo de Artes Plasticas, which I thought my senora had recommended to me. (Later she said she’d never heard of the place—though neither of us was surprised by the miscommunication.) After two taxi drivers let me out of their cabs because they had never heard of the museum either, the third taxista drove me off with a dubious confidence. Minutes later we arrived at a museum that I’d been to before—El Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes. I was irate, to say the least, but I decided that rather than lucklessly continue my quest, I might as well go inside.

What the Museo Nacional De Bellas Artes lacks in aesthetics it makes up for with a glorious and extensive collection. I had been to the museum the previous month, but walking through the long corridors for a second time I discovered so many things I hadn’t seen before, and felt an excitement towards the pieces I remembered particularly well—like with a lost friend, or when rediscovering an old book.

One floor of the museum, is completely dedicated to Argentine artists, and boasts one of the wackiest modern art wings I’ve ever seen. Walking through the modernist, fauvist, surrealist, abstract zone, of bold, elaborate colors, thick paint, grotesque sculptures, and absurd installations, I felt like an ant lost in wonderland, scaled down by the massive works. Occasionally another museum-goer would turn a corner and reassure me that I wasn’t actually lost in this giant space, where for the most-part the only voice that was heard was the bellowing automated response when someone got to close to a painting.

After having my morale boosted by my lovely second date with myself, I decided to persevere on in pursuit of this mystery museum, El Museo de Arte Plasticas. After several ill-fated attempts, I finally arrived at the entrance to the Bosque Palermo, the exact Argentine version of Central Park. Sprawling lawns with people trying to catch the tail end of summer, fathers and daughters rollerblading, friends ridding their bikes, people jogging, horse drawn carriages trotting around a muddy lake filled with paddle-boaters. All so familiar, and yet so distinctly Argentine. In the place of pretzel and hotdog vendors, are churipan, and churro vendedoras, and the colonial bridges and buildings of the Bosque could not be more different to the cement jungle which encloses central park.

At the center of all this was a beautiful building, which contained a very modern gallery in the first floor—El Museo de Arte Plasticas. A friend was already waiting for me outside. The two of us went in, perused the gallery devoted to mostly Argentine art from the 20th’ century to the present—which was interesting, and at times provocative and comical—and had lunch in the museum café, surrounded by garden installations and low hanging trees.

Next weekend, al museo por favor....