Shopaholic Takes Manhattan
Page 69
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I arrive at a street corner and come to a standstill. A lit-up taxi crawls past — but for some strange reason my arm doesn’t rise. Across the street is a stall selling fake designer sunglasses, and I feel a sudden pang of longing to go and rifle through them. And look there, that shop’s doing a discount on Calvin Klein jeans. And I do actually need some new jeans… And I haven’t even been into Dean and Deluca…
Oh, why couldn’t the Guggenheim be in SoHo?
Hang on a minute.
People are pushing past me but I don’t move. My eye is riveted by something fixed to the facade above an entrance. I don’t quite believe what I’m seeing.
The word GUGGENHEIM stares back at me, as large as life. It’s like God heard my prayers.
But what’s going on? Has the Guggenheim suddenly moved? Are there two Guggenheims?
As I hurry toward the doors, I realize this place looks quite small for a museum — so maybe it’s not the main Guggenheim. Maybe it’s some trendy SoHo offshoot! Yes! I mean, if London can have the Tate Gallery and Tate Modern, why can’t New York have the Guggenheim and Guggenheim SoHo? That sounds so cool!
I cautiously push the door open — and sure enough, it’s all white and spacious, with modern art on pedestals and people wandering around quietly, whispering to one another.
You know, this is what all museums should be like. Nice and small, for a start, so you don’t feel exhausted as soon as you walk in. I mean, you could probably do this lot in about half an hour. Plus, all the things look really interesting. Like, look at those amazing red cubes in that glass cabinet! And this fantastic abstract print, hanging on the wall.
As I’m gazing admiringly at the print, a couple come over and look at it too, and start murmuring to each other about how nice it is. Then the girl says casually, “How much is it?”
And I’m about to turn to her with a friendly smile and say, “That’s what I always want to know, too!”—when to my astonishment the man reaches for it and turns it over. And there’s a price label fixed onto the back!
A price label in a museum! I don’t believe it! This place is perfect! Finally, some forward-thinking person has agreed with me — that people don’t want to just look at art, they want to know how much it is. I’m going to write to the people at the Victoria and Albert about this.
And you know, now that I look around properly, all the exhibits seem to have a price on them. Those red cubes in the cabinet have got a price label, and so has that chair, and so has that… that box of pencils.
How weird, having a box of pencils in a museum. Still, maybe it’s installation art. I walk over to have a closer look — and there’s something printed on each pencil. Probably some really meaningful message about art, or life… I lean close, interested, and find myself reading the words “Guggenheim Museum Store.”
What?
Is this a—
I lift my head and look around bewilderedly.
Am I in a shop?
Suddenly I start noticing things I hadn’t seen before. Like a pair of cash registers on the other side of the room. And there’s somebody walking out with a couple of carrier bags.
How could I have not recognized a shop? But… this makes less and less sense. Is it just a shop on its own?
“Excuse me,” I say, to a fair-haired boy wearing a name badge. “Can I just check — this is a shop?”
“Yes, ma’am,” says the boy politely. “This is the Guggenheim Museum Store.”
“And where’s the actual Guggenheim Museum? With all the Picassos and things?”
“To see the Picassos you have to go to the main museum, on Fifth Avenue at Eighty-ninth Street,” says the boy.
“Right.” I look at him confusedly. “So let me just get this straight. You can come here and buy loads of stuff — and no one minds whether you’ve been to the museum or not? I mean, you don’t have to show your ticket or anything?”
“No, ma’am.”
“So you… you can just shop?” My voice rises in delight. “It’s perfect!” Suddenly I see the boy’s shocked expression and quickly add, “I mean, obviously I do want to look at the art. Very much so. I was just… you know. Checking.”
“If you’re interested in visiting the museum,” says the boy, “I can give you a location map. Did you want to pay a visit?”
“Erm…”
Now, let’s not make any hasty decisions.
“Erm… I’m not sure,” I say carefully. “Could you just give me a minute?”
“Sure,” says the boy, giving me a slightly odd look, and I sit down on a white seat, thinking hard.
Oh, why couldn’t the Guggenheim be in SoHo?
Hang on a minute.
People are pushing past me but I don’t move. My eye is riveted by something fixed to the facade above an entrance. I don’t quite believe what I’m seeing.
The word GUGGENHEIM stares back at me, as large as life. It’s like God heard my prayers.
But what’s going on? Has the Guggenheim suddenly moved? Are there two Guggenheims?
As I hurry toward the doors, I realize this place looks quite small for a museum — so maybe it’s not the main Guggenheim. Maybe it’s some trendy SoHo offshoot! Yes! I mean, if London can have the Tate Gallery and Tate Modern, why can’t New York have the Guggenheim and Guggenheim SoHo? That sounds so cool!
I cautiously push the door open — and sure enough, it’s all white and spacious, with modern art on pedestals and people wandering around quietly, whispering to one another.
You know, this is what all museums should be like. Nice and small, for a start, so you don’t feel exhausted as soon as you walk in. I mean, you could probably do this lot in about half an hour. Plus, all the things look really interesting. Like, look at those amazing red cubes in that glass cabinet! And this fantastic abstract print, hanging on the wall.
As I’m gazing admiringly at the print, a couple come over and look at it too, and start murmuring to each other about how nice it is. Then the girl says casually, “How much is it?”
And I’m about to turn to her with a friendly smile and say, “That’s what I always want to know, too!”—when to my astonishment the man reaches for it and turns it over. And there’s a price label fixed onto the back!
A price label in a museum! I don’t believe it! This place is perfect! Finally, some forward-thinking person has agreed with me — that people don’t want to just look at art, they want to know how much it is. I’m going to write to the people at the Victoria and Albert about this.
And you know, now that I look around properly, all the exhibits seem to have a price on them. Those red cubes in the cabinet have got a price label, and so has that chair, and so has that… that box of pencils.
How weird, having a box of pencils in a museum. Still, maybe it’s installation art. I walk over to have a closer look — and there’s something printed on each pencil. Probably some really meaningful message about art, or life… I lean close, interested, and find myself reading the words “Guggenheim Museum Store.”
What?
Is this a—
I lift my head and look around bewilderedly.
Am I in a shop?
Suddenly I start noticing things I hadn’t seen before. Like a pair of cash registers on the other side of the room. And there’s somebody walking out with a couple of carrier bags.
How could I have not recognized a shop? But… this makes less and less sense. Is it just a shop on its own?
“Excuse me,” I say, to a fair-haired boy wearing a name badge. “Can I just check — this is a shop?”
“Yes, ma’am,” says the boy politely. “This is the Guggenheim Museum Store.”
“And where’s the actual Guggenheim Museum? With all the Picassos and things?”
“To see the Picassos you have to go to the main museum, on Fifth Avenue at Eighty-ninth Street,” says the boy.
“Right.” I look at him confusedly. “So let me just get this straight. You can come here and buy loads of stuff — and no one minds whether you’ve been to the museum or not? I mean, you don’t have to show your ticket or anything?”
“No, ma’am.”
“So you… you can just shop?” My voice rises in delight. “It’s perfect!” Suddenly I see the boy’s shocked expression and quickly add, “I mean, obviously I do want to look at the art. Very much so. I was just… you know. Checking.”
“If you’re interested in visiting the museum,” says the boy, “I can give you a location map. Did you want to pay a visit?”
“Erm…”
Now, let’s not make any hasty decisions.
“Erm… I’m not sure,” I say carefully. “Could you just give me a minute?”
“Sure,” says the boy, giving me a slightly odd look, and I sit down on a white seat, thinking hard.
