We entered the Frick Collection to escape the rainstorm as it assaulted the Upper East Side. Exhausted from the sudden onslaught of culture thrust upon us, we plopped ourselves down on the elegant sofa in front of Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot's The Lake. To the right of us, Frans Hals's Portrait of a Man, to the left, the artist's Portrait of a Woman. The artworks numbered, people holding earpieces, entering the numbers, holding the sets to their ears, hearing the inside story of the works of art: what message the artist hoped to relay, his technique, the secret life's of the subjects portrayed. "Notice the iridescent folds of fabric that leave one weak in the knees." "Take note of the eyes which seem to leap from the canvas." As patrons moved from one portrait to the next they stopped in front of The Lake; in front of US. We had no number attached to us, yet people stopped and observed us.
Wouldn't it be funny, he said, if we sat here holding up numbers. People could punch in our numbers and hear the real stories of our lives, not what we portray ourselves to be, but who we actually are. I giggled. This provoked a dirty look from security. It seems mixing laughter with fine art is frowned upon, or maybe it was our appearance: hair wet and matted to our heads, our collars soaked, shivering. "Art should warm you, not leave you cold." He said putting his arm around me. We exuded happiness. You could practically feel it pulsating from us. People gathered around us pretending to look at the portraits and the painting in the background, but we felt their eyes on us, and when we looked up they averted their gaze from us to the canvases and raised their hands to their chins in a pensive pose. Our love was living art!