I only worked at the Met (the museum, not the opera) (I never know if that's clear) nine months, from September to May my first year after college—I was working as an assistant at a talent agency, but it didn't pay enough to cover my bills, so after a summer poorly telemarketing for an off-Broadway theater, I started working Saturdays at the audioguide rental counter at the Met. I've written about this before, in essays that probably don't exist anywhere online, how I'd walk every morning from my shoebox apartment on First Avenue, north and west through the richer and richer blocks of the neighborhood, until I reached the Met. But it's the sort of thing I could keep writing about forever, finding and repeating the sentences for what that weird year (less) felt like, being broke and young in a rich, old city, feeling small in a huge museum until it, very weirdly, started to feel like a home.
Max Ernst
Max Ernst
Max Ernst
I only worked at the Met (the museum, not the opera) (I never know if that's clear) nine months, from September to May my first year after college—I was working as an assistant at a talent agency, but it didn't pay enough to cover my bills, so after a summer poorly telemarketing for an off-Broadway theater, I started working Saturdays at the audioguide rental counter at the Met. I've written about this before, in essays that probably don't exist anywhere online, how I'd walk every morning from my shoebox apartment on First Avenue, north and west through the richer and richer blocks of the neighborhood, until I reached the Met. But it's the sort of thing I could keep writing about forever, finding and repeating the sentences for what that weird year (less) felt like, being broke and young in a rich, old city, feeling small in a huge museum until it, very weirdly, started to feel like a home.