On Friday I went to the Museum of Modern Art to be ravished by the Richard Serra retrospective. I love the free Fridays at MoMA, when the place is packed with groups of students who have given over maybe their lives, and certainly their personal appearances, to Art. A staid matron in from the suburbs, I wander alone.

This Friday was better than many, also, in that it was cool and sunny out, and that I hadn’t been let out of my house in some time and so was happy to be free. David was supposed to meet me there and was late and I didn’t care, because I was by myself, looking at art, surrounded by strangers. If you ask me what I miss most about living in the city, I will tell you it is the strangers. When people are strangers they are perfect. When I am surrounded by strangers I am filled with love. As opposed to when I am at the playground.

I wonder if Richard Serra feels the same? Or does he hate everyone? Oh, it’s not all about whether an artist hates or likes people, I know that. But Serra kind of hates people, I think. Or we’re not important to him. That’s probably more accurate. I went into the Sculpture Garden to see his works, and it was like a party there. People were snapping pictures of themselves and of their friends, children were hanging out on the little bridges, a crowd of snackers (soon to include me) occupied the chairs in the snacking area and watched the parade. There was a creepy dude wandering “Intersection II” smiling and telling people they were taking beautiful pictures of the rust. When you entered “Torqued Ellipse IV”, it was like you entered a room in someone’s apartment. Everyone was lit up and facing you. Hey! You wanted to say to the people already there. How is everyone?

None of this had anything to do with the art. Well, the art was made of shapes that allowed people to wander through it and gather in it, but the art wasn’t there for that. The art didn’t like that. It didn’t like parties. It didn’t care about people’s bodies. It wasn’t there to create community, for God’s sake. The art was about something else. What else? It was hard to say, standing there in the late spring sunshine, staring at the leaning slabs of steel that were, according to the signs, not to be touched. Something about eternal shit that is going to fuck with you? And shapes?

On the one hand, I think that art that can’t stand up to a little joie de vivre is pretty shitty art. And yet, I do love the idea that art might have nothing to do with human concerns. It might not reference human form, it might not engage topics of human interest, it might not even be able to be seen by humans, until the Great Salt Lake dries up. Why not? Who says art has to be appreciated by people? It could be a message sent out to no one. Right?