“Apparently, he’s seduced every good-looking woman in the building,” a Clio added.
“Well, she must have enjoyed that,” a Thalia snorted sarcastically.
And so the nervous chatter went, not just between these Muses but among their many sisters—there were thirteen Calliopes and another fifteen Clios and nearly twenty Thalias, and it went on with more and more joining by the minute. Because there had never been such a need—an open call for help from the collection—there was no sense of the protocol.
One nineteenth-century porcelain Thalia felt unaccountably nervous in the face of this undefined process. She remembered being scrutinized in 1982 by the museum’s Acquisitions Committee, who would decide whether or not she should be purchased for the collection. Many a gloved hand inspected her before a valiant Met curator championed her cause, citing her as a “magical display of hard-paste porcelain frivolity.” She wasn’t that expensive, so most of the Trustees were willing to acquiesce, but one held firm. The formidable board member, Cordelia Wilmington, passed a note to the Committee Chairman that simply read: “Dog.” It was only later revealed that Mrs. Wilmington’s father had run off with a woman who looked strikingly similar to the figurine.
Most of the Muses had entered the collection in the early days of the Met, when Muses were fashionable and the museum would take any art it was offered. The American Wing’s Miss Morse, a.k.a. The Muse (oil on canvas by Samuel F. B. Morse, ca. 1836–37), had been around since 1945. Now, sitting in the Director’s Office, Miss Morse looked overdressed in her nineteenth-century taffeta gown, a stiff mustard-colored confection with a large belt and extravagant lace collar. Next to all the diaphanous fabric, she appeared to be shielding herself from something fierce and threatening.
“I’m not even sure why I’m here,” Miss Morse observed aloud. “Is this some sort of exhibition in the making?” Her voice trilled the sound of an untroubled life, of a woman protected and consumed by the pursuits of her needlework and sketchbook.
“No, sweetie,” chomped a showgirl version of Calliope from the European Paintings collection. As she spoke, she fluttered her eyelashes, which looked as though they might disconnect and flit away like dragonflies. “The museum’s Director needs a Muse. We’re all here to help. It’s a real honor, sweetie.” The word “honor” was pronounced “on-nah,” punctuated by more rhythmic flaps of her lashes.
“What if one does not care to participate?” inquired Miss Morse. “I do not work.”
“Eh, Muse’s dilemma, right? Always on call.” Calliope shrugged her shoulders in a modern gesture of “get over it” that Miss Morse did not understand.
“Quite,” she replied, merely to end the exchange.
In response to the chaos of this new sorority, Eleanor recruited help from the Development Office, where one could always find clipboard-clutching young women trained to assemble and organize.
They began by dividing the Muses into groups by their names, but then, remembering who would ultimately be receiving them, thought better of it. This would be a largely superficial endeavor. And so, for efficiency, the Muses were arranged first by curatorial department (the Director had his favorites) and then by hair color (the Director had his favorites).
Other elements came into play. For example, Muses who could only lean left or right, having been positioned that way for centuries. The left-leaners sloped against the far wall while the right-leaners formed a line along the bookcase. They might have been weeded out from the start, but the leaners were some of the most beautiful and thinly dressed. Michel would want to see them.
Some of the Muses seemed to have their own wind source that sent their gowns swirling and left their hair artfully tousled. Others were almost boneless in their need for languor, draped limply across office furniture as if they were somehow melting. A few love-poem girls had Cupid in tow and played their lyres endlessly, making the office feel like a lingerie department before Valentine’s Day. The tragedy bunch was solemn and defeated, clutching their frown-faced masks with deflated resignation. No one could really tell the epic poets from the sacred poets, but the lyric poets could be found rhyming like dainty rappers. The dancers stretched. The astronomy ladies played constellation games, while the comedians just annoyed everyone by barking jokes among themselves.
“Hey Eleanor, what do you call a Muse who can’t stand up straight?”
“Eileen,” Eleanor answered back flatly, unamused. She’d heard them all.
Most of the Development staff rolled their eyes at this entire endeavor, despite the priority always placed on the Director’s needs.
Daphne, a Development veteran of fourteen years, may have been the sole person who enjoyed these assignments and their proximity to the great man. Michel intimidated and frightened her, but a surprising humanity would sometimes flash from behind his celebrated persona. He seemed to understand the fear he instilled in others and respected the courage it took for someone in Daphne’s position to play along with him, especially at times like this. When he said thank you, it was never as small as thanks. It carried the weight of real gratitude, the heft of a withholding father at a moment of crackling sentiment.
Staring at the pile of women in the waiting room, Daphne remembered when, a decade earlier, a Jordanian sheik had brought all his wives along with him to deliver a stunning amount of cash in several briefcases. “They all just sat there in silence while we judged them, and they judged us,” she recalled to her younger colleague Jamie.
“The Muses don’t seem to judge,” Jamie replied, watching the disorder worsen. “They’re more pushy than judge-y. More demanding, like ‘Get inspired. Now.’ ” Indeed, there was a kind of amateur urgency among the Muses, a frantic desire to get the job done that made their grace simultaneously buoyant and desperate.
Eleanor emerged from Michel’s office. “He’s ready,” she said, without further explanation.
The inner sanctum of the Director’s Office was a book-lined cave with surprisingly little art in residence. The overall impression was neither grand nor timid. Rather, it achieved that most elusive of design effects: the air of inevitability. Of course Michel was here doing this job in this office. One could not imagine the room any other way or with any other occupant.
A large Canaletto painting of eighteenth-century Venice hung over a tired velvet sofa meant for courtiers who did not belong at the expansive conference table. At the other end of the room was a grand desk, tucked within a bay of windows designed like the command station of a ship. A leather office chair rolled behind the desk, but no other chairs sat opposite.
The strategy was simple, and effective: Make them stand. Michel found that enforced standing made interactions brief and more focused. Allowing someone a chair hinted that he might be interested in their views on a variety of topics when, in fact, he usually just wanted them to leave.
Not so today. The auditioning of nearly one hundred Muses was a delightful distraction from the approving or disapproving of mediocre ideas that usually consumed his morning.
Daphne appeared in the doorway and outlined the system that they had developed in the waiting room: groupings according to curatorial department and hair color. She knew this would allow them to move quickly through Michel’s least favorite department. “Shall we start alphabetically with the American Wing, sir?”
“If we must,” he replied with a hint of sarcasm. He was aware of and appreciated the considerable efforts made to keep him happy. Over the past two and a half decades, the museum had grown around his interests and desires, conforming to them like a well-worn shoe, creased and cleft by the repetition of his opinions, so often delivered in the same direction. Like aged leather, thickened by its wear, the result was a stronger museum. He and it, man and institution, had fused into a single entity.
A major crease in the shoe was Michel’s long-held disinterest in American art, reaffirmed when Miss Morse entered t
he room.
“Good morning Mr. Larousse. I believe there has been some mistake,” she began.
“Who are you?” Michel was startled by the sight of a prim nineteenth-century woman holding a sketchbook and wearing an enormous yellow dress.
“Susan Walker Morse,” she replied in a diminutive voice. “I’m titled The Muse, so I suspect that is why I have been brought forward in this way, but I think you will agree that a return to the galleries would not only be appropriate, but a suitable response to my misdirected invitation? I do not think I can be helpful to you at this time.”
“Indeed,” Michel agreed, already looking over her shoulder as he thought to himself, this is not at all what I had in mind.
The next American muse turned out to be quite sizable, a hulking Statue of Liberty hung with drapery as thick as the drop cloths they used to protect the floors when the galleries were painted. She held a paintbrush and slumped herself down heavily on top of the conference table; now seated, the outlines of the dense fabric revealed knees the size of soccer balls. Again, this was not what Michel had envisioned.
“Elllleanooor!”
No instructions were needed. Despite the efficiency of the Development Office, they were unaccustomed to the more delicate needs of the Director. A large, brooding woman from the American Wing would require instant removal. Eleanor guided the giant, stiffly draped Muse from the room like a nurse tending to an aged patient.
Michel raised an eyebrow at this unwelcome display; an American Muse was an oxymoron to him anyway. “Perhaps we should move on to the next department…” he said to Eleanor as she was leaving.
Daphne returned to announce that the Drawings and Prints Department would be next. “They are all grisaille, sir, so hair color didn’t much come into play.”
Michel recognized the earnest delivery of this information, but also enjoyed the ridiculousness of it. “Perhaps we can see the gray ladies as a group, then.”
As requested, thirty-eight women in various states of completion entered the room. Many were leaners, eager to find some architectural feature with which they could support themselves. Others were nearly naked, only a few lines here and there representing their drapery. The engravings were particularly graphic with their bold cross-hatching and piercing linearity. What united them was their exposure: each had something fleshy revealed—a breast, a shoulder, a bare leg, an uncovered back—while some piece of fabric tumbled off their body. It should have had the air of a goddess convention, but instead it was like an old black-and-white photo of a lewd debutante ball, with some sections wildly out-of-focus.
“No,” Michel said with the frustrated disappointment of a boy who was expecting a pony for his birthday and got socks instead. The thirty-eight women would quietly return to their acid-free boxes, sealed from the light and air and bugs that continually threatened their survival. They would not remember their audience fondly.
European Paintings followed, first with a sullen Corot in a long, burlap vest and plain skirt; she could only look down and to the side, as if she were cheating on a math test. But she was French and from a favored department, so despite these limitations she had her (very brief) viewing. The Calliope with the extravagant eyelashes then entered with swinging hips, only to be met with the arched brows and dipping chin of Michel’s wide-eyed disapproval.
“The big guy’s gotta take me as I am, hun,” she shrugged toward Eleanor as she left.
The nervous porcelain Thalia came in next. Michel smiled to himself remembering the “Dog” note from Mrs. Wilmington and the scandalous story behind it. The comedy Muse had luster, but was too foolish for his needs, and Michel was wise enough to know that his Trustees’ desires far outweighed his own.
He dismissed the small pale woman, who was followed by a ceramic group of all nine muses in matching blue and orange costumes. They were sixteenth-century Italian, jolly and good-humored, a colorful squad of cheerleaders before a big game. Unprompted, they sat around the conference table as if they had borrowed the room for a meeting. Michel sensed that he should join them, just to be polite, when Apollo entered. His manner was part manager, part pimp as he cast blinding sunlight across the room. The Muses seemed relieved that he had joined them.
Daphne approached Michel and spoke softly to give him some background. “There is some concern among the group that they not be separated. They are part of an inkstand that was broken up long ago and repaired. They fear they will be divided again. Apollo seems to be in charge.”
Michel nearly slammed his head on the desk, but took a deep breath instead, before summoning his deepest voice, “in aeternum unitum.” Daphne did not speak Latin, but grasped enough to usher the group out like they had finished visiting the Oval Office for a photo-op with the President.
“Daphne, is that all from ESDA?” Michel asked when she reached the door. The acronym for European Sculpture and Decorative Arts was pronounced “ehz-dah.”
“Yes,” Daphne responded. “I took the liberty of rejecting the bronze astronomy muse for excessive drapery.”
“Very well,” Michel said. He enjoyed the fact that actions were always taken to satisfy his robust reputation, however apocryphal it was. This mythology about him took little effort to maintain and at times seemed to describe a completely separate being: a vain lion who reveled in both his own image and his unrivaled conquests as he diminished everyone around him. Some days he, too, felt as though he worked for Michel Larousse. Or that he needed to zip himself into a Michel Larousse Suit to play the character that everyone expected.
Daphne nervously looked down at her clipboard to refer to her notes without a real need to do so. “Greek and Roman is next. Naturally they are the biggest group. I’ve divided them into two sets: the broken ones and the ones from the Greek vases.”
“Bring in the broken group. I imagine that will be brief.”
Daphne left the office and Michel found himself slumped in his chair wondering how a day of certain delight had devolved into such tedium. An hour into this process and he had had no fun at all. Had this been a bad idea, crafting this…this pageant? Or had he wanted something more—not just a talisman of beauty, but a more potent refueling after twenty-eight years?
The broken horde arrived. Missing were mainly noses and arms with a couple of bad restorations reminding him of the questionable plastic surgery of some of his Trustees.
In the early days of the museum, curators and restorers were not shy about putting a new nose—or a random ancient nose—on a statue where one was missing. It never worked: The parts were fine individually, but the whole didn’t make sense as a face. Michel thought that was how some of his Board members looked, with their pinched skin and restored features. It was as if they had gone into the museum’s storeroom and picked out some fresh, often unsympathetic parts to retrieve an ill-advised and unavailable youth.
Like those Trustees, the broken Muses retained an aura of lost beauty, the veil of an exquisite past that hung on them despite their current condition. Michel rarely acknowledged his nostalgia for his own lost beauty, but it was there, and informed much of his behavior. Age had arrived like twilight, slowly and unnoticed. But he resisted its recognition. The Michel Larousse Suit was made in the image of the Young Michel, with his devastating movie-star looks and unshakable swagger. It was an easier fit, and more compelling.
He thought of Lucian Freud, that master of flesh who documented the ravages of aging so brutally. What Freud could do with him now, Michel wondered.
As his thoughts lingered, he realized that he had spent a fair amount of time staring at the broken women, who were starting to look uncomfortable.
“Told you he was weird,” whispered one.
“Total creep,” hissed another.
“Freak,” mouthed a third.
Michel became aware of the awkwardness and responded with reflexive arrogance. At these moments, he never cal
led upon the person directly involved in the situation, but instead returned to the security of Eleanor.
“Elllleanooor!” She appeared in the doorway, and the broken women turned to her with a look that said, “Get. Us. Out. Of. Here.”
No words were needed as she resumed her role as nurse, escorting the collection of wounded creatures past both her desk and Daphne, and back into the hallway.
“There you go,” Eleanor said curtly. It was her way of saying goodbye.
Daphne looked confused and concerned that she had made some fundamental error. Eleanor then turned to her and took control. “We’ll skip the fifth-century Greeks. Too flat for his mood. Who’s left?”
The Modern Department stepped far afield of tradition, offering Brancusi’s sleeping Muse who was without a body, along with Picasso’s portraits of his Muses, known as “the weeping women.” Michel rejected them solely on Daphne’s hesitant description. Like many men, Michel had been known to cave to a crying woman, but not on this project. Their wails and grievances about the great master would be merely tiresome, reminding him of the assistant they once had in the office who cried whenever her memos were edited.
Michel had certainly been present when more than one donor had broken into tears upon seeing their name on a gallery wall. Not out of pride, but because of the tombstone look of the thing. It was a common but unexpected response. He had learned long ago not to comfort the rich. They paid others for that. Even if the looming end to his own long reign made him feel a similar dread. He knew how many pages were left in his book as if the thing itself sat in his hands, waiting to be finished. So he read more slowly, almost sounding out the words to make the paragraphs last longer.
* * *
—
Only the Department of Photographs remained.
There had been some crying in the creation of that department. Its chairman—a tiny, determined woman—battled with Michel like Muhammad Ali fought George Foreman: She took her punches early and often, hanging on until Michel was exhausted. It was no easy sell separating Photographs from the Prints Department, where they were all considered works on paper. But there she had stood, white-knuckled in the face of all arguments. He had always admired her resolve, though he withheld that approbation.
Metropolitan Stories Page 2