Coming of Age: The Wonders of Being Ten in New York

I visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art with my parents and sister a few weeks ago and I am proud to say this is probably my fifth visit since living here! Still, in all of those five visits, I have not witnessed anything like this and it made me chuckle for the rest of the day.

The Met carries art spanning ancient history to modern day Pollock - and everything in between. I usually find myself gravitating towards the European Paintings, The Annenberg Collection in particular, which houses so many of the French Masters: Manet, Monet, Renoir, Cezanne, Van Gogh, Gauguin, and Picasso. On this visit, I also stumbled into the Wolfe Collection, or as I now refer to it: The Nineteenth Century Playboy Collection.

Look, I am as mature as they come have no qualms about nudity and often fault Americans for being particularly prudish in their disdain for all things sex. Perhaps this is why I was so taken with what I am about to describe.

Picture a room full of these paintings:

Now picture you are ten. A ten year old boy. With your father. You are visiting the Met and seeing a few cool things (swords from the War of 1812!) and some less cool things (an Inkan tunic). This museum is huge and you are kind of over it. 

All of the sudden you see boobs! And butts! Naked ladies! Your father eyes this collection seconds before you do and realizes there is no turning back. At once, together you are staring at an orgy (although your mind lacks a word for this at your tender age) of four girls and one guy! Nevermind they are technically nymphs bathing as a satyr interrupts them. Your father's eye widen and he knows he is in trouble for not referencing the scouting report of off-limits areas your mom has carefully created for you to shield you from such obscenity. Alas, the damage is done and you cannot unsee these butts.

Collectively, you and your father begin giggling and clap your hands over your mouths to stifle the laughter in this sacred, hushed place. Your father is immediately transported thirty years back. You are equals and - as such - both equally embarrassed and intrigued at this forbidden site. Finally, after a few moments of stolen ogling, your father winks at you and takes you by the hand (and you still let him do this because you are ten), ushering you away to safer images of dancing ballerinas who are appropriately covered. You can't wait to tell your friends who will beg their parents for a Met trip, their parents thrilled at the unexpected opportunity for cultural exposure. Your friends, however, will be disappointed because your mom anticipated this and texted her scouting report to your friend's mothers. Your friends' only hope of such sights are the exposed boobs on a twentieth century Burkina mask.

I sat there and took this all in. I, too, was having a hard time containing my laughter. In some ways, the whole thing could have been taped and placed in modern art. I just kept thinking to myself: "This is totally how I want my children to learn about the birds and the bees."