It’s Christina’s World
Smack dab in the middle of Manhattan, snuggled tightly within a neighborhood of rowdy Irish pubs, low rent juice bars and residential towers, sits the steely Museum of Modern Art. Within and on its stark white walls, a massive collection of contemporary and modern art draws millions of tourists and local visitors every year. And if you’ve ever been in the museum at closing time, you may recall being snapped sharply from your contemplative (and dare I say, performative) analysis of a Jasper Johns as a fleet of security guards bellowed through the echoing corridors for you to get the fuck out.
They don’t actually say “get the fuck out” but the subtext is clear. And often the reason these bossy sentinels are clearing the museum floors is because an army of cater waiters, shivering in the subzero loading dock, lies in wait ready to spill onto the floor and set up a massive event in a very short amount of time.
Years before I began running my own events, I started out as a cater waiter. I did it all. I bussed, I bartended, I served from the left and cleared from the right. I folded napkins for hours and dragged wet garbage across the lawns of massive estates at three in the morning. But nothing was quite like booking an event at MoMA. In the beginning, working a MoMA event was like striking oil. I mean, have you ever stood in the middle of an empty museum? When I was a kid, I was obsessed with the book, From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, which is about two kids who hide out in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. And as a twenty-four year old with a bad haircut and a proclivity for escape, I had my chance in a museum just twenty-eight blocks south.
Because the space is so large, the museum can accommodate massive cocktail receptions on multiple floors. And a massive reception means a large staff count which means one can easily disappear for a long stretch of time and no one will notice. And I did just that. I would first make sure I was assigned to a bussing position — very important for my plan.
I would whisk around the first floor, picking up empty glasses from hightop tables and when I had a nearly full tray, I’d hollow out a hole in the middle of the dirty glassware and make my way to a pre-selected bartender that I knew. I’d stand next to the bar until a full drink found its way into the middle of my tray, hidden by the surrounding glasses, and off I’d go to the elevator bank. Once the doors closed, I would enjoy a few sips from my secret cocktail and travel up to the fifth floor to see Her. Christina. I would like to say she was waiting for me but she was clearly preoccupied with a farmhouse off in the distance.
Andrew Wyeth’s Christina’s World lives on its own, separated from other works, on a wall near the elevator bank on the fifth floor of the museum. In an otherwise meticulously designed space, the placement of this particular painting is bizarre but that’s where she is. And I love her. I love the melancholy color palette, the expansive grassy field and her intense grip of the earth beneath her, the color of her dress, the loose whisps of her hair. The subject of the painting suffers from Charcot-Marie-Tooth disease which is a motor neuropathy that attacks the nervous system. We only see Christina from behind but the tension in her crawling body is palpable. The pain in her rigid fingers is electric. To me, it is perfect. And I loved visiting her all alone in the quiet, five floors above the chaotic party in the lobby below. It was Christina’s world and I was just happy to be in it.
When I began running my own events, I lost touch with her. I was crushed under the weight of making sure I ordered enough plates, tables, forks, napkins, tablecloths, LED bars. Did I make sure to request the specific liquor we needed for the specialty cocktail? Had the kitchen remembered to bring ice? Had I submitted the staff list for the security team? Did the table legs have felt tips for the sensitive floor? I’m breaking out in hives just thinking about it. I did countless events at MoMA: corporate events, exhibit openings, holiday parties, garden fêtes. I was at that museum so often I was on a first name basis with the loading dock guys, security guards and the special events team, who I remain close with today. In that one building, I was witness to performances by Regina Spektor, James Blake, Robyn, St. Lucia, Patti Smith, Cyndi Lauper and Justin Vivian Bond to name a few. I held a door for Brad and Angelina before the breakup. I told Rufus Wainwright I liked his suit covered in skulls. I stood with Hillary Clinton in a back hallway. If someone had radioed me at that moment, searching frantically for Hillary, I would have calmly pressed the walkie button and said “I’m with her.” Yes, there were very special moments that I’ll carry with me always. And there are downright awful memories that I will, inevitably, bring along for the ride too.
I can’t count the number of times I stood in the middle of that museum lobby, sweat pouring from my body, waiting for a last minute delivery of champagne flutes that arrived as guests appeared at the front door. “Down to the wire” doesn’t capture the feeling of watching tables being wheeled into the museum with waiters on standby, holding tablecloths and crates of flatware, ready to set the tables as the tips of guests’ shoes appear on the escalator headed your way.
I remember one formal dinner with a rather serious program of speeches honoring several beloved artists. After introductions, the first artist took to the stage and no sooner had she opened her mouth when the sound of shattering glass boomed through the space. A large glass hurricane had exploded from the heat of a pillar candle on a dining table. The florist who had provided these combustible trinkets was long gone, so it was left to me. With four hundred pairs of eyes on me, I quickly made my way over to the table and picked up the pieces of glass, apologizing for something over which I had no control. Science. As I finished retrieving the shards, another glass vessel shattered somewhere else in the dining room. A guest raised their hand and motioned to me. As the speeches proceeded, I ran, hunched over, around the dining room, table after table, picking up broken glass like an overeager child on a beach. I am certain someone had a mouthful of sharp burrata that night.
One night, the museum hosted an opening for a group of East Village artists that made a big splash in the scene back in the 70s and 80s. In addition to members and donors, the museum opened the invitation list to some of the living artists featured in the exhibit. The characters who walked through the revolving doors that night! It was one for the books. Later in the evening, a server approached me with a look of terror on his face. “Um. I think that old lady might need some help.” I could only see her from behind but, from her tight grip on the hightop table in front of her, I knew this woman had had several too many. I walked up behind her and quietly whispered, “Ma’am?” Without hesitation, she spun around and collapsed into my arms sobbing. I didn’t know what to do. Holding her up, I looked around for help. I spotted a wheelchair near coat check and motioned for someone to bring it to me. As I lowered the woman down into the wheelchair, she vomited into her lap and onto my shoes. A shining set of teeth came along for the ride and landed squarely in her lap. I didn’t want her to be embarrassed, so I wheeled her across the lobby and outside onto the sidewalk for air.
One of the MoMA employees brought out a roll of paper towel and helped me clean her up a bit. I asked her name over and over but she could only cry and mumble words I could not understand. It was going nowhere. So I said to her loudly, “Ma’am. I. am. going to. open your purse.” Nothing. I squatted down in front of her and, from her purse, pulled out a Nokia flip phone that had exactly zero contacts saved. No recent calls. Nothing. Like a spy. I kept digging in her bag and found her wallet. I looked up and checked in again, “Ma’am. I’m going. to. open. your WALLET.” Aha! A business card for what seemed to be an assisted living facility. I called the number and reached a voicemail. (In hindsight, I feel it’s a bit of an oversight to not have someone manning the phones 24 hours a day at an assisted living facility…?)
I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t help this poor woman and she definitely couldn’t help herself. I ended up calling 911 and an ambulance came and carried her away. I felt terrible. I knew she was in for a very confusing hangover the next morning but I truly did all I could.
I hung my head and walked back into the museum. Someone brought me a tequila and soda. I don’t remember who. And while the swirling party continued in the lobby, I found myself standing at the elevator. I got in, pushed 5 and found myself paying a visit to my old friend. In the painting, Christina needs help. She’s all alone in that field with her body reaching out for someone. Anyone. I hope someone came along.
