High above our heads, a society matron in a cascading purple dress trills about her life of privilege. Across the hall, a woman in a tightly cinched mechanical bustle glides through a ballroom reminiscing about her halcyon summer affair. In the foggy courtyard, a poverty-stricken man limps toward wealth while dancers cling to window frames behind him (and the audience clings to rough blankets draped over the seats).
Standing in the sculpture garden of the MOMA on a sunny day is a prime SF experience - like Hunky Jesus, but with fewer pecs. Currently featuring a quantum cloud of thousands of tiny metal shards, flattened ovals, and an eleven-foot spider, the top two floors (+ sculpture garden) are devoted to the Fisher Collection: Calder to Warhol.
Purported to be the exhibit that bumps the MOMA to a new level, the halls are a post-modern visual feast, filled with Roy Lichtenstein's abstract oil cartoons, Andy Warhol's Elvises wielding six shooters, and Cy Twombley's crayon squiggles depicting (apparently) the struggle of gods in Classical Antiquity.
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