Pile Of Stones

The Metropolitan Museum first opened on February 20, 1872. The columned entrance is located at 681 Fifth Avenue. I have been going to the museum at least twice a year since 1976. My favorite exhibits are the Asmat collection featuring cannibal carvings from Papua New Guinea and the American wing's Hudson school paintings. Each time there I discover another personal treasure, but as much as we look, we do not see.

A week ago a friend remarked that above each set of columns at the entrance were stacked large slabs of limestone. He googled a photo. He was right. Four separate pyramids of roughly hewn stone almost the same white color as the Museum.

"Supposedly they came from the Old Penn Station."

"Really." I knew that much of the Beaux-Arts terminal had been transported to the Meadowlands after its destruction to build Madison Square Garden in the 1960s. Comparing the new and the old Penn Station, Yale architectural historian Vincent Scully wrote, "One entered the city like a god god; one scuttles in now like a rat."

On Monday evening I was invited to a rooftop opening at the Met for Petrit Halilaj's iron sculptures by Italian skateboarder/photographer Ale Formenti. As I approached the entrance, I glanced upward to see the limestone blocks. I would have never noticed them, if my friend hadn't mentioned them. The

As for the opening veni, vedi, ivi. A paraphrase of Caesar's Conquest of Gaul. I came, I saw, I conquered. Mine was I came, I saw, I went,

The event on the roof was crowded with rich sponsors and talkative art dealers. I lurked on the outskirts of the hubbub and then peacefully sat in a garden, speaking with Ale about life and eternity with my dear friend.

I was under-impressed by the sculptures. The welding was amateurish and the figurine reminded me of a Halloween pumpkin, but this was a great feat for any artist, recognizing my appreciation are somewhat twisted by having working in a metal shop.

After a few minutes we sought his wife, who had spent four years organizing the show. As we passed through the melee, I sought a wealthy patroness. None eyed me for more than a second, recognizing the danger of a poet bien-inconnu. They were more interested in gay walkers. I am not in their world and they are not in mine.

After a few words with his wife, we descended to sit in the statue atrium by the exit for the hors d'ouvres, whilst restrainng from golwering at the upper crust glowing in high-class elation. Neither Ale nor I drank the offered wine or champagne. Both of us have been sober for years. He spiritually. Me for health reasons.

We spoke to no one else and I reached over to touch the Rodin. Everyone was watching themselves and not me. The bronze was cold and having worked in a metal fabricator shop I saw the sculptor building a casting form and