Met Cute

Note: America, Unvarnished is intended as a primarily auditory experience, so we strongly suggest you listen to the podcast if possible, as there are instances of emotion and tone and sound design that cannot be effectively conveyed through text. Transcripts for America, Unvarnished are put together by a team of volunteers, dedicated to keeping this podcast as accessible as possible. Please email us at unvarnished.america@gmail.com if you are interested in offering your services to our ongoing backlog transcription project. 

S3 Ep13: Met Cute 

Published August 17, 2023

Blair Barlowe: The Metropolitan Museum of Art has long been a place for firsts. Maybe it’s the first museum you took a field trip to. Maybe it’s the first place you saw a Van Gogh in person. Maybe it’s the first place you met up with that person you’ve been chatting with online— wings upon floors of art and artifacts and icebreakers. There’s so much to see, so much to talk about, surely first date nerves are no match for these sacred grounds? 

When I was a kid in high school, I would wander the halls of the Met and imagine the perfect meet cute. Maybe she’d be one of the sketch artists sitting in front of Perseus With The Head of Medusa, and I’d compliment her work with just enough sincerity for her to look up from her easel. Maybe we’d both walk up to the Portrait of Madame X at the same time, and exchange knowing smiles at our mutual eagerness to see that plunging black neckline with our own eyes. Or maybe she’d be sitting out on the front steps, and I’d catch her eye as I walked by, and she’d tell me something like “I like your shoes!” and I’d tell her something like “Thank you!” and then we’d get married on the rooftop, with the skyline as our witness. 

I think it’s safe to say that I have no aversion to a good romance. And for my whole life, I’ve been imagining what it’d be like for it to blossom at the Met. 

[THEME MUSIC PLAYS] 

Blair Barlowe: On those iconic front steps is where I meet Annamaria Sanchez for the first time. Annie, to her friends– which she assures me we are after less than five minutes of talking. From the outside, Annie is a normal twenty-seven year old woman. Well, maybe she’s a little sunnier than the average twenty-seven year old. She still smiles with all her teeth. Like a kid posing for a birthday picture. 

She greets me with that smile as I walk up to her on a sunny Friday morning in July. She’s holding a small sign that says “BLAIR. AMERICA, UNVARNISHED.” like she’s a valet waiting for me at the baggage claim of an airport. 

[INDISTINCT CHATTER. A CAR HORN HONKS. A VENDOR SHOUTS PRICES OF JEWELRY.]

Annie: Hi! It’s so nice to meet you! Oh wow, I love your shoes. 

Blair: Oh. [laughs] Thank you. 

Blair Barlowe: If you could see Annie Sanchez with your own eyes, you’d know why the compliment took me aback. I showed up to our meeting in what I knew were unimpressive commuter shoes. I anticipated a lot of walking, sue me. Annie showed up in bright red cowboy boots. She had on a long white skirt and her shirt read “Be Kind To Animals.” When we decide to backtrack into the park for a shared salted pretzel before heading inside, she backs up that sentiment by dropping to her knees for every dog that comes up to her. And most of them do. 

Annie: It’s not super impressive, honestly. I don’t think I’m radiating, like, good vibes or anything. They just recognize me. They probably feel sorry for me more than anything. I think half of these dogs think I’m lonely, and that petting them is more for my benefit than theirs. 

Blair: Are you lonely? 

Annie: No, I don’t think so. I know my mom would answer differently.

[LAUGHTER]

Annie: But, no. Not if Ilya Repin has any say in it.

Blair Barlowe: Ah, Ilya Repin. The way Annie says it, you’d think it was a household name. Like, oh yes, the 19th-century Ukrainian-born realist painter who achieved acclaim across Europe for the level of attention to humanistic detail in his works. I know him well. Who doesn’t?

It's not until Annie leads me upstairs and into a small room dedicated to Salon Paintings do I realize that I'm not, in fact, completely out of the loop. I do know Ilya Repin. At least, I know his painting of Vsevolod Mikhailovich Garshin. My apologies– I know hearing me say that must have been torture for any fluent Russian speakers. 

It’s hard to walk by this painting without feeling your feet slow down of their own volition. There’s just something about it. Maybe it’s the rich use of color– even the black of Garshin’s sweater is vibrant against the pale blue-gray background. Maybe it’s the composition of someone hunched over a desk piled high with papers that makes you want to linger, to see what he’s writing about. Or maybe it’s the man in the painting himself, with his handsome face and his dark features.

To me, the most striking of all is Garshin’s eyes. They’re so alive. One woman with the fortune to have seen him in the flesh described them as “dark, deep-set eyes…with such melancholy kindness.” Repin captures that so well, it’s hard to comprehend that what you're looking at is just oil on canvas. 

In a way, standing here and returning Garshin’s tender gaze, I feel myself getting closer to understanding why I’m here with Annie in the first place. You see, Annie’s a woman in love. And the object of her affection is mounted on the wall of the 19th and Early 20th Century European Paintings and Sculptures wing. 

[MUSICAL INTERLUDE] 

Blair Barlowe: When I say Annie is in love with this painting, I’m not kidding around. I’m not being flippant. When we walk up to Garshin’s portrait, gone is the funny, charming, brash woman I’ve been wandering the galleries with. In her place is a girl with a crush. Her cheeks go red, her face gets soft. She draws to a halt so slowly, stares up at Garshin so fondly, it’s like there’s no one else in the room. Frankly, it feels a little like intruding on a private moment. 

Blair: So is this the guy? 

Annie: This is the guy. 

Blair Barlowe: Her voice is soft, almost breathless. I think it’s the first time I realize that she meant what she’s been telling me this whole time: this woman is in love. 

What does it even mean to be in love with a painting? This podcast is meant to be a small spotlight on how the lives of everyday humans intersect with the art world, ancient and modern alike. A reboot of Married to the Eiffel Tower it is not. 

Blair: So what is it about Garshin, in particular? What do you know about him? 

Annie: Honestly… Not much. 

Blair Barlowe: Let the record note that Annie is blushing. 

Annie: I’ve done some research about his life and his works, but I’ve never been much of a reader. I flunked English 1101 twice. Add in a story translated from Russian, and I’m hopeless. 

Blair: Wait, so you don’t know anything about him? 

Blair Barlowe: Let the record note I do a lousy job of hiding my surprise. 

Annie: I just… I guess I saw him, and I knew. I didn’t need to learn anything else. 

Blair: What did you know? 

Annie: That this was my guy. That this was going to be the start of my love story. 

Blair: It’s unconventional, that’s for sure. 

Annie: [laughs] Don’t I know it. But, I don’t know. I’ve never been that good at making friends. I didn’t make any in college, I didn’t make any after. I don’t mind doing things on my own, but I’m still only human. A girl likes a little companionship. 

Blair: But doesn’t it feel unrequited? You only have eyes for him, but he’s looking back at everyone that passes by. 

Annie: [laughs] I guess I’m just secure like that. 

Blair: Well then, doesn’t it get lonely? To sit, and watch, but not ever talk? 

Annie: Oh, I talk all the time. I’m a terrible date. I like to do all the talking. My mom says that’s why I never get a second one with anybody. I always tell her it’s because I’m already committed, but she hates it when I say that. She’s more into the impressionists. [laughs] Plus, I’ve got Josie. 

Blair Barlowe: Annie nods over to a security guard standing in the corner– an older woman with a pretty, round face and long, graying locs. She’s scanning the room attentively, and when she catches Annie’s eye, her expression instantly relaxes into a kind smile. 

[INDISTINCT CHATTER] 

Josie: Good morning, Annie. 

Annie: Good morning, Josie! 

Blair Barlowe: Josie has been a security guard at the Met for the better part of ten years. She’s been overseeing Annie’s trysts for almost two of them. She joins us for a quick lunch at the Petrie Court Cafe during her break. While Annie stands in line to treat us to sticky buns and coffee, I ask Josie about her take on the unlikely romance that’s been unfurling on her watch. 

Josie: Look, the girl isn’t hurting anyone. She’s a bright thing, too. Remembers everything you ever told her, remembers the faces of repeat patrons better than I do sometimes. I don’t like the idea that people think she’s crazy. People fall in love with celebrities all the time, with their teachers, with their best friend’s ex-boyfriend. What makes this so different? They’re all untouchable. At least this way, I know Annie can’t get hurt. 

Blair: I imagine that putting your chips behind somebody who can never love you back is going to end up with someone getting hurt. 

Josie: She’s not asking him to love her back. She’s asking him to let her sit with him. The love will come with time. As love so often does. 

Annie: [voice fading in from a distance] I had half a mind to get us all espresso martinis. They’re Josie’s favorite. It's a shame you two are both on the clock.

Blair: They're my favorite too, actually. 

Annie: [squeals] Oh, Blair! You fit right in! 

Blair Barlowe: I ask Annie if she’d take me back up to Garshin, and grant me the privilege of accompanying her for what the average day in his company looks like. She seems excited at the prospect, ready to show off. When we make our return into the gallery, Annie tugs me over to a small wooden bench. It’s unsupported by any walls and so sitting on it is immediately uncomfortable, but Annie draws her feet up and slouches down just so, obviously a pro in finding the right position to not kill your back. I try to mirror her. She makes a valiant attempt at not laughing at my squirming, and then shows me the right way to tuck my legs. 

After that, we’re silent. My tape recorder sits between us, but all it picks up is the quiet murmurs of the visitors that meander in and out of the room. When I go back and listen to it, there’s a solid forty-five minutes of silence between us. Annie sits like a monk in meditation, her skirt tucked under her knees, and that little smile on her face never wavering. I admit, I found it hard to see what she was seeing.

But then, after half an hour, I notice it. Annie’s unwavering stare at Garshin, his stare in return. When a patron walks up and stands between them, I no longer get the impression that Garshin has shifted his focus. He looks like he’s waiting for the patron to move aside and reveal Annie, waiting there patiently for him. 

Blair Barlowe: And more than that: after an hour of sitting, the tide changes. More and more people start to filter in as the mid-day crowd makes its way up to the far corners of the second floor. An old man hobbles in, arms behind his back, and when he sees Annie, he nods at her. I’m taken aback by how quickly she abandons her staring contest to nod back. Later, two little girls rush in, making beelines for Annie. They put their hands all over her skirt, leaving behind streaks of what I can only hope is melted chocolate on the white cotton, and when Annie drops her feet to the floor to reveal her red boots, they screech with delight so loudly that Annie calls an apology over to Josie. Their mother rounds the corner a minute later, looking tired but happy to see Annie. A couple arm in arm, the man with tanned skin and impeccable white hair, and the woman with tanned skin and impeccable white hair, stop in front of our bench to exchange hellos. They don’t seem like the type to give a woman like Annie the time of day– actually, they don’t seem like the type to give much of anyone the time of day– and still, they smile indulgently at everything she says, and laugh with a kind of old money poshness that has my back straightening.

Blair Barlowe: Time and time again, people come into the room to say hello to Annie. It’s like she’s one of the installations on show, except for how no one gawks or takes pictures. In fact, every single one of her visitors has one thing in common: their evident suspicion towards me. 

Annie never fails to make an introduction, and every time I’m looked over, every time I watch someone notice the notepad open on my lap and the nature of the story I’m putting together, I am greeted with furrowed brows and pursed lips. Even the little girls fix me with matching glares of skepticism. The message is clear: Annie is under our protection. Watch what you say about her. 

I think of what Josie said, about the love following. Annie seems to have stumbled into something that really works. I even find myself wishing I could assure them that I won’t be cruel, that I think that maybe Annie is a genius, and, if nothing else, the best kind of person a woman could hope to spend a day with. It would appear that love is nipping at my heels, too.

[MUSICAL INTERLUDE]

Blair Barlowe: We leave the museum no sooner than closing time. My feet are no more than pins and needles when we stand up, but still, I let Annie take me by the elbow and lead me up to Garshin to say our goodbyes. 

Blair: He looks tired. 

Annie: I think he was. That’s one of the only things I really knew about him– that he was tired. Humans are humans are humans. You can put them up on a wall and call them revolutionary, but you’ll always be looking at someone who needed to sleep when it got too late. 

Blair: His eyes are the loveliest part, but it’s weird. A few hours ago, I found myself wishing he could blink. Just once. Just to give his eyes some rest. Or at least some moisture. 

Annie: [laughs] I know exactly what you mean. Maybe he does that when we leave, and there’s no one left to look at. Thank God for closing times, I guess. 

Blair: Do you miss him? When you’re away? 

Annie: Wouldn’t you? I mean, look at him. 

Blair Barlowe: I do look at him. I take my time with it, despite Josie hovering behind us, ready to escort us downstairs. I look at the wayward hair on his head, like he messed it up absentmindedly and never though to comb it back into place. I look at his hands pressing down on the pages of the book that lays open before him. I look at the downward curve of his nose. I realize Annie’s right; it’s a pattern, I’m noticing. This is the kind of face you’d miss.

And this is the kind of day you’d miss, too– filled with Annie’s laughter and Josie’s wisdom, the patrons wandering in and out of our vicinity, the cool air of the museum, and the tackiness left on my fingers from having dessert for lunch.

If this is what Annie wants to call being in love, it would turn out that I’m inclined to agree with her assessment. 

Annie: Good night, Garshin. 

Blair: Good night, Garshin.

[OUTRO MUSIC FADES IN] 

Blair Barlowe: Thank you to The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Annie Sanchez, Josie the Security Guard, Ilya Repin, Vsevolod Mikhailovich Garshin– sorry again—, and all of the wonderful dogs and people we saw throughout the day for your contributions to this episode. 

And if I could offer just one last observation: if the dating apps aren’t working for you, maybe consider a trip to your local museum. You never know what can come of supporting the arts. 

[OUTRO MUSIC PLAYS]