In an effort to create space on my phone, I decided to go through my photos and make some necessary cuts to my collection. Now, I’m a firm believer that phones say a lot about their owners; being overly observant and nosy has its perks (for once). Whether the owner has a really old case (either too lazy to change it or very practical and doesn’t see the importance of having a ‘pretty’ case), or a flamboyant fluorescent object that just happens to also function as a case on the side of having credit card slots/ a pocket for change/ a compact mirror/a gum dispenser/a gps/ spare kleenex (the girl who is always behind in her daily life because she is too busy living it up on Twitter *cough* Tumblr) — the point is- I notice these things.
Items as personal as phones reflect us in some way. But the interior- the junk that appears once you unlock the phone- that is as intriguing as the latest Stella McCartney runway show. Apps aside, I am referring directly to the photos on our phones. Not necessarily because I care to see the selfies I imagine people take of themselves, because the selfies are no way as near as interesting as the photos we take of things we like or that make us think. When we photograph things, we want to remember them so we can later go back and go back to the train of thought we had when we first saw the item.
ANYWAY, I was reminded of some thoughts I had when I went to the Met in New York recently. After looking at sculpture after sculpture, I noted a trend in the profiles of their faces, and I had to take pictures so I could compare with others. Now looking back on them, I strangely feel like I should justify to people why they are on my phone and make sure I’m not the only person who find this funny (I need to make sure that I’m not weird).
Behold, a peek at things I find weird/thought provoking:
Alright. This will sound either stupid, or like I’m reading too deep into the situation.
I consider the photos above reason to believe that Voldemort is very much alive and was angry that artists back in the day did not pay homage to his gloriously flat face (no offense to Ray Fiennes) and thus invaded the Met at some point in time and yelled some sort of spell that severed the noses of every ancient bust on display.
Here’s a more plausible and boring conclusion: maybe the employees at the Met don’t get paid enough and instead of going on strike, they figured they’d attack the artwork since that would express their invisible anger towards their bosses.
And here’s what I REALLY think happened : A pretentious curator at the Met calmly perused the sculptures before they went up and found all their noses to be ugly, and instead of wasting money on a sculpture surgeon (okay I obviously know that is not a profession, I just liked the way that sounded in my head), he was Mr. Do-It-Yourself and took out his trusty chisel and mallet and screwed it up thinking he had better taste in noses than the Greeks and Romans. By then, he was frantic- he had to do something. He probably trembled, thinking to himself, Julius and Augustus are turning in their coffins as I operate on their cultural treasures WITHOUT EVEN A DEGREE IN MEDICINE. So then, he pulled out the next best thing, which was his daughter’s silly putty that he accidentally brought with him, and he smacked that on the noses, but that slid off of the noses to his dismay. As he felt the end of his career approaching, he fell feebly to his knees and begged the Roman and Greek gods to show him the path to artistic enlightenment. He smacked his forehead, chastising himself for thinking like Narcissus, and curled into the fetal position next to a statue of a chubby cherub (I am killing it with these alliterations!) and waited to be found and fired.
But then, out of nowhere, a light shone from above. The now dusty curator looked up, suddenly blinded by a white light. He meekly asked, “Zeus?” A voice came out of the intercom instead, announcing that any damaged sculptures would soon be seen by a visiting specialist in refurbishing pieces. The light went off. Hmm. The man might refurbish their noses. But the continuity- it would only work if I were consistent! The curator looked up again, slyly. He pocketed the chisel and mallet and whipped out a much heavier hammer that he didn’t remember having before, and he sprinted through the entire backroom, smashing every. Single. Nose. Not one statue was left untouched. The man had no time to admire his work, so he fled the scene.
And that is how the noses of so many statues now look flat. You’re welcome.