Last week, I went to the Met to view the exhibit on Japanese storytelling. I wanted to go before they changed the exhibit this week - they were planning on rolling some scrolls further along and changing some other details. I will try to go again to look at the new stuff before the exhibit disappears altogether.
Like most New Yorkers, I usually only go to the Met when I have a visitor from out of town. I did want to see this particular exhiibit, but it took about 2 months before I was able to get there, and then only because I was able to take the day off and take care of multiple things. I was even contemplating whether I should go to the dentist that day, too (but I didn't), just to give an idea of how overscheduled I feel like I am.
On my way in, I was drawn to a room not far from the entrance of the Japanese galleries in which some Buddhist figures were on display. Seated in the center, facing the entrance, was a sculpture of the Buddha with some sort of historical significance. He was very old, and his hands were missing. The description noted that he was from Koyasan, which means we have some experience in common, at least. He was given a fairly dignified setting, for a museum. The curators even put a few guardian kings at the corners of the room, to give a sense of context, even if in a highly secularized, western-museum-art-history sort of way.
By way of disclosure: I had been celebrating my birthday that entire afternoon, and had consumed more beer than I had recently thought possible for myself at one sitting. I was in a particularly contemplative mood, let's say, by the time I walked past this particular gallery. So I walked in to say hello.
It was very sad to see him, sitting there, handless, by himself. After over 20 years of going to Japan, and seeing truly compelling images of the Buddha and his heavenly retinue at home in their various temples, from the Garan in Koyasan, to the Daibutsu in Nara, to Toji in Kyoto and many other places, he seemed very lonely and out of place. If he were at home, someone would have replaced his hands, the new ones held in an attitude - of teaching perhaps, or wisdom. People would have been lighting incense or candles and leaving him coins. His image would be contemplated by temple-goers as representing someone who might help solve the problems faced in their everyday lives. He would be seen by people who understand him better than the museum-goers, who, if they notice him at all, are rushing through the gallery on their way to something more interesting and exciting.
One person's religious symbol as another person's objet d'art. I wondered how he got there - who would sell such an item, and who would buy it? It seemed a very cold fate for an image that, even in its dimly lit, climate-controlled setting, still had a sense of spiritual power.
So I was filled with a sense of compassion, even a little grief, for this damaged wooden statue. I wanted to leave him a coin, to make him feel more at home, but I did not feel like getting kicked out of the Met, especially since I had not yet looked at the exhibit I had paid admission for. From the soberness of Monday afternoon, it all seems a little stupid, but maybe I am not a totally lost cause after all.
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