Oh, the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Just like Tim Gunn, I consider you to be my purging, cathartic sanctuary from quotidian anxiety. Unfortunately, I don’t live near the Met so I cannot frequent it often. But when I do, I take in all of its creative glory. I just walk around and revel in the artistic wonders of Van Gogh, Monet, Manet, Seurat, Rembrandt, Degas and so many more.

When I came to Manhattan during Easter, I visited the Met with my best friends. Fortunately for my sartorial obsession and penchant for impressionism, I went during the “Impressionism, Fashion and Modernity” exhibit. Ever since I studied impressionism in AP Art History, I have been hooked. I always knew I liked the ‘pretty colors and soft brushstrokes,’ but I wasn’t aware of its formal name. In line with my love of elusive and romantic art, I adore pointillism. My two favorite paintings are probably Starry, Starry Night (my mother’s favorite) and A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte.

After I wrote an article on the Met Gala, based on the “Punk: Chaos to Couture” exhibit, I decided to see it for myself. On my first visit, I felt uncomfortable. I understood the concepts behind punk: anarchy, rebellion, dissent. However, I thought that the exhibit played up the dark side in a bizarre, almost morbid way. The costumes and original fashion pieces were very authentic and interesting, but the rooms were fairly terrifying. Everything was dark, all flooded by the voices of screaming punk artists and muffled, creepy interviews. Not to mention, the mannequins were sans heads, practically suffocated by neon fuzz balls.

A couple of weeks ago, I went again and gave the Punk exhibit another shot. Although I didn’t magically fall in love with it, I did appreciate it a bit more. After checking out each section once more, I retreated to my bastion of impressionism. Unfortunately, I couldn’t photograph the punk paradise, but I did capture a few shots of the other galleries.