It wasn’t very often that my parents took me to the museum. Let’s face it, we were poor immigrants and Brooklyn already had plenty of art “installations”, like Pakistani grocers and pirated Russian TV. Plus, I’m pretty sure my parents were faking their interest in art just for me. No one would mistake our one bedroom apartment for the Louvre. A loo, maybe. One clue was when my dad tried to straighten one of the lopsided installations at the MOMA. OK, I’m not sure that actually happened. But I do remember him grumbling that no one at MOMA would ever get hired at his old Soviet aviation plant. A coveted prize.
As an adult, I’ve come to appreciate how those lopsided installations and grotesque paintings got inside the museum. Often, it’s the work of a slight, somewhat effeminate, persnickety man dubbed, “The Curator” *. The Curator grew up fetishizing art, learning what inspired Picasso, and hoping his parents don’t discover his secret – that he’ll never become the race car driver they’d hoped for. This preening prodigy spent his whole life admiring objects he couldn’t afford, waiting, pining away for a time when his bank account could match his snootiness. Now, he dresses to impress and celebrities from Elton John to Ricky Martin can’t wait to marvel at his huge…collection.
Today, the world has about the same number of museums, but millions of curators. No one online is satisfied just reading articles. No, they’re not just faceless re-sharers of Mashable posts. They’re Curators, too. Yes, these unpaid, unsung archivists are here to save us from reading the New York Times on our own. Now, I can click on their link to that Times article. And it instantly makes the article better. Why? Because it’s been marinating in my curator’s intellectual juices.
Thank you, Content Curator for helping me find the way. I once traveled far and wide to fetch my own links. Now I come to you first, my virtual friend. You are my guiding link. I will never leave you…unless I accidentally visit the NY Times myself that morning. In that case, our romance dies. You’ll once again wallow in the dank obscurity of a deceased pet with a lapsed Facebook account.
No matter what, I shan’t forget you, My Digital Dreamer. You flood the banks of my social streams in ways content creators never could. In fact, I just sent you a virtual check for one billion dollars. A mere trinket of gratitude from me and The Great Goog itself. You deserve every pretend penny. For it is you who make this museum worth staying home for.
*Yes, I know there are plenty of women doing terrific work as curators, but I don’t mess with their art, so please don’t mess with mine. And this is satire, dummy.