It was my first time visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art on one of those days when it almost feels like fall. Annoyed and stressed about a writing assignment, I ran up the famous steps, eager to find a painting that could "make me feel something."
I didn't know what I was getting myself into.
Because I thought I was a "real" New Yorker now, I declined the offered museum map in the lobby. I figured if I wanted to find a piece of art that made me feel something, it would find me.
As I walked up more stairs and through the diverse sections of the museum, the serene atmosphere enveloped me. I found myself drawn to the Impressionist section (up the stairs directly in front of the main entrance and to the left for a while, you'll find it).
I entered the different rooms with my shoes echoing on the floor, passing works of art I had never before seen. I felt the paintings' movement as I passed each one, but I was distracted. I was thinking of a boy.
I walked through a doorway and one painting captured my wandering mind. I felt like the wind got knocked out of me. I kept trying to force my attention to all the other works in the room, but I was unsuccessful—this one compelled me every time.
I desperately searched the room for a bench where I could sit and compose myself. My eyes watered and the lump in my chest rose to my throat. Looking at all the people around me, I promised myself I wouldn't cry; but every time I promise myself that, it never works out.
How could a portrait like this affect me in the way that it did? I was torn to pieces. This painting changed something in me.
It was an oil painting, completely new to me, "Springtime" by Pierre-Auguste Cot. Sitting on a tree swing, a playful young girl with wild eyes looked up at a boy with innocent desire and love. They looked truly happy and childishly giddy. The greens and yellows contrasted the maroon clothes the boy wore, giving it an ethereal quality. I felt like I was looking into a fairytale, but it wasn't mine.
Butterflies fluttered above the couple’s head just as I imagine their hearts pounded inside of their ribcages. Her face was bright and full of hope, and the way he stared deep into her eyes is the way every girl longs to be looked at.
The swing where they sat indicated a metaphorical shift to me, like they were moving back and forth, a pendulum, but not really towards anything in particular. Her emotions were exposed, just like her body was through her translucent dress, in front of this boy. She longed for him. In that fleeting moment, she felt no pain or heartache as I felt watching them from my little bench.
My hands got sweaty, my breath quickened, and my heart beat at an anxious pace. No one wants to cry in public, especially that nasty Kim-Kardashian cry, but I was so focused on the painting, I couldn't think of anyone else. I cried like a baby.
As I sat on that lonely bench I have passed 10 times since that day, time stood still as I dove into the painting. I felt devastated, like something you see in romance movies. I looked at the boy's curly mess of hair, and I could not help but think of the boy I used to love so innocently. All those feelings I thought I had suppressed bubbled forth, spreading and creating a paralyzing numbness throughout my body. I felt a sting and a tingle, like a foot that's fallen asleep, every time I tried to look away.
For a moment, I felt nostalgic towards all of those grand emotions that I experienced with him. I saw the way the girl on the swing grasped for him, delicately looking up into his eyes, and I remembered doing the same thing. I had a high school love--I was so young, but I thought he was it.
The girl searched his face, like she was waiting for something--waiting for him to reveal his soul like she revealed hers, waiting for the promise of stability, waiting for him to grow up.
The childlike joy I experienced with my man flooded my memory. I never knew this painted blissful couple had the power to make me relive and feel so much pain and heartbreak all at once.
However, this was my closure.
I had to feel this pain. I couldn't suppress it any longer, no matter how much I tried to.
On that bench in the Met I felt like a new exhibit. Heartbreak is one thing I convinced myself I would never have to experience--how ignorant I was to the reality of young love.
When I composed myself, I stood up, took one last look and moved on.
Who knew paintings could do that?
Without that moment of breaking down, my entire freshman year of college could have followed a different storyline. Don't get me wrong: heartbreak sucks, especially when it hits you in the face out of nowhere, but this heartbreak taught me how to love other people better. For that, I couldn't be more thankful.
Paintings coupled with any emotion create beautiful art. Cot was still painting on me that day, years and years after he created "Springtime."
