I am standing in a large room full of paintings of men in hats. I am guessing that “men in hats” is not intended to be this room’s unifying theme, but it might as well be. At four-something in the afternoon on a rainy Thursday, I am happy to report that the art museum is almost entirely empty. Just me and the paintings.
My professors are always telling me that there’s a lot to learn from the Old Masters. Techniques. Chiaroscuro, perspective, color theory, and the like. That’s all fine and good, but education is not what brings me to the museum today.
Before I say anything else — and before you have the chance to judge me too harshly — I want you to consider my roommate, Maris, who decides whether to swipe right or left on a guy’s Tinder profile based solely on whether his pecs are showing, and if so, on how “good” they are. Yes, “good” in quotes. No, she’s not elaborated on that.
The real reason that I am here is to find myself a husband somewhere in these paintings. I realize, of course, that I cannot actually marry the men in these paintings. Many of the people depicted were mere figments of the painters’ imaginations, and those that did exist are most certainly dead at this point. Rather, what I am seeking is the Platonic form of a husband — a theoretical perfect spouse that I can carry forth into a world of imperfect derivatives. Once I’ve found my ideal form, I can compare all of the guys I meet against him.
So, I guess I lied earlier. I did come here to learn from the Old Masters — just not how to paint.
Anyhoo, back to the hat room. I do like a man in a hat. So far, the man in the blue hat holding an astrolabe is the most compelling to me. He’s adventuresome, well-traveled — a refined gentleman. The neighboring portrait of Mr. green hat is also intriguing. Look at that rakish grin. However, green hat isn’t holding anything, nor are there any objects of interest in his room, which reveals very little about him. On the opposite wall, the man in the red hat is brandishing a sword at me. He has a stern expression, a humorless glint in his eyes. He strikes me as overaggressive. Competitive. Ugh, he reminds me of Simon, who dragged me to sporting events every other weekend, always thoroughly soused (him, not me — well, sometimes me).
…but I wonder, Mr. blue hat, what journeys you have planned? Without meaning to, my attention keeps returning to you and your astrolabe. May I accompany you? Will we see the world? Paris? Barcelona? I think I’ll swipe right on you, but don’t get your hopes up. There are still quite a few bachelors I’ve yet to meet.
Exiting the hat room, I am greeted by a veritable congress of statues. It’s a strange exhibit — the multitudes of busts crowd out the floorplan, yet the staggering height of the ceiling lends the room a cavernous presence. The barren beige walls aren’t helping, though I suppose there’s not really a good way to hang a marble statue on a wall, is there? All around me, the edges of the room are lined by men and women in various stages of undress, and a few more clothes-optional folks consort in the center.
The first statue I pick out individually is a chap with a Roman nose and glassy eyes. If I’m being quite honest, I am not getting the sense that much is going on behind those eyes, and if that’s the case, we’d be an untenable pairing. I need a conversationalist, somebody who will still have interesting things to say once our 67th anniversary rolls around. Sorry to trash you again, Simon, but I’m not looking for a redo of you.
I pry my eyes from that empty gaze and find myself looking at Hercules, over on the western wall. He’s holding one of the hydra’s writhing heads, and not to sound like Maris, but his arms are very muscular. I would give that alabaster bicep a feel if not for the alarm that would almost certainly be triggered by doing so. But alas. I take one last gander at the rest of the statues, but what with all the open togas, I think I’ve seen quite enough of these men. I give Hercules a sober nod as I wander into the next room.
The layout of this museum perplexes me. Leaving behind the crowd of ancient statues, I am greeted by modern art. Blobs of color on white canvases, canvases painted entirely one color, and canvases left entirely blank. I wonder if they go together somehow. As “art history major” as it may sound, I’ve never understood these types of paintings. Maybe I would if I read the plaques, but I never do — inexcusable, I know. But in my defense, I’m pretty sure Monet didn’t stand by his paintings all day, explaining them to people. I guess I like the “art” part better than the “history.”
The next room is ancient Rome by way of Renaissance Italy, and I think I’ve found my next swipe-right. It’s an oil painting of Apollo with his lyre and golden curls. While getting involved with the Pantheon is never a good idea, I think I’m willing to ignore the red flags for a hot musician. Look at him, perched nonchalantly on a tree stump. I bet he’d woo me with all manner of romantic songs.
Despite never reading plaques, I can’t help but notice the name of the next portrait’s subject. Printed in bold letters: Publius. Standing by a colonnade, poor old Publius is draped in a toga, staring wistfully off into the distance. I would swipe right for him solely because, with that name, a lot of women would not. What are your unspoken dreams, Publius? What secrets do you long to share with a girl who would give you the time? I’ve learned from experience that bad names do not bad boyfriends make (looking at you, Elmo).
Oh, Elmo. You always come back to me at the strangest times. I think we could have made it, the two of us, but you picked a college on the other side of the country, so that was that.
The next room is cubist, and I suspect that some of these paintings are of men. There’s something to be said for quirk, but these guys seem a little rough around the edges. Swipe-left. Through the next doorway, and I’m back in the company of Old Masters, and there, staring straight at me, is my weakness: the emo Byronic type. Look at that foppish lock of hair, that half-finished manuscript on your desk. While there’s nothing quite as sexy as a tortured artist, I’ve found that they’re almost always better from afar, where I have the space to imagine the kinds of deep thoughts going through their heads. As a rule, they’re always insufferable in conversation.
What are you working on, Angus?
I’m not “working” on anything, babe. If I let profit motives tarnish my art, it would cease to be art.
I allow myself the fantasies, but that is all. I adjust course towards a more sensible candidate: a Spanish king with a cocker spaniel by his side. Pets are a must, so I take this as a good sign. There is a sheathed rapier at the king’s waist, which suggests to me a quiet, prudent strength. I like this man’s vibe; I swipe right.
On the adjacent wall, another king. Henry VIII, I would recognize you anywhere. Grim as it may be, I am willing to set your history aside because I believe that people can change. But here and now, there is a look of boyish impudence upon your face, and I fear that you would prove to be a manchild. Sorry, Henry, but I have no patience for that kind of immaturity.
The next room is pottery. Then furniture. Then swords. A few rooms follow with human subjects, but no right-swipes among them. With my legs museum-sore, I take a seat on a hard wooden bench positioned before a large painting of ships in a harbor. I pull out my phone, flipping through the photos I took of the swipe-rights. I’m surprised to find that there are only four: Mr. blue hat, Apollo, Publius, and the Spanish king. While they all have their charms, only one can be my muse. I look at them each again.
Apollo must go. As much as I’d love to date a musician, I don’t have time for the accompanying drama. This was not a terribly difficult choice, and I delete his photo from my phone without hesitation. No looking back.
Blue hat is also out. While I’d love to travel the world, I do need some degree of stability. I fear that my wanderlust would pale in comparison to his, and then where would we be? A certified dog person is definitely the safer bet.
But Publius… I can’t get him out of my head. He reminds me so much of Elmo, and not just in name. I didn’t make all the connections at first, but now I can see that they share the same way of standing. The same dreamy expression. The same eyes.
Sorry, Spanish king. Deleted.
Rising from the bench, I trek back to Publius’s room, where he is waiting for me. His countenance seems lighter now, as if he has seen, in the distance, whatever it was he was looking for. Maybe it was me. I stand before his frame and snap a photo of the two of us. Just as I’m about to send the picture to Maris, I stop. Digging through my notes app, I find the phone number that I deleted so long ago, and after a moment of hesitation, I send the picture. Hey, Elmo, I type. Thinking of you.