“Easier than him... don’t worry...”
A man’s voice. “So slow... tired of...”
Another voice, a woman’s but not Trista’s. “Patience... centuries. Patience.”
There was a whoosh of air, like the release of someone standing up from a vinyl cushion, then silence. The light went out.
Aida rushed away before Trista could open the door and find her standing there. But who on earth would she have been talking to at 1:00 a.m.?
6
January–February 2019
Aida almost walked by the museum, its facade blending unassumingly with the commercial hustle of the busy Via del Corso.
“Here,” Trista said.
Amid the vibrant displays of the ground-floor shops shouting LUXURY OUTLET! -70%! Extra discount!Saldi!was a more subdued doorway. A small red flag marked Casa di Goethe fluttered above it.
Trista sniffed dismissively at the cheap store and pulled open the door indicated by the flag. They found themselves in a nondescript office-like hallway that led to an old-fashioned elevator cage. The contrast between the commercial vibrancy outside and the silence inside struck Aida as she stepped into the building.
The museum occupied the very apartment where Goethe had lived from 1786 through 1788, sharing it for three months with the painter Johann Heinrich Wilhelm Tischbein, who was rumored to have been more than just his host. Prominently displayed in one of the main galleries was a replica of Tischbein’s iconic painting of Goethe, poised contemplatively amid the Italian landscape. Although small, the museum was densely packed with artworks, including pieces by Warhol and drawings by Toulouse-Lautrec and Dalí, which they passed on their way to what would be their office for the week—a modernlibrary bathed in light, its walls lined with ancient books encased in glass.
After settling in, Trista outlined their plan for the week. “They’ve assigned a curator to walk you through the museum this afternoon and tomorrow, providing a highly personalized tour of each item. Before then, you should wander through the rooms on your own and record your impressions. MODA is not as interested in what is in the room, but rather how you think and feel moving through the museum and as you view each item. If you are drawn to a certain piece, indicate why. Above all, describe how you feel looking at the various items. If any artwork brings you joy, that’s especially important and you should take more time in your description.”
Aida had known that recording her own happiness was part of the process, but now the whole idea of sharing her emotions about the history and the art seemed strange. Would the very action suck the joy out of the experience?
“How should I capture this information?”
“Ideally you should voice record your impressions.” Trista reached into her bag and handed Aida a small handheld digital recorder. “If you find that too awkward, you can write your thoughts down, but that could prove to be very time-consuming. I recommend you try recording this time and if it doesn’t work, you can switch methods on the next project.”
“Will anyone be with me when I do these recordings?”
Trista shook her head and a limp brown lock of hair fell into her eye. She batted it away. “No. I’ll remain here and the museum staff have been instructed to leave you be. You shouldn’t feel self-conscious.”
Aida looked through the glass door out into the museum. It wasn’t a big space and she knew sound would travel. She drew herself up and smiled, determined not to let Trista know she was worried.
“Well then, I should get to it.”
Aida left the library, making sure the door slid shut behindher. She headed straight for the room housing the striking Andy Warhol painting. The image of Goethe’s head, derived from the Tischbein painting but transformed—enlarged and colorized in Warhol’s iconic style, albeit with somewhat muted colors—dominated one wall.
Aida had always been drawn to Andy Warhol’s vibrant use of color and his bold pop art statements. During college, she’d spent countless hours immersed in exhibitions and reading about his innovative techniques and the sharp cultural critiques embedded in his works. This long-standing interest deepened her connection to the painting before her, making this moment feel like a convergence of her past passions with her current surreal experiences. She pressed Record. “Warhol’s painting of Goethe fills one wall here, immediately drawing me in as I enter the room. There’s something cheeky about Warhol taking on Goethe, so often depicted in solemn grandness, and giving him a whimsical pop art twist. Why did Warhol paint Goethe? Most likely because Goethe publishedTheory ofColoursin 1810 and presented his scientific views on how humans view and react to color. And Warhol was a man madly in love with color.”
She paused the recorder, trying to remember everything Trista had told her to catalog. It was strange talking to the little machine about how the art made her feel, but, she reasoned, she was getting paid an exorbitant amount to do something that was effectively rather simple. She pushed Record once more.
“Tischbein’s depiction of Goethe is masterful, and, understandably, it’s considered one of the most important German paintings. But Warhol’s Goethe takes the serious pose of the author and playfully renders his visage, outlining his hair in blue, taking him to the edge of cartoon but not all the way there. I feel a swell of affection looking at this piece—partly because it’s Warhol, whom I adore, and partly because it brings a lightness to an image generally viewed with more seriousness.”
Aida rattled on for a little while longer, then decided to view the copy of Tischbein’s Goethe reclining—the original was ina museum in Frankfurt. In the painting, Goethe wore a large wide-brimmed gray hat and a creamy white traveler’s duster. He reclined on a bench of sorts, with the countryside and its ancient Roman ruins in the background. Aida turned on the recorder, intending to talk about the elevated, enlightened feeling that the painting gave her in contrast to the fun of the Warhol. She had barely begun her sentence when she noticed something in the painting that made her burst out laughing.
“My dear girl, what could possibly be so funny about such a snorrendous painting?”
The voice with the strange unplaceable accent made Aida jump. She whirled around to find a man about her age with ruddy cheeks and blue eyes. His hair was curly black and short-cropped. He was dressed in smart Italian fashion, with a maroon jacket, a white shirt, and a reddish-pink bow tie. Aida was confused. The museum was tiny—how had he slipped in without her knowing?
“You startled me,” Aida said, taking a breath to calm her racing heart.
“That was my intention. Are you going to stand there and stare or answer the question? What’s funny?” He pointed at the painting.
“Um...” Aida was puzzling together the word he used—snorrendous—realizing it was an amalgam ofsnoreandhorrendous.
