I was looking for a picture last night. Scrolling. Scrolling. Scrolling. BOOM. There it was…not the picture I was looking for…but this one. Rain Room at the MOMA. We got on the standby line at 5am. Manhattan at 5am on a Saturday is something. Sitting on the pocket park wall, we were with other people choosing to forgo sleep in order to walk through an interactive art experience…and others who were still trying to sleep…we had invaded their concrete bedroom.
We waited and ate our breakfast, we napped, we complained. Two teenagers, both a bit skeptical at the need to wake up at 4am on a Saturday for some awesome art, they were a bit crabby to say the least. A little after 8am the line started to move and we entered the huge mysterious black box on 54th street.
We waited and watched…and when it was our turn we stepped slowly onto the platform. We saw that others before us were not getting soaked, but our minds were not convinced. We were standing in a rainstorm, dry as a bone. The droplets danced in the light and pounded the floor. We moved our arms and legs twisting and turning trying to catch some rain, it evaded us. We could see it, hear it, but not feel it. It was 5 minutes of magic.
As we left the room my son grabbed my hand. Mom, thanks for making us get up. That was amazing. Who knows if experiences like this led him to major in interactive art in college.
I am thankful for the ability to scroll through memories. I am thankful I had kids who would wake up for my nutty adventures. I am thankful for the brilliance of Rain Room.
Swooning 