Chapter 6
Aida almost walked by the museum, its facade blending unassumingly with the commercial hustle of the busy Via del Corso.
“Here,” Trista said.
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 modern library 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 behind her.
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 published Theory of Colours in 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 in a 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 of snore and horrendous.
The man waggled a finger at her. “No, um is not an answer.”
Aida pointed at the painting. “He has two left feet.”
The intruder put his hands on his hips and stared at Goethe’s two black left shoes, then burst out laughing. “Well, by the
gods, I think you might be right about at least this.”
“I’m right about a lot of things,” Aida said, indignant.
He guffawed. “That’s what everyone thinks. You’re no different.”
Aida could feel the tips of her ears growing hot. “Who are you?”
“Mo.”
This time it was Aida who chuckled. “Ah. I was warned about you.”
Mo raised an eyebrow. “Well, perhaps that person was right too. I should come with a warning label. And what did they warn
you about?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” The retort flew to Aida’s lips.
“Ha! And an edge to you too. They didn’t mention that when they warned me about you.”
Aida refused to let this man rankle her. “What can I help you with, Mo?”
He leaned a hand against the wall next to the Tischbein. “Nothing.”
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“Why not?”
Aida stared at him. He stared back.
“You’re mocking me,” she said.
He clapped his hands together and pointed a finger at her like a gun. “Bingo! Smart girl. Smart girl.”
Annoyed as she was with the girl descriptor, she instinctively knew if she called him out, this man would never stop using it.
“I’ll take you to Trista. You can bother her. I’ve got work to get done.”
“Funless!” he cried. “You are simply funless.”
“I beg to differ,” she said as she began to walk toward the library. “It seems you are having great fun at my expense.”
“Ha ha! That is the best kind of fun to be had.”
Aida rolled her eyes at him and kept walking. She could hear his footsteps behind her. Hopefully Trista would take him off
her hands. She wondered what he did for MODA, but he was in such a mood that she didn’t think she’d get a straight answer
if she asked.
“You, you, I like you just the tiniest bit,” he rambled on. “Your hair is all wrong and you have a terrible sense of taste
in shoes, but that sarcasm . . . Someone taught you well.”
“I’ve met my share of buffoons.”
“Touché.”
Trista looked up when Aida led Mo into the room.
“It’s you,” she said, her voice full of defeat. Aida was surprised to hear the emotion.
“Trista darling, you’ve missed me.”
Trista didn’t say anything.
Suddenly Aida wasn’t sure if she should leave her assistant alone with Mo. She seemed oddly vulnerable.
“You have, you know it. You are always missing me,” he said, giving the woman a light sock on the arm. “I came to see how
our newest employee is faring.”
“She’s settling in very well,” Trista said. “But I’ve told you that already.”
Mo shrugged. “I had to see it for myself.”
“She’s right,” Aida spoke up. “I’m doing fine. I’m excited about the work.”
Mo held his hands up and wrinkled his nose. “ ‘I’m excited about the work!’ ” he said, imitating her. “Bullshit! I call bullshit.
No one is ever excited about work. Ain’t that right, little Trista?”
Aida couldn’t believe this exchange was happening. Trista kept her eyes on her computer screen, ignoring him.
Mo slammed his hands down on the table, causing both Trista and Aida to jump. “We know you certainly aren’t excited. You’re
never excited about anything.”
Aida went to stand by Trista. “You shouldn’t treat her like that.”
“Perhaps,” Mo said. “But if I stopped doing all the things I should stop doing, life would be dull indeed. And, dear girl,
I must say, that’s no way to talk to your employer.”