The Girls in the Corner of The Met

“Night” by Aristide Maillol

The girl in the corner of The Met ’s head remains down, although she knows people are looking. She is appearingly motionless, never revealing herself, not even just to confirm she’s being seen. There is motion within her, however. A concealed, but tremendous amount of action exists beneath the layers of limb that encompass the sight of her. She is withdrawn from everyone in such an exaggerated way that it must be done with intention. Maybe she is shy and requests privacy, but I think she craves attention. It’s exciting for her not to acknowledge it, yet know it’s still there. She could never show she desires to be seen, so she remains a statue in her drama, in her sulk… 

Why do we sulk if not for attention? 

A tiny girl storms off in a sprint, exuding a clear display of motion in her fury towards her mother’s firm “no”. She is crying, yelping, wanting nothing but to be rid of this injustice. She doesn’t dare look back, still in motion, yet also still concealing herself. Between wails, she secretly listens for her mother’s footsteps. She hears the click of her mother’s sandal and carries on even louder, never admitting to this dependence. Dependence on the gaze. Then she exaggerates and dramatizes her tantrum. Soon she forgets why she is crying. Now she's just putting on a show. 

The girl in the corner of The Met has her knees to her chest and her head in her knees. Her graceful position, and solid, smooth build attracts eyes, alongside the clear struggle and sorrow that her disposition is suggesting. She emulates a bold confidence; there is something empowering about her commitment to such public stubbornness. I wonder if she's really even upset about anything anymore. She is just stuck in the bit, the fit. She is just another statue in the infinite state of desiring to provoke curiosity.

What was she sculpted for if not to be examined? If not to be dependent on the gaze?  

The tiny girl stops running, having reached the window in the corner. 

She hates museums. She wants the ice cream. She reminds herself of the source of her suffering. 

She plops down in a patch of unoccupied space and brings her knees to her chest and buries her head in her knees. Her disingenuous cries soften into silence. 

Seconds later she hears the click of a sandal. She stiffens, freezes and holds her breath. 

The mother snaps a photo of the tiny girl next to the statue that she is flawlessly mimicking. A crowd has gathered in bewildered amusement. 

The girls in the corner of The Met bow in satisfaction without the slightest move of a muscle.