Snuggled between the highline and central model-sonly nightlife meatpacking, the Whitney is a sign of the “hip” cool sister of the art world. Entering the crisp white glass and metal exterior are hoards of eagerly waiting museum goers of every age. Flashes of green, purple, denim, leather, Sandro, Brooklyn, and Muji enter the elevator. 3-5-6-7-8. No one gets off. Everyone decides to start from the top floor, heading down. Upon finishing the flow with abstraction, I searched for the stairs- discreetly hidden besides the museum offices. Until I decided to walk outside, did I realize the Whitney wanted us to breathe in the New York scape-- a palate cleanser before heading down the outside stairs. With nooks for people to stand on every stop of the floor, she begs us to stop and enjoy.
The beauty of a museum is not the art work itself but in the performance of time floating backward, forward, present, past and future.