Where is the boundary between a tradition and an obsession? For Mr. Chandler the Sunday morning ramble through the Metropolitan Museum of Art – never the vulgar shorthand ‘The Met’ – was his time of pleasure; a way to lift himself above the plebeian duties of his workweek. As a fancied connoisseur of the arts – again, Arts was simple pretense – each successive Sunday was spent in rote study of different galleries. He always avoided the crush of the special presentations by purchasing private show tickets instead and attended these events alone on Friday evenings.
Being a confirmed bachelor had many advantages, not the least of which was companionship rather than shackles. Not that shackles were all bad he’d been know to pontificate, but not for one such as I. Mr. Chandler simply choose to spend his time, and money, on those activities that offered a tangible reward. For those that could not understand how the viewing of art could be rewarding, he had nothing but scorn. Art, was what separated Homo sapiens from the reptilian brain stem that was only interested in food and mating. Of course he did those things as well, [very well] and if pressed, Mr. Chandler would admit, in a torturous and belabored manner, that all art – in fact – ‘stemmed’ from that primitive and frightening portion of the ancient mind.
“Art? Is that you? Fancy meeting you here. I didn’t take you for a man of good taste and sophistication. Is this your first visit to the Met?”
By Rose D. Kaye, February 6th, 2009