It wasn’t very often that my parents took me to the museum. Let’s face it, we were poor immigrants and Brooklyn already featured five Pakistani shops for cultural diversity. Plus, I’m pretty sure that my parents were faking their interest in art for my benefit. No one would mistake our one bedroom apartment for the Louvre. A loo, maybe. I could tell they were faking it when my engineer dad tried to straighten one of the lopsided installations at the Guggenheim. OK, I’m not sure that actually happened, but I remember him grumbling that no one there would ever land a job at his old Soviet aviation plant. A coveted prize.
As an adult, I’ve come to appreciate how those lopsided installations and grotesque paintings got inside the MOMA. Often, it’s the work of a slight, somewhat effeminate, persnickety man dubbed, “The Curator” *. He grew up fetishizing art, learning what inspired Picasso, and hoping his parents don’t discover his secret: that he’ll never become the race car driver they’d hoped for. This preening prodigy spent his whole life admiring objects he couldn’t afford – waiting, pining away for that moment when his stature could finally catch up to his snootiness. Today, he dresses to impress. And, celebrities from Elton John to Ricky Martin can’t wait to marvel at his huge…collection.
Today, the world has about the same number of museums, but millions of curators. Everyone I meet online is no longer satisfied just reading articles. They’re not just faceless re-sharers of Mashable posts. Noooo. They’re now Curators, too. Yes, these unpaid, unsung archivists converged on the internet to save us from having to read the New York Times on our own. Now, I can click on their link to that Times article. You know what? It instantly makes the article better. Why? Because it’s been marinating in my curator’s intellectual juices.
Thank you, Digital Content Curator for helping me find the way. I once traveled far and wide to fetch my own links. Now I come to you first, my virtual friend. You are my guiding link. I will never leave you…unless I accidentally visit the NY Times myself that morning. In that case, all bets are off. Our romance dies. You’ll once again wallow in dank obscurity previously reserved for deceased pets with lapsed Facebook accounts.
No matter what, I shan’t forget you, My Digital Dreamer. You flood the banks of my social streams in ways content creators never could. In fact, I just sent you a virtual envelope with a check for one billion dollars. A mere trinket of gratitude from me and The Great Goog himself. You deserve every pretend penny of it. Thank you for making this museum worth staying home for.
*Yes, I know there are plenty of women doing terrific work as curators, but I don’t mess with their art, so please don’t mess with mine!