Menace in a Museum - I'm That Lady!

Let me start by saying: museums are magical places. They’re quiet, sacred, full of history, creativity, and priceless art that has survived plagues, wars, empires, and—somehow—toddlers.

But they can also be… intimidating. Like, “I suddenly feel like I’m supposed to whisper and pretend I understand Renaissance allegory” intimidating. Even if you normally stomp around your house like a caffeinated rhinoceros, you step into a museum and immediately start tiptoeing like a Victorian ghost.

Which brings me to the day I—completely accidentally—turned myself into a full-blown menace in a museum. And yes, I am sharing this to make you feel better about whatever small museum etiquette sins you may have committed.

It All Started Innocently Enough…

I went to this museum because they were hosting a big exhibition everyone online was raving about. (Picasso & Dali in PA 2009 - I was very excited) It seemed important—something grown-up, cultured people did. So naturally, I showed up in my version of “elevated casual,” which is just leggings with fewer paint stains.

The security guard smiled at me as I walked in, which I interpreted as: “Welcome, please don’t break anything.”

Fair.

The First Incident: The Audio Tour Debacle

I decided to be fancy and get the audio guide. The kind where you punch in the number beside each artwork and a mysterious voice tells you things like:

“This piece—painted in 1623—reflects the artist’s lifelong struggle with existential dread.”

(A mood.)

I had barely made it to painting #3 when my audio device volume suddenly blasted to MAXIMUM. I’m talking “announce-your-presence-to-the-entire-wing” loud.

The calm museum voice became a demonic thunderclap whispering, “THE ARTIST WAS HAUNTED BY HIS OWN SHADOW—”

People turned. Heads snapped. One woman glared as if I had personally offended Rembrandt’s ghost.

I jabbed the buttons to fix it and accidentally switched it to Spanish, so now the device was enthusiastically telling me everything in a language I do not speak—but loudly.

I returned the device immediately.

The Second Incident: The Sculpture That Looked Too Soft

Listen. When you put a sculpture in front of me that looks like a giant, silky marshmallow cloud, I will want to touch it. My soul requires it.

I didn’t touch it. But my hand hovered, in a way that probably looked suspicious on the cameras.

Suddenly a guard materialized from the shadows like Batman. He didn’t say anything; he just appeared.

I froze, hand mid-air, like a raccoon caught stealing cat food. He raised one eyebrow—a terrifying gesture of authority—and I slowly retracted my hand like it was a crime scene.

The Third Incident: The Painting That Made Me Laugh (Too Loudly)

Some paintings are meant to elicit deep emotional responses—sadness, awe, inspiration.

This one? This one looked like the artist had been personally attacked by a bowl of spaghetti.

I snorted. Not a cute snort. A FULL snort.

Museum-wide echo.

A couple next to me turned, clearly wondering who brought the unrefined goblin into the gallery.

Me. It was me. I brought the goblin energy.'

The Moment of Clarity: Museums Are for Everyone

At this point, I’d embarrassed myself enough to consider crawling into the gift shop and living there forever. But as I wandered into another gallery, an older woman breezed past me wearing:

• Pajama pants

• A messy bun

• The confidence of someone who has paid off her mortgage

She sipped from a giant water bottle (which you KNOW is not museum-approved) as she stared at a painting with zero shame, zero hesitation, zero “is this allowed” energy.

She just… existed. Comfortably. Authentically. Fully herself.

And suddenly I realized: Museums are not cathedrals. They’re playgrounds for curiosity. The art doesn’t care if you’re wearing a blazer or dinosaur pajamas. The paintings don’t judge you because you don’t know what “Baroque chiaroscuro” means. The sculptures don’t take it personally if you giggle at the weird one that looks like a loaf of bread.

Art is for everyone. Fancy people, silly people, confused people, pajama people, snorting people, all people.

If You’ve Ever Felt Out of Place in a Museum…

Join the club. We have snacks.

But seriously—go anyway. Go in your comfiest clothes. Go with curiosity, not guilt. Go ready to experience something unexpected.

You don’t have to know a thing about art to enjoy it. Sometimes the less you know, the more magical it feels.

And if you accidentally make the audio guide yell in Spanish or try to touch something shiny or laugh at a painting shaped like a potato?

Congratulations. You’re experiencing the museum exactly as a human should: Open-hearted, imperfect, curious, and alive.

Want me to write a part 2?Something like “Why the Gift Shop Is the True Heart of Every Museum” or “Art-Lover or Art-Looker: Why Both Are Valid”?