The Velvet Room

There’s really only one place to start: The Velvet Room. 

No, that’s not its real name. No, I’m not even sure all those furnishings are actually velvet. I simply do not care, because it’s my favorite room in the entire Museum and guess what? It ain’t even close. As such, it’s the purest candidate to represent what this project is all about. It’s not the biggest, it’s not the fanciest, it’s not the most well-apportioned or masterpiece-laden, but it’s my absolute fucking favorite. 

Why? Partly it has to do with personal history: this was the room that touched me most deeply upon my very first visit to The Met some eight or nine years ago. Partly, it has to do with the fact that it boasts the comfiest seating option in the whole Museum: a two (sometimes three?) seat velvety couch facing directly towards a gorgeous fireplace and three magnificent Rembrandts. Partly it has to do with its unique history and separation from the rest of the Museum and its melting-pot quality, containing works from all over the world, in dozens of different media, agglomerated in the style of a German kunstkammer, or cabinet of curiosities.

The room’s furnishings and art are a rotating carousel of selections from the colossal estate given The Museum by Robert Lehman, son of the founder of the esteemed, brilliantly successful investment banking firm Lehman Brothers. He donated some 2,600 works upon his death, and an entirely new wing was added to The Met in 1975 to house and display them. Since so much of the art came from the Lehman family townhouse, the Lehman Wing (which sits at the very back of the Met, and is therefore one of the least trafficked areas of the Museum) is seemingly designed to feel like you’re still in that townhouse. It’s laid out like a walk through a 20th Century banking magnate’s display rooms, and it works gloriously. 

Inside what I’m calling the Velvet Room, you have the aforementioned couch and fireplace, beautiful burgundy velvet walls, grand velvet curtains, an imposing wooden doorframe, and an oddly unremarkable brass chandelier. The lighting is made up of directional spotlights on individual pieces and a soft blue-white glow emanating from above the wooden panelling. It’s calm, soft, womb-like. 

The vibe in the room is almost invariably quiet and calm; visitors are somehow compelled to whisper inside it, which makes the couch the Holy Grail for those who come to the Met to do anything other than browse the galleries. I’ve seen people sketching, professors grading papers, kids scrolling Instagram and couples openly canoodling. The room even has a regular: an elderly, white-haired woman who seems to be there every time I visit, always sitting on the left cushion, always reading a Danielle Steel novel. If I knew what she called herself, this room would be named after her. 

Because it’s in the far back of The Museum, the Velvet Room is in many ways the ultimate “if you know, you know” room. On more than one occasion, I’ve traded some version of the following remarks with the person beside me on the couch:

“Isn’t this room just the best?”

“Sure as hell is. Best seat in the house” 

The art itself is eclectic, yet of the highest quality. Three Rembrandts, as I mentioned: all portraits, two of nobles, one of the piggish artist Gerard de Lairesse. The nobles have the most spectacularly rendered lace collars around their necks, and all three are housed in impeccable, ornate black frames. If I remember correctly, there used to be a few El Grecos here, including the stunning Christ Carrying the Cross. 

The effect is that, sitting on the couch, one can imagine oneself as Robert Lehman himself. This is your townhouse, these are your accumulated treasures. The world whispers in your presence. Auctioneers curry your favor and attention. The people outside on Fifth Avenue scurry about, fulfilling your wishes whether they wish to, they know it, or neither. You’ll be long gone by the time your family name is besmirched by a sub-prime housing crisis. For now, you’re in your sitting room, on top of the world, and those three Rembrandts on the wall? They belong to you.

(PS: The other reason I wanted to kick off this project with the Velvet Room is to set the far right end of the distribution as a permanent reference. This room is, if not the single best room in the museum, certainly tied for it. It is the model for a 10 out of 10 in my mind: beautiful, deeply intentional, singular, and transporting.)

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