There are enough modern masterpieces in New York’s magnificent MoMA to keep even the most casual art aficionado in clover for hours; perhaps even days. We’re talking something in the order of 200,000 paintings, prints, photos, sculptures and other works of design and architecture, covering Post-Impressionism, Cubism, Surrealism, Abstract Expressionism, Pop Art and beyond. But what should you see if you only have an hour or two to spare? Join us on our whistle-stop tour of the museum’s top crowd-pleasers, including where to find them and how to get from one eye-popping piece to another…
Ok, gimme the greatest hits…
The Starry Night (Van Gogh, 1889)
The Starry Night (Van Gogh, 1889)
What am I looking at? Only one of the most stellar and influential pieces of modern art in existence, The Starry Night depicts van Gogh’s view from Saint-Rémy-de Provence asylum just before sunrise.
What’s the big deal? Dense, dramatic brushstrokes, swirling skies and intense colors combine to mesmerizing effect. It’s the painting that launched a million posters, prints, mugs and keychains, but nothing beats standing directly in front of the real thing.
Where will I find it? Head straight to Floor 5 and start your tour with this celestial beauty in Gallery 501.
What to say: “Those dark tones and swirling brushstrokes really capture the artist’s troubled state of mind at the time.”
What not to say: “I could knock this up in Microsoft Paint in half an hour.”
Les Demoiselles d’Avignon (Picasso, 1907)
What am I looking at? Classic early Picasso, this large oil painting – ‘The Young Ladies of Avignon’ – was originally titled ‘The Brothel of Avignon’, and depicts five nude prostitutes with confrontational mask-like faces in a typically fractured, angular space. It’s challenging to look at now, so just imagine the impact it had back in 1907. Spoiler: his friends hated it and it wasn’t exhibited publicly until nearly a decade later.
What’s the big deal? This one was a turning point in modern art. Picasso’s bold form and structure took a proverbial sledgehammer to old-school classical perspective, paving the way for Cubism and, well, almost everything else that came after.
Where will I find it? Easy: it’s right next door to The Starry Night, in Gallery 502.
What to say: “You can pick out early hints of Picasso’s signature Cubist style in some of the women’s faces, especially the pair on the right.”
What not to say: “Phwooar!”
Bicycle Wheel (Duchamp, 1913)
Bicycle Wheel (Duchamp, 1913)
What am I looking at? Marcel Duchamp’s provocative Bicycle Wheel brings that age old question – “but is it art?” to its natural conclusion. What you are looking at is precisely what it appears to be: a bicycle wheel mounted in the seat of a stool. Or is it? The version you see here is a later rebuild of the lost 1913 and 1916-17 versions, which in itself plays with the very notion of originality in art. Who’da thunk a wheel stuck in a stool could throw up so many questions.
What’s the big deal? Bicycle Wheel was one of Duchamp’s original ‘readymades’: ordinary workaday objects repurposed to an end that could only really exist in the eye of the beholder. It’s considered to be the earliest example of kinetic sculpture. But is it art? It’s a question that’s bound to keep the conversation spinning long after you’ve moved on to the next exhibit.
Where will I find it? Not too very far away from Picasso’s Avignon ladies, in Gallery 505.
What to say: “Did you know Duchamp built this for his own enjoyment and never actually intended it to become a public work of art?”
What not to say: “What the heck’s that thing doing in a gallery?”
The Persistence of Memory (Dalí, 1931)
What am I looking at? Dalí’s 1930s masterpiece is a Surrealist vision of melting clocks, crawling insects and monstrous human faces. Hallucinatory, nightmarish and ephemeral, it has been parodied many times down the years, including – in a suitably surreal twist – by The Simpsons and the Cookie Monster. Dalí himself described the oozy-woozy melty-welty landscape as a “camembert of time.”
What’s the big deal? It’s as close to an absolute distillation of Surrealism as you’re likely to find, with Dalí’s hyper-precise details and absurd imagery combining to make an impossibly surreal scene seem… almost real.
Where will I find it? It’s in the permanent collection of Surrealist pieces in Gallery 517 which, absurdly enough, you can enter by leaving Gallery 505 and heading through 506. Bonus fact: The Persistence of Memory has been part of MoMA's collection since 1934, a mere three years after Dalí painted it.
What to say: “Dalí was cultivating self-induced psychotic hallucinations to create his art around this time. Can you tell?”
What not to say: “Mmmm… camembert. Is it time for lunch?”
Water Lilies (Monet, 1914-26)
Water Lilies (Monet, 1914-26)
What am I looking at? A large, all-enveloping surface of water lilies, ripples and reflected clouds with no sharp edges or discernible horizon line; brushstrokes float and dissolve, allowing your eyes to do the wandering. Monet’s monumental triptych of late-period water-lily murals are exhibited in their own dedicated gallery, the better for the viewer to fully immerse in their watery wonder.
What’s the big deal? Monumental in both size and impact, Monet’s immersive Water Lilies murals verged on the abstract, bridging the gap between the Impressionists and New York’s Abstract Expressionists of the 1940s and 50s. Monet painted these panels in his garden in Giverny, constantly reworking them in his later years as his failing vision altered how he perceived color and light.
Where will I find it? Pass through the corridor overlooking the Terrace Café and Midtown Manhattan and follow the signs to the David Geffen Wing and Gallery 515, over which Monet’s Water Lilies preside so elegantly.
What to say: “It’s said that Monet’s failing eyesight, due to cataracts, was responsible for the more abstract nature of works like this one.”
What not to say: “I reckon a few well-placed frogs would really have brought this scene to life.”
Self-Portrait with Cropped Hair (Kahlo, 1940)
What am I looking at? The clue’s in the title. This is a self-portrait of Frida Kahlo in the immediate aftermath of a particularly severe haircut. It depicts her as the ultimate independent woman, eschewing her normally more feminine dresses for a more androgynous look – a nod towards her own bisexuality – and staring straight into the soul of the viewer, scissors and severed locks in hand.
What’s the big deal? Small in size but big on impact, Kahlo’s painting was completed shortly after her separation from husband Diego Rivera. It’s the classic post-breakup power move: oversized suit, new hairdo, steely gaze, shorn locks strewn across the floor.
Where will I find it? Backtrack past the Terrace Café and head for Gallery 521 in the corner.
What to say: “I loved you for your hair; now you’re shorn, I don’t love you anymore.” This is a rough paraphrase of the Mexican song lyrics across the top of the painting. Deliver it with enough conviction and your friends might think you’re an actual poet.
What not to say: “I don’t like the way she’s looking at me with those scissors in her hand.”
One: Number 31 (Pollock, 1950)
One: Number 31 (Pollock, 1950)
What am I looking at? This is Abstract Expressionism on a grand scale. One of Jackson Pollock’s largest drip-style works, to be precise. We’re talking a floor-to-ceiling field of drips and pours in black, white and earthy tones, layered together to create a dense, pulsing web.
What’s the big deal? One: Number 31 is action painting at full throttle; as pure a representation of Pollock’s energy and his claim – that there was no beginning or end to his work – as you might find. You can almost feel the movement of artist across canvas as your eyes follow the drips and squiggles, seeking out new detail in every square inch of the painting. But what does it symbolize? Pollock numbered his works rather than naming them, preferring to leave interpretation up to the viewer.
Where will I find it? Head back to the escalators and down a level to Floor 4. Make for Gallery 401, where you really can’t miss this one.
What to say: “Did you know his real first name was Paul? Paul Pollock doesn’t quite have the same ring, does it.”
What not to say: “Looks like someone chucked a paint pot at the wall.”
Sun Mad (Hernández, 1982)
Sun Mad (Hernández, 1982)
What am I looking at? Ester Hernández’s silkscreen print reimagines a wholesome grocery-aisle logo (the sweet Sun-Maid raisin girl) as a gleefully grinning skeleton. The text, against a crisp backdrop of bold primary colors, really hammers the point home: “Unnaturally grown with insecticides, miticides, herbicides, fungicides.”
What’s the big deal? Hernández’s biting satire on poor labor conditions and the use of pesticides in Californian agribusiness is pure protest art, and harks back to her 1960s origin story as an activist in the Chicano Arts Movement. It’s an arresting image, for sure.
Where will I find it? Gallery 415. Follow the galleries sequentially as far as 405; here, take an immediate left through 406 to reach 415.
What to say: “Did you know Hernández revisited this theme in later prints, like 2008’s Sun Raid, updating her critique to protest new government policies?”
What not to say: “I could kill for a raisin right now.”
Campbell’s Soup Cans (Warhol, 1962)
Campbell’s Soup Cans (Warhol, 1962)
What am I looking at? Warhol’s iconic commentary on consumer culture and mass production depicts all 32 individual flavors of Campbell’s Soup, each one – cream of mushroom, minestrone, clam chowder and so on – on a separate canvas. The arrangement, in a crisp repetitive grid of red, white and silver, looks just like what you might find on a grocery-store shelf.
What’s the big deal? Warhol’s soup cans represented a breakthrough moment for Pop Art, wresting art back from the elitists. The serial format, commercial imagery and deadpan presentation questioned originality and taste in one neat package, and lit a bonfire beneath received wisdom on what could and could not be presented as art.
Where will I find it? Join the soup line for Gallery 412. Head out of 415 and along the hall past 414 and you’re there.
What to say: "Warhol's genius – the ability to turn everyday consumer items into popular and enduring works of art – remains unsurpassed.”
What not to say: “I don’t like canned soup.”
Bauhaus Stairway (Schlemmer, 1932)
Bauhaus Stairway (Schlemmer, 1932)
What am I looking at? Oskar Schlemmer’s 1932 painting depicts stylized modular figures moving through a stark and static geometric space in the Dessau school at which he taught – namely the Bauhaus stairway of the title. The diagonal of the stairs draws the eye upwards and the scene feels lively and social.
What’s the big deal? Here, Schlemmer distills core Bauhaus ideals – clarity, rhythm and the human body’s relationship to its surrounding space – in defiance of Nazi persecution of artists and students of the Bauhaus school at the time. The painting is both tribute and time capsule.
Where will I find it? Take the escalators back down to Floor 1, and seek out MoMA’s very own Bauhaus Staircase. Schlemmer’s thought-provoking piece hangs halfway up.
What to say: “Schlemmer painted this a year before the Nazis closed down the Bauhaus school.”
What not to say: “Can we take the elevator instead?”
Wow, that was great, but I’m starving now. Where can I eat?
MoMA’s in Midtown, so there’s no shortage of lunch options within a few minutes’ walk. Or, if you want to extend the art party, within the museum itself. Here’s our pick of the best.
- The Modern. Overlooking the Abby Aldrich Rockefeller Sculpture Garden from Floor 1 of MoMA, this elegant fine-dining restaurant serves up dishes thatwouldn’t look out of place in, well, a gallery. Signature Impressions and Abstractions menus lean into the whole ‘food as modern art’ vibe.
- Le Bernardin. Polished fish and seafood with a price tag to match at one of NYC’s most celebrated restaurants, around five minutes’ stroll from MoMA. The signature tuna with foie gras and lobster foam perigord truffle are to dine for.
- Benoit NYC. French bistro vibes courtesy of Alain Ducasse. Think golden onion soup, roast chicken with jus, and a sleek brass-and-tile room with a lively lunchtime buzz.
- Burger Joint. You’ll find this low-key Midtown legend tucked away behind a curtain at Thompson Central Park, 10 minutes from MoMA. Order a cheeseburger, fries and a shake and soak up the artfully neon-lit, graffiti-scrawled charm.
- Yakitori Totto. Moreish charcoal-grilled skewers a couple blocks west of MoMA. Go for the chicken oyster, tsukune and ice-cold beer, stay for the Tokyo-style bustle.
Anything else I can do nearby?
Anything else I can do nearby?
Like we said, this is Midtown so yeah, the Big Apple is pretty much your oyster. Planning to visit a stack of top-tier attractions while you’re here? Snag a New York Pass to save on standard entry fees at bucket-listers in Manhattan and beyond. We’re talking the Empire State Building Observatory, Madame Tussauds, Top of The Rock, RiseNY, Central Park bike rentals, the Big Bus and Circle Line sightseeing cruises, to name just a few.
Any final tips for my MoMA experience?
- Weekday mornings are typically calmer than, say, weekend afternoons. If you can, get there for opening time. It may be your only chance of a few minutes alone with hot tickets like The Starry Night or Monet’s Water-Lilies.
- Artworks sometimes go walkabout for specific exhibitions and so on. Check the MoMA app or the daily gallery guide for the latest placements.
- Photography is typically allowed for most works in the museum, but without flash. Signs are posted where it’s prohibited altogether. If in doubt, ask a docent.
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