My First MoMA Visit as a Member: A Journey of Hope and Endurance

Stepping Through the Doors of Memory

I stepped through MoMA’s Rockefeller Building entrance at 11 West 53rd Street, heart pounding with anticipation. It was a bright August afternoon, 2025 — my first time inside the Museum of Modern Art, and with a Member Access! For years I had imagined this moment. As a child in Kolkata, I’d fallen asleep under a poster of Van Gogh’s The Starry Night taped above my bed, dreaming of distant galaxies swirling in paint. Now here I was, Dipayan Ghosh, walking into that dream made real. As I flashed my Member Access Card on my Apple Wallet, the lobby’s buzz of many languages, the sleek modern walls, the faint smell of espresso from the café — all of it felt surreal yet familiar. I carried with me the weight of nostalgia: decades of studying art history books, seeing these masterpieces in print, and enduring as an artist through my own trials, always fueled by hope. Stepping into MoMA at last, I felt I was not just entering a building, but crossing a threshold into my past aspirations and future inspirations.

Under Van Gogh’s The Starry Night: Light in the Darkness

The first gallery I entered was like meeting old friends. There it hung — Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night, small in size yet immeasurable in impact. I stood transfixed before the iconic canvas of swirling midnight blues and blazing yellow stars. In person, the paint was thick and alive; each stroke of his brush seemed to tremble with emotion. I remembered that Van Gogh painted The Starry Night while seeking solace in an asylum, pouring his turbulence into the night sky. He once confessed in a letter, “when I have a terrible need of — shall I say the word — religion… I go outside at night to paint the stars”. Those words echoed in my mind as I gazed up at his painted heavens. Even in despair, Van Gogh found a spark of the divine in nature, a reason to keep creating. I felt a lump in my throat. Standing in front of the original canvas, I sensed hope shimmering through the darkness — the same hope that had drawn me to art in the first place. The thick cypress treein the foreground, like a dark flame, connects earth to sky, as if reaching upward in yearning. That connection resonated deeply with me. In the turbulent swirl of indigo clouds, I saw Van Gogh’s anguish, but in the ten radiant stars and crescent moon, I saw his enduring faith that light persists. This single painting had endured over 130 years, touching millions. Now it touched me. It was as if Van Gogh himself were whispering across time: “Hold onto hope, even through the darkest night.”

Pollock’s One: Number 31, 1950: Chaos and Cosmic Order

Down one floor, I found myself face to face with a sprawling abstract epic — Jackson Pollock’s One: Number 31, 1950. The canvas practically engulfs your field of vision, nearly 18 feet wide, a vast universe of dripped and flung paint. At first glance it’s pure chaos: tangled skeins of black, white, russet, and teal looping and splattering everywhere. I took a step back and let my eyes wander over the surface. Slowly, the chaos resolved into something like rhythm. There was no single focal point — Pollock famously said of his drip paintings, “there is no accident, just as there is no beginning and no end”. Indeed, One: Number 31, 1950 feels boundless, as if it could extend forever beyond the frame. As I stood there, gradually a harmony emerged from the disorder. I recalled an art historian describing this painting as “a kind of frozen dynamic equilibrium of endless rhythm and energy”. That phrase rang true — it was like gazing at energy suspended in time. The longer I looked, the more I sensed an underlying order amid the frenzy, “a sense of fundamental order amidst the chaos and endlessness,” as MoMA’s own curators put it. In the drips and splatters, I could imagine the primal rhythms of nature and the infinite depths of the cosmos entwined. Pollock created this monumental work in 1950, a time the world was grappling with uncertainty after war. Yet here on this canvas was the pulsing intensity of modern life harnessed and made beautiful, an affirmation that even chaos can contain creative endurance. I felt a strange peace standing before it — as if Pollock had wrestled the chaos of the world and handed me a thread of order to hold onto. In the painting’s endless web, I saw a reflection of life itself: messy and overwhelming, yet somehow coherent and full of potential. It reminded me that from chaos, we artists can spin our own cosmos of meaning.

Monet’s Water Lilies: A Refuge of Peace

Next I wandered into a gallery bathed in soft, diffused light — the Monet room. Spanning an entire wall was Claude Monet’s panoramic Water Lilies. Three massive panels unfolded a floating world of lilies and reflections. I felt my breath catch. The colors were watery blues, purples, and emerald greens, all melting into each other. Standing a few feet away, the image dissolved into abstract brushstrokes; stepping back, it resolved into a tranquil pond at sunset. In the center, lily pads dotted the surface, and beneath them the water reflected a sky of peach and gold. Time slowed down in that room. I recalled that Monet painted these grand water lily canvases in his old age, even as his eyesight dimmed, as a gift of beauty after the horrors of World War I. In fact, Monet hoped his Water Lilies would offer “a refuge of peaceful meditation in the middle of a flowering aquarium” for all who saw them. And there I was, experiencing exactly that refuge he envisioned. I leaned against the gallery bench, letting the gentle scene wash over me. It was as if Monet had invited me into his beloved garden at Giverny, to sit by the pond at twilight. The world outside — with all its noise and strife — fell away. In those rippling reflections I sensed endurance: the water lilies bloom anew each morning, enduring through seasons, just as humanity endures through cycles of hardship and recovery. Monet, painting through grief and cataracts, poured his hope for peace into these canvases. Over a century later, that hope still shimmers in every stroke. I closed my eyes for a moment and felt tears of gratitude. In the silence, the Water Lilies spoke to me: they whispered of resilience — of beauty surviving through the darkest times, of art’s power to heal and uplift weary souls.

Hilma af Klint’s Botanical Vision: The Soul in Bloom

On a lower floor, a quieter exhibition beckoned: Hilma af Klint’s botanical drawings. I entered a smaller gallery and was greeted by delicate watercolor paintings of flowers and plants, each paired with strange geometric diagrams — spirals, concentric circles, grids of dots. These works were part of Hilma af Klint’s series Nature Studies (1919–1920), which I’d read about. How amazing to find them here at MoMA on display! Hilma af Klint, a Swedish visionary, created these pieces in near secrecy long before abstract art was widely accepted. She wrote in her diary around that time, “I will try… to grasp the flowers of the earth.” In each drawing, she did more than just copy a plant’s form — she tried to capture its spiritual essence. One sheet showed a blooming sunflower paired with a halo of nested circles; another juxtaposed a humble marsh marigold with mirrored spirals of energy. Studying these, I felt an immediate kinship. Af Klint believed that behind every physical flower lies something ineffable — a message or spirit — and she sought to make it visible. She spoke of visualizing “what stands behind the flowers,” convinced that careful observation of nature reveals deeper truths about the human condition. In one note she even proclaimed, “I have shown that there is a connection between the plant world and the world of the soul.” Standing amidst her jewel-toned wildflowers on paper, I felt that connection keenly. Each petal and tendril in her drawings seemed to vibrate with life and meaning. I found myself thinking of my own artistic practice — how often I turn to nature for inspiration when my spirit needs hope. Hilma af Klint’s botanical works, created in the aftermath of World War I, were quietly optimistic, suggesting that the rhythms of the natural world and the human soul are intertwined and enduring. In those images of seeds and blooms, I sensed the cyclical resilience of life itself. I left that gallery feeling gently uplifted, as if I had walked through a spiritual garden and emerged with a pocketful of wildflower seeds to plant in my heart.

Jack Whitten’s Legacy: Messages Carried Through Time

Before leaving the galleries, I paused in front of a display of works by Jack Whitten, an artist whose career and personal story have always moved me. As an artist of color from the American South, Whitten poured his struggles and hopes into boldly experimental art. Although his major retrospective Jack Whitten: The Messenger had closed earlier that month, the spirit of his work lingered in the halls. I stood before one of his monumental abstract paintings — a mosaic-like canvas made of acrylic tesserae that sparkled like pixels and stars. The label mentioned Whitten’s journey: born in segregated Alabama, he marched in the Civil Rights movement, then came to New York in 1960 to reinvent abstract painting. I remembered reading how Whitten “created visionary beauty from righteous anger” — transforming the pain of prejudice into innovative art techniques. In the 1970s he dragged Afro combs through wet paint to make lyrical waves; in later years he crafted shimmering mosaics dedicated to Black historical figures. One quote of Whitten’s has always stayed with me: “I am a conduit for the spirit… It flows through me and manifests in the materiality of paint.” Standing before his work, I felt that truth. There was a pulse of spiritin his paintings, a life-force transmitted through all those tiny fragments of color. It struck me that Whitten’s art is an art of endurance — the endurance of the human spirit through oppression, the endurance of innovation and creativitythrough decades of change. He dared to experiment relentlessly, even when the world wanted him to paint identity in a straightforward way. Instead, he trusted his inner vision, becoming a messenger carrying meanings that aren’t immediately seen but deeply felt. As I gazed at the textures of a Whitten canvas, I felt a surge of determination. Here was an artist who had faced the worst of humanity and still chose to make work that sings of possibility. It was as if Jack Whitten himself was leaning over my shoulder, reminding me that art can carry the voice of hope forward, even when the world tries to silence it.

Twilight in the Sculpture Garden: A Summer Social

That evening, MoMA transformed from a place of quiet looking to a lively hub of community. I had registered for the MoMA Member Summer Social, a special event on August 27, 2025. As the clock neared 6:00 p.m., I re-entered through the same doors on 53rd Street, now among a sociable crowd of fellow MoMA members. The summer sun was just beginning to dip toward the skyline. Stepping out into the Abby Aldrich Rockefeller Sculpture Garden, I was greeted by a warm breeze and the sound of laughter. The garden was bathed in a golden light; the sun’s last rays lit up the MoMA façade in a brilliant amber glow, turning the glass walls into mirrors reflecting the New York cityscape. For a moment I stood still, taking it in: the juxtaposition of modern architecture gleaming in sunset and the timeless presence of sculptures all around. Just to my left, I recognized a towering bronze figure: Rodin’s St. John the Baptist Preaching, arms outstretched mid-stride. Its dark bronze silhouette looked almost alive in the slanting sunlight, like a prophet casting long shadows on the garden gravel. I felt a shiver of inspiration — how many generations of artists had been guided by such masters? Now here we all were, gathered in this urban oasis, surrounded by art and bathed in summer light.

As daylight gently waned, the garden came alive with a different kind of artistry. Clusters of people mingled around high-top tables and a small pop-up bar, sipping chilled drinks with garnishes of lemon and mint. In one corner, an area was set up for a collective collage project — a large blank canvas on a stand, with magazines, scissors, and glue for anyone to contribute. I wandered over and found myself tearing out images of flowers and stars (how could I resist, after the day I’d had?) to paste onto our communal artwork. A young woman next to me added a clipping of a sunriseand smiled. “Here’s to new dawns,” she said. We shared a knowing nod — hope, unspoken, glued into the collage with each bright fragment. Across the garden, a few people were gathered at easels and drawing benches, sketching portraits of each other. I saw an elderly gentleman posing with a proud grin while his friend attempted to capture his likeness in charcoal. The air was filled with creativity in motion — not the hushed creativity of galleries, but an open, participatory creativity where everyone was an artist for the night. I joined a small group at a table who were playing a whimsical art-themed game of charades, using gestures to imitate famous paintings. Laughter echoed under the trees each time someone correctly shouted “The Scream!” or “Mona Lisa!”. The Sculpture Garden, usually a place to quietly contemplate art, had become a joyful playground for it.

Art, Music, and Community in the Evening Air

As twilight settled, strings of tiny lights flickered on around the garden’s perimeter, casting a soft glow on the sculptures and flower beds. The city beyond MoMA’s walls faded into a backdrop of twinkling skyscraper lights. I looked up and saw the museum’s glass facade reflecting New York’s city lights, just as I’d seen in photographs — a beacon of art shining in the urban night. The atmosphere felt nothing short of magical. From the glassy building front to the intimate garden below, there was a sense of unity — as if the art housed inside and the life unfolding outside were in perfect harmony.

Soon, the gentle strains of music floated through the warm air. On a small makeshift stage at one end of the garden, a musician began a pedal steel guitar performance, described aptly as “dreamy” in the program. The sound was unlike any other — a lilting, sliding melody that seemed to slow time. Conversation hushed, and many of us drifted toward the music, drinks in hand. I sat on the low rim of the fountain, feeling the cool marble under my fingers as the pedal steel guitar’s notes reverberated. The music had a wistful, otherworldly quality, like a lullaby from a distant prairie under a starry sky. I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me. In those moments, my mind began stitching together the day’s experiences — Van Gogh’s swirling night sky, Pollock’s rhythmic webs, Monet’s tranquil water garden, Hilma’s spiritual blossoms, Whitten’s resilient abstractions — all now mingling with the laughter of new friends and the echoes of that soulful guitar.

I glanced around at my fellow art lovers. Some sat in quiet thought, while others swayed gently to the music. A small group of children (guests of members) were giggling as they folded paper airplanes from the collage scraps and sent them soaring, much to everyone’s amusement. The whole scene felt like a living extension of the museum’s mission — art spilling out of the frames and into life itself. I realized I was experiencing something profound: art not as objects on a wall, but as a shared human experience. In that garden, art was alive — in the collaborative collage covered in whimsical imaginings, in the quick sketch portraits taped to the trees, in the soothing melodies harmonizing with the dusk.

I thought of something I had written in my notebook long ago: art is more than what hangs on the walls. Tonight, I was living that truth. Art was in the connections forming between people talking about their favorite paintings. It was in the smiles of strangers appreciating a spontaneous poem someone recited by the sculpture of a reclining figure. It was in the collective cheer that erupted when the collage was finally declared “finished” and everyone stepped back to admire our patchwork masterpiece — a bizarre, colorful testament to togetherness and creativity. This whole evening was an experience that reminded me why I fell in love with art to begin with. Art is not just solitary work in a studio or masterpieces isolated behind glass. Art is a bridge — between souls, across time. It’s the laughter shared during a silly game in a sculpture garden, and the hush shared during a beautiful song. It’s community. It’s hope.

Cultivating Hope and Endurance Through Art

As the event wound down, I lingered in the Sculpture Garden, reluctant to leave this haven of inspiration. The collective collage we created was drying now, its paper pieces fluttering a bit in the night breeze. I found myself staring at it and seeing not just magazine fragments but symbols: a star cut from foil that one member added reminded me of Van Gogh’s steadfast stars; a clipping of an eye echoed all the observing and understanding we do through art; a picture of a lily recalled Monet’s ponds and the peace we seek in nature. Every element felt serendipitous and meaningful.

The pedal steel guitar played its final gentle chords. Overhead, a few real stars began to peek out between Manhattan’s high-rises. I breathed in deeply, taking a mental snapshot of this day — this first visit to MoMA that had somehow become a mosaic of all my passions. As an artist devoted to themes of hope and endurance, I felt those values affirmed in every corner I had explored. Van Gogh showed me that from suffering can come eternal light. Pollock showed me that chaos can contain order and continuity. Monet offered art as a sanctuary of peace amid chaos. Hilma af Klint revealed that patience and observation can uncover the spirit woven through all of nature. Jack Whitten proved that a voice, however marginalized, can endure and resonate through innovative creation. And this Summer Social — this beautiful gathering of people — showed me the enduring power of art to bring hope into everyday life.

Before leaving, I walked up to Rodin’s bronze St. John the Baptist Preachingone more time. Now under the evening floodlights, the sculpture’s expressive face and outstretched arm looked almost alive. I reached out and touched the cool bronze foot of the statue — a tiny, reverent gesture — and made a quiet promise to myself. This day at MoMA has strengthened something in me. It deepened my commitment to cultivate hope and endurance through my own art, to carry forward the flame that these great artists ignited. I understood in a new, visceral way that art’s true power isn’t just in solitary genius, but in the dialogue it opens across time and space, and the solace and strength it offers to those who engage with it.

Leaving MoMA, I felt the night air warm and alive around me. I looked back one last time at the museum’s facade — now gently illuminated, no longer reflecting the sunset but glowing from within. In that glow I saw a metaphor for what I felt inside: a light switched on, a sense of purpose rekindled. Hope and endurance — these were not just abstract themes for my work, but living principles I had witnessed throughout this day. As I walked back onto West 53rd Street, I carried the day’s memories with me like cherished art pieces in an internal gallery. I whispered a thank you to every artist who had guided me today, and to every person at the social who had shared their creative spirit.

My first visit to MoMA had come to an end, but in many ways, it felt like a new beginning. I stepped into the bustling Manhattan night, my heart full, my mind alight with ideas, and my soul steadfast in the knowledge that through art, we can endure anything — and even find hope shimmering in the darkest night.

Next: At the MET

About the Author: From Boardrooms to Biennales: Dipayan Melds Two Worlds in a Singular Creative Journey

With over two decades at the forefront of digital transformation, Dipayan has advised Fortune 500s and global enterprises across Asia Pacific, EMEA, and the Americas. His consulting practice — deeply rooted in emerging technology, data, and AI — has been recognized through a U.S. patent in cognitive AI and blockchain-based identity systems.

Yet Dipayan’s vision doesn’t end in strategy rooms. For more than a decade, he has also carved out a parallel path as an internationally acclaimed abstract artist. His works — poetic, bold, and philosophical — have graced museum walls and gallery floors in New York, London, Paris, Amsterdam, Dubai, and major Indian cities. With awards from Florence and Venice, his paintings now reside in private collections across New York, London, Kolkata, and Mumbai.

Residing in Mumbai, Dipayan continues to bridge two seemingly disparate worlds — technology and art — offering a rare synthesis of logic and lyricism, strategy and soul.