Wandering the Metropolitan Museum of Art a few times every year is core to my being as a New Yorker. There’s much to see, so much appreciate, so much to be repatriated. The more traveling I do, the harder it is to bare the Met’s Oceanic Art, Ancient Near Eastern Art, Egyptian Art, and Islamic Art collections.

New York City is insufferable in the wintertime, particularly towards the end of January, once the holiday afterglow has settled and dissolved into sewer runoff. Neighbors have dismantled their bawdy decor. City streets have been stripped of their festive lights. Window displays have readily replaced “Winter Wonderland” snow globes with “Unwrap the Love” cupids or whatever Valentine’s Day bullshit brands want us buying into these days. And then there are the sidewalks, coated in fallen needles from dried out evergreens waiting to be scooped up by Department of Sanitation angels and carried to their final resting place, begging the question: how long is too long to hold onto a giant dead tree?